tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55461978084761959112024-03-12T19:30:22.756-07:00Random RantingsRandom observations and some of the things I wish I'd said at the time.TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-83983027977074004482014-03-14T05:46:00.001-07:002014-03-14T05:46:01.725-07:00All Kinds of BagsSomeone posted on Facebook a challenge, 40 Bags in 40 Days. (Here's the original Blog http://www.whitehouseblackshutters.com/40-bags-in-40-days-2014/) The idea is that you declutter one closet, one drawer, one shelf every day for 40 days (actually you get one day a week off, but I got so far ahead on the first couple days, I definitely will meet the quota even taking off a day a week). While there is a picture of a giant black garbage bag on the post, she goes on to say, don't let that overwhelm you. Somedays it might be a shopping bag and somedays a sandwich bag. It's about decluttering a spot a day.<br />
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I went at this with great gusto! Finally a Lenten discipline I can relate to. Plus decluttering to me feels like losing weight.<br />
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Well I realized--there are all kinds of bags and all kinds of weight--besides giant black bags, shopping bags and sandwich bags. There are emotional bags too. I think that is one of the reasons I started writing again (plus the ever wonderful Bruce Abel asked me too as did another friend who may or may not want to be called out here). There are lots of things that weigh on our soul or psyche. Sometimes it's as easy as rearranging the desktop on your computer. Sometimes it's a lost item you haven't taken time to look for. Sometimes you don't even know what it is until you've uncovered it and you go "wow, I feel so much better!" <br />
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People talk a lot about "living in the moment." Which as a general concept is a great one. I get it don't obsess about the past, don't worry about the future, live in the now. And based on this advice, I do try to stop and take a moment to smell the roses, as it were. To take a snapshot of a moment, because I truly believe we don't remember days, we remember moments. That's why someone will say, "remember when we did such and such?" And you have no clue what they are talking about. It's because you snapshotted a different moment. <br />
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It kind of makes me sad that I didn't journal more (at all) when the kids were little. I definitely recall saying "I want to remember this moment forever" but often that's it. What was the feeling of that moment? Oh but I digress.<br />
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So after three momentous days of decluttering, I got sick. It's hard enough to motivate when you are well, forget when you have a cold. Well any excuse will do. However, those three days did help. Now when I see a "hot spot" I just stop and organize it. There are some burning, on fire, places in my house that will require the giant black garbage bag and a few hours. I will get to those. But it's good to know that the weight can be lifted by rearranging my shirt drawer or tidying up the house or by going to the laundromat.<br />
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There is a fine balance here between cleaning ADD and living in the moment getting things done. I have learned a very excellent trick (I must credit the Fly Lady-whom I go back and forth between thinking she's brilliant and wanting to stuff one of her purple cloths down her throat) -- it's the "put away" bag. You know how you get cleaning ADD? You are cleaning a child's room and then you find dishes, so you take them downstairs, realize that the dishwasher needs unloading. You start unloading and then hear the dryer go off so you go out and change the laundry, meanwhile you know you need to get back to the kid's room but you've got laundry to fold, the dishwasher to empty and now the dog is barking to come inside and you notice that there are dishes on the porch and it really needs sweeping. (Well now I know how Give a Mouse a Cookie was written!) Oh wait, so my very excellent trick--the put away bag. When you are cleaning your chosen spot of the day, you do not leave that spot until you are finished. Got something that belongs somewhere else--put it in the "put away" bag. Dryer goes off -- oh wait, I haven't had this problem in two weeks because I've had no washer to wash stuff. It is rather freeing, but anyway, whether you go change the laundry is up to you. But I will tell you this, do not stop to check email, do not stop to check Facebook and most of all do not stop to write a blog entry!<br />
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So back to the emotional baggage. I think letting go of some things is just as important as decluttering the dining room closet. Of course the stuff I'm finding comes with it's own emotional baggage. I once read something about decluttering and they said that if something doesn't make you happy you should get rid of it. Hanging onto something for sentimental reasons? Does it make you happy? Does it feel like an anchor in your living room (the bad heavy kind not the good kind you plan the room off of)? If it doesn't make you happy or weighs you down every time you look at it, get rid of it. Being somewhat of a pack rat, this has helped me immensely! Getting rid of some of the stuff is getting rid of some emotional baggage--because that thing, that chair, that lamp, that vase, that bookcase full of books you read but don't remember what they were about, is weighing down your psyche. And when you take it to Good Will or the library or the garbage can, you feel a little lighter. The pan you hung onto but never used but you got if for your wedding and it's sat in various closets for 21 years and has fallen on your foot (thankfully not your head) more than once. So you get rid of the pan. And when you hand that giant black bag over to the Good Will man, you feel lighter. You have your husband, you have other pans, you have dishes -- all that you got from your wedding, all that make you feel happy. So why were you hanging on to that pan? When the answer is I don't know, try letting it go. You'll find you feel a little lighter because in the end, it's just a pan--the emotional baggage that made me keep it is what I really want to get rid of.TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-2207104906569530452014-03-10T08:15:00.003-07:002014-03-10T08:15:30.025-07:00Who do you call when the washing machine is broken?<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was thinking a lot about friendship this morning. I should be thinking about how many "heavy duty hoodies" I need to place on my spirit order, but instead I'm thinking about friendship. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Friendship is a very complex thing. I also think that understanding that comes with maturity. My daughter struggles weekly (if not daily) with friendship. She's still at the age when the "popular group" matters. I have tried to talk to her about the popular group and why you don't need to be in it. I was never in the popular group (or I was the popular group and didn't know it). I was kind of rebellious of the norm. I spent plenty of time wearing the exact same sweater and the exact same shoes (we had uniforms so this was our opportunity to be unique) in 7th grade for sure. In 8th grade I had my first boyfriend and having the same shoes as everyone else became a little less important. By the time I was in high school everyone called my shoes "HO shoes" and I don't think that was necessarily because those were my initials. For a variety of reasons I realized that I was never going to fit into the norm (or conform) and if that was what it took to be in the popular group then that wasn't for me. Actually I don't really think there was the popular group, I mean in 5th grade there was, but then there were always these fights. I did not understand why you would fight with a friend. I mean you might disagree with someone but why would you fight and why would you then start trying to turn everyone against that person. I never really had to worry about that because I was the fat country girl and didn't really fit in (initially). So I became the mediator between the groups and I made friends with the boys. I figured it out. Anyway, I have watched both the popular group and Mollie's understanding of this begin to evolve. I told her if you limit yourself to just one group (or spend all your time obsessing about being in that group) then you will miss out. She tried for a while being a part of several different groups but then one group would have inside jokes she missed out on while with the other group and they wouldn't explain them. She has come to understand that each girl at an individual level can be nice and be her friend. That doesn't help though when she knows they are all together and not texting her back to tell her where they are. I know from experience once she gets there she will be fine, but still she has to be invited and can't just show up (we have yet to prove or disprove this theory). Fortunately for me I lived "out of town" in the country and didn't have social media or a group walking by my house that she has. It wasn't in my face as much. It's one thing to know something is happening without you, it's another to watch it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When we moved to Terrace Park it seemed we were surrounded by groups. We would go to the pool and there would be groups gathered around tables with picnics and coolers. I longed to be a part of one of them. I have come to the conclusion that you can wait to be invited to be a part of a group, invite yourself to be a part of a group or just make the damn group yourself. Making the damn group yourself is what I studied in grad school, though we called it "Community Organizing." So when we were not magically absorbed into one of the pool groups, I made my own damn group. I invited all the moms on our block for coffee. Then I invited all the families on the block for a happy hour. Then we rotated houses--putting a giant beer bottle out in whoever's front yard who was hosting the happy hour. As everyone took turns hosting, they would invite friends from off the block and so it grew and grew to the point where people would come up to me randomly and say "I saw the big bottle out, can I come to the happy hour?" And there we had it, our own damn group.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course the group changes with the seasons. Some people go away for the summer, some people move away (to the other side of the park ;), some people play a different sport. We came to embrace the TP culture of casual gatherings planned usually on that day--got no plans? Let's barbecue at your house after the baseball game! (if it ever freaking ends!) In many ways this is how our children's friendships were initiated. We were friends with people who had kids our two kids' age (one or both). Our kids' friendships have grown and evolved and so have ours. There was definitely a rough patch when so and so were no longer joined at the hip, but forced to have dinner together because we parents were having dinner together. But on the other hand, when we all went out to dinner after the interminable baseball game--everyone was happy to be together. I hope that it showed our kids you can enjoy someone's company and not have to be their "best friend" or "in their group." Also I should stop making fun of those baseball games for without those lengthy, painful games we might not have forged such strong bonds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Friendship is a fluid thing. And just because I don't spend every Friday night with you and you don't invite me to every dinner (or any dinner) at your house and I don't invite you to all of mine, doesn't mean we aren't friends. Friends fit a variety of emotional needs and even practical needs. I know a lot of people who play tennis. They have tennis friends. People who go to school outside of Mariemont/TP have school friends. Some of these situational friends are people you might never be friends with (or bonded with) outside of being in the same place at the same time doing the same thing. In New York I had my "dog" friends, we knew each other quite well from the time standing around watching our dogs run around. Some of them I knew for years before I learned their name, some I never knew their name. Some I keep in touch with because we were meant to become friends beyond the dogs. Same thing happened in the playground. Though the playground definitely divided people by parenting styles. That's probably a whole other blog post though. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There are friends that you can see after 30 years and it's like not a day has gone by and they become once again an important part of your life. I have many friends like that--especially now in the time of Facebook. I feel like I am a part of their real life, even though I'm getting cyber updates (or texts or emails). There are many friends I get a Christmas card from once a year, but the bond of college or the early New York years keeps us in touch. I know I could go pick up a conversation with them right where we left off. There are friends you think maybe you aren't close with anymore, but in the blink of an eye are there for you in tragedy or sadness. (That's why you always go to the funeral -- yet another blog post to be written -- or maybe I already have.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I also have a very special and important group of friends whom I've never met in real life. We all met 14+ years ago when we were pregnant with our July babies. This group of women bonded over the fact that we have babies who were born in July. We live all over, have families of 1 - 6 kids and do a million different things. We have provided each other with a safe space to discuss a variety of topics we might not with other people. It is a weird, wonderful, unique group of women (no one is weird it's just a little weird how close you can feel to someone you've never seen in the flesh) whom I've grown to count on in ways I wouldn't have imagined-- starting 15 years ago when I sat in my office typing away over a dial up connection to women half way across the country worried that I could never love another baby as much as I did my first.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Friends meet a variety of needs, that's why I scoff at the notion that there is one best friend. Well scoff probably isn't the right word because who am I to judge others' friendships. I think to call someone friend you need to understand their limitations, their quirks and that special thing that puts them in the category of friend. Having unreasonable expectations of a person, limits their ability to fit in the friend category. If you are constantly disappointed by someone because you expect them to act in a certain way, you will never grow in your friendship. I always say "to know them is to love them." Some friends are always late, some friends show up all the time, some friends are 50/50, some friends remember your birthday, some friends remember to ask about things, some friends are just there to listen, and some friends are there for you to listen to (hey it's good to know other people have issues too!). I know pretty much who is going to fall into each category and because they are my friends (and I want them to be my friends) I understand and go with it. If I let it annoy me then I'm not really their friend and they probably won't be mine for long.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's ok to have differences. I know that my politics are quite different from several of my closest friends, so we don't talk about politics. Simple as that. If I spent all our time together trying to convince them to change their ingrained political belief, I wouldn't be much fun to be around. I learned very quickly when we were applying to nursery school in NYC whom I could talk to about it and who I couldn't. I'm pretty quickly getting that about college too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sometimes I still go back to that junior high mind set and over think the group thing. Well sometimes I wonder if it's my fault that Mollie isn't in the popular group because I don't try harder to be friends with the moms in the popular group. It's not that we aren't friends or friendly. It's just that we have our own inner circles and without doubling the group we can't really expand. Maybe that makes sense, maybe it doesn't. I mean I always have room for new people in my life. I remember reading somewhere that people in their thirties raising young children don't have time to make friends. They have their friends and they aren't really looking to add more. It's just too much trouble. Well I wonder if that was a New York thing? I moved here when I was 40 and whether or not I wanted new friends, I needed them and thankfully people here made room for me in their inner circles. Actually we call that group "the usual suspects." I believe that term was coined by the person who taught me the importance of having people you call "girlfriends."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I had a number of friends in high school whom I was close with at different times. In the years that have passed they sort of all meld together. I'm fortunate enough to get to spend time with some of them and their families (both their parents who were an important part of my formation and their kids who I'm happy to say my kids call friend). So I'm going back to high school. Back to the time when a song meant everything. Kenny Loggins' "Whenever I call You Friend" was one of our theme songs. I'm pretty sure we even had a dance we did to it. It's funny just now looking at the words I realize that he and Stevie Knicks were talking about "doin' it" and we were talking about what ever we were doin' that weekend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Whenever I call you "Friend"<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />I begin to think I understand<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Anywhere we are<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />You and I have always been<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Forever and ever<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />I see myself within your eyes<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />And that's all I need to show me why<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Everything I do<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Always takes me home to you<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Forever and ever<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Now I know my life has given me more than memories<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Day by day, we can see<br style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />In every moment there's a reason to carry on</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And so this brings me back to the original question--who do you call when the washing machine is broken? You know that anyone you ask will say "no problem," but the real understanding of a friend is knowing who really means it, who doesn't and still loving them all any way. (Also for anyone reading this that I didn't ask, it's more likely that you live more than 100 feet away, I was not going to be at your house anyway or I've just decided to screw it and buy new underwear and socks.)</span></div>
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TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-38607592604397913032013-05-21T13:57:00.000-07:002013-05-21T13:57:02.244-07:00Half the Family's Sick, Half the Family's DyingI believe I have written before about the phenomena of Septembering (or Octobering or Novembering). My friend Lynn came up with the term. Fall is a favorite time of year for many, many people, but Lynn and I face it each year with a little fear and trepidation. You see bad stuff happens in the fall, if you are going to have a rough time, it will usually be in one of those months. Each year Lynn and I would compare notes, do you think this is it? Do you think there will be more? Each year we would reach Hanukkah/Christmas with great relief. The season of suffering was over. This year I glibly slid through that season, with just one child's broken foot to show for it. Little did I know what the universe had in store for me in the new year!<br />
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Just try to say Februarying! <br />
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That's when it started, I think it was the day after my mom's birthday (2/15). She called to say that Pak was rushing her to the hospital because she had had a collapse of some sort and her BP was 70/45. We will not get into the discussion of why she was rushed by her very upset husband versus the ambulance, but you can imagine my dismay. As the day/night went on they began talking about surgery because her bowels were shutting down. So I hopped on a plane and spent the next two days hanging out in her (very nice) hospital room. It had the added benefit of getting to see my dad who had fallen and hit his head a few days before Christmas, suffering a fairly serious concussion--to the point he didn't remember Christmas (so yes technically it did start before Christmas, but wait there's more!)<br />
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Shortly after my birthday I got a call from my step mother telling me my dad had fallen again, had bleeding on the brain and by the way, he'd been in the hospital for a week. She put him on the phone he had no idea who he was talking to and I'm not sure he was even familiar with the phone itself. I was leaving that weekend to go on a college visit and then going to Puerto Rico for spring break. But Taj was very reassuring and there was really nothing I could do more--he was not at risk for dying, so poor Taj had to handle it all. Well two days before leaving for PR they decide to release him but after care planner (I won't call her a social worker because she sucked) "could not" find a private place for him. Well I put my social worker hat back on and found him a bed in the rehab at Westminster Canterbury where my mom lives--hee hee his worst nightmare. Left for PR with great relief he was in a good place and he had his wife and ex-wife to keep him straight. I did end up flying down there to see him and go to the neurosurgeon with them. We were told that short term memory may or may not come back.<br />
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THEN, my step father is rushed to the hospital because he's bleeding internally. Gets better, goes home, collapses, almost dies, rushed back to hospital, mended again and well now all sorts of complications keep him in the hospital still as I write. Oh and he quit breathing one night and was on a ventilator for 4 days - 2 of them conscious (the stuff of nightmares if you ask me).<br />
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THEN, my mother in law was diagnosed with colon cancer during a routine colonoscopy and operated on a week later. Got the tumor, but found cancer in 7 of 23 lymph nodes so will start treatment as soon as the biopsy the spot on her lung this Friday and get a port in (that is if the spot is not lung cancer).<br />
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While she was in the hospital, I stayed behind the scenes because I had a cold. On the floor below her was our Cousin Thea who has been fighting cancer for at least four years now. The chemo had done so much damage to her body that she had broken her leg. They operated on her and she was trying to recover enough to go home - to die. She was terrified of dying in the hospital. She did get to go home and was there with hospice for a little over a week. She died yesterday 5/19 at 4:30 in the afternoon. Weirdly, Friday night I had felt her presence and thought maybe she was gone. Know nurturing Thea, she spread some of herself to all of us before leaving the physical earth.<br />
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About a year and a half ago, she began introducing many of her friends. She wanted us to know each other at her funeral. She would say, I want you all to be friends after I'm gone. She match-made us. And she was awesome at it. She introduced us to her friends and by the end of the evening it was as though we'd known each other for years. And while we all had other/different friends, we all wanted to spend more time together, when can we get together, where, and Thea was our glue. I hope that she and the memory of her will continue to be our glue.<br />
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Thea is probably the coolest Reis of all. Thea was hip her whole life. Whenever we would come visit Cincinnati, Thea was part of the tour. We would always go to "the office" to see Thea. She would tell us about this cool place and that cool thing, but even in our single days we missed out--we had a full schedule with Frisch's, Skyline, Graeters, and the Blind Lemon. Plus we knew she was cool but we didn't realize how cool.<br />
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Once we moved here we kind of lost touch. Which is weird. But true. I'm so glad that we reconnected a couple years ago. Glad and sad. I'm glad that my kids could see what a vital woman she was. I'm glad that they got to see a vital woman with cancer and how she embraced life and lived it to the fullest. How she did not get defeated or down. Sure she got down, but every moment she could, she went for it. She wore make up, and pretty clothes and awesome shoes. She cooked fabulous meals and drank fabulous wine. Certainly she had down and sad times, times she didn't wear fabulous clothes or make up. Times she couldn't eat. Times the wig itched or the hat just made her angry. But she always had her peeps and her pups to comfort her.<br />
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I hope that memories of this larger than life woman will soon fill the giant hole left in her absence.<br />
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<br />TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-87351569956355783282013-04-07T18:25:00.002-07:002013-04-07T18:25:29.560-07:00The Cliff's Notes VersionI realized in talking to my fellow disciples that while writing these vignettes is great, I need to give an overview, so here it is.<br />
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I was born in 1965 to Bill and Sylvia Old. We lived on Old Drive in Chesapeake Virginia. I was part of the 5th generation to live on the land where we lived. My grandmother (Dad's mom) lived next door and yes I called her "Grandmother." Her name was Anne and she was born in 1899 right on the property where we lived. We had a cocker spaniel named Princess. Four and a half years later my brother Billie was born on September 11, 1969. My mom's parents were Janie and John Hester and they lived about 4 hours away in Roxboro, NC. We had lots of family on my mom's side, but not so much on my dad's (but many many close family friends whose family's had been friends with my family forever).<br />
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I went to church at St. Thomas and I went to nursery school there as well. It was a block from my house. In first grade I started at Great Bridge Elementary--where my father had gone and my grandmother before him--back then it was a one room schoolhouse. Mrs. Sewell, who was my math teacher, was also my dad's teacher. <br />
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In fourth grade I started going to private school in Norfolk, VA "in town" at Norfolk Collegiate. My mom thought there were too many kids in my classes in public school. It was a rough transition. I missed my friends from the neighborhood and didn't quite fit in with the kids there. It wasn't until 7th grade when I lost 10 pounds, grew 2 inches and got braces that I started to really have friends. I'll never forget when one girl looked at me with a blank look and I realized she had no idea who I was.<br />
<br />
I had my first boyfriend in 8th grade, Tommy. My friends wouldn't believe at first that Tommy had actually asked me "to go with"him. I was very involved with the youth group at St. Thomas (called EYC back then). The Church of the Good Shepherd in Norfolk though was where I really wanted to be because that's where Tommy and all my friends were. I did get to go on the Good Shepherd ski trip with Tommy and my friends. But Tommy didn't save the seat by me for him. I was about to have to go get on the other bus with--as memory serves--people I didn't know. My friend Anne Douglas pushed me into the bathroom and there I rode until we were on the road and I could go sit with Tommy.<br />
<br />
Eventually though I found my lifelong friends in Kimberlee, Laura, Renee, Terrie and Caroline. I see Kimberlee, Terrie and Caroline every summer at the beach and our kids play together. So even though I live in Ohio I, and my kids, have a VA Beach connection. As tough as it was until 8th grade, from then on I never looked back and had the time of my life in high school. <br />
<br />
I traded back and forth with Kirk as number 5 and number 6 in our class rankings. I think he ended up 5, either way, he ended up as a cardiac surgeon which is a tiny bit more impressive than social worker and EMT.<br />
<br />
So I graduated in May 1983 and started attending Duke that fall. I had applied to Duke, UVA, Wake Forest and Randolph Macon Women's College and got into all of them (12 people from my class of 69 went to UVA, I think twice that many got in). Wake Forest had not been coed for that long and they told me I would not get in (it was my first acceptance letter). I had to work really hard to get into Duke. RMWC wanted me. I really liked RMWC too. But when I got into Duke, my parents (and well everyone) said you have to go there because it's the best.<br />
<br />
I'm so glad I did. But Duke is hundreds of stories--some I will write down and most I won't :) I will say while at Duke I did some cool stuff. I went to ASU for a summer because I thought I was going to fail Calculus, I went to the Soviet Union and studied Russian and Russian Culture, I lived at Virginia Beach in an apartment with three other girls, I did an internship at the American Film Institute. Not necessarily in that order.<br />
<br />
After Duke I got a job working for CBS News Election and Survey Unit selecting precincts to report on election night for our randomly selected sample (1988 Presidential Election). We were interviewed and hired from Seacaucus, NJ and then our liaison flew to meet us where we were working to train us. So we never met most of the staff we worked with, nor did we ever go to the office before we started working there. Some of us remembered each other from the interview/training session (which was like 3 days long). I traveled to all the county seats in Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland, Delaware, DC, Pittsburg and Philadelphia (when they asked me to do all of PA I just could not stand to be on the road by myself 24/7--though actually most weekends I drove or flew somewhere).<br />
<br />
I was dating a boy who lived outside NYC in Westport, CT. I went to visit him and we went into the City one day. I think he was going to some actors' workshop so I went to renew my passport and then visited the CBS office and met all the people I'd been working with the last 6 months. They offered me a job. So I moved to NYC with three of my cohorts from the road in what was technically a 1 bedroom apartment. It had two levels but only one actual bedroom. There was a rap recording studio next door. I went back to visit and found out that the Asian prostitutes down the hall had been freebasing and blew up that end of the hallway after we left.<br />
<br />
Working a CBS and living in this overcrowded apartment was so much fun! It was kind of like a continuation of college. I think also it was so nice to be around people after spending so much time on the road along.<br />
<br />
Well the election came and went and it was time for me to find another job. I still had no real idea what I wanted to do with my life. So I took a job at the Census Bureau.<br />
<br />
......to be continued<br />
<br />
<br />TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-59858370457771992322013-03-11T11:28:00.001-07:002013-03-11T11:28:49.473-07:00Life LessonsDo you have moments from your life that haunt you? A moment of regret? Something you wish you hadn't done or said and that you cannot take back ever with no amount of forgiveness?<br />
<br />
I have one. I probably have many more but as I was quietly listening this morning for inspiration of what to write, I heard Amy Weston. I can see the moment in time when I said it, where I was, what I was doing. And now I think I might see God's hand in it. <br />
<br />
When I was, let's say, 8 years old, my best friend was Amy Weston. My mom, for some reason, looked down at the Westons. I'm sure she made comments that make me think this. I thought the Westons were the coolest family ever. Amy was an only child and she was showered with love. They had a baby blue VW bug convertible and we would drive to the beach for the day in it. I loved the feel of the wind in my hair and the towel flapping in the breeze. Oh how I loved Amy and her family!<br />
<br />
During the winter, Amy and I took an art class together at the local community college. I remember melting crayons to make pictures--fire and melted wax--it doesn't get much better than that! Then we took an acting class. I can't imagine that I loved it but she was in it and so was Linda F. When it was time to resign up, my mom said that Amy couldn't do both because her family couldn't afford to do both.<br />
<br />
Saturday morning came and Amy and I were helping my mom with the Altar Guild (I was an expert at dressing the chalice). I can see me walking down the aisle toward the front of the church where my mom was decorating with greens (must have been Advent :). I said, "Amy my mom says that you can't take art class and acting class because your parents can't afford it. Isn't that stupid?"<br />
<br />
I cringe to this day. My mom made some comment about how that's not what she meant, she meant everyone can't do everything. Needless to say I did not get to do acting again! Amy poor thing was dumbfounded. I know what I said must have hurt her feelings and I never really found a way to apologize. I can't help but think that I said what I said to be hurtful. I think I was angry with my mom and wanted her to be humiliated and in the end I hurt my friend instead.<br />
<br />
Amy moved to Richmond a couple years later. I was devastated. We wrote letters back and forth for a couple years, but we lost touch.<br />
<br />
And I still feel really badly about that. I can never change that it happened.<br />
<br />
And I think that in some way it changed my path that day. I think that many of the things I am today can be traced to that moment and moments like that--throughout my life. I became a little more thoughtful, a little more humble, and hopefully a little more unselfish that day.<br />
<br />
I wonder if Amy remembers that moment?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-21027230884417216752013-03-04T14:56:00.002-08:002013-03-04T14:56:35.427-08:00In the beginning......I think that I posted that I am working on a life map for my Discipleship group. The purpose of the life map is to look at your life and your journey. What were milestones? Where did you change courses? Where did you run into roadblocks and how did you get around them? And where and how did you encounter God?<br />
<br />
Certainly I can look back and immediately name some milestones and even some times when I knew God was with me. Moments of my life. So in a stream of consciousness kind of way, here I go......<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FbYZr1_imF0/USuM_tli7yI/AAAAAAAAAHA/OqgOIiQpi7w/s1600/family+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FbYZr1_imF0/USuM_tli7yI/AAAAAAAAAHA/OqgOIiQpi7w/s640/family+tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I was born in 1965 in Norfolk, VA. After years of trying my mother Bill and Sylvia were thrilled. My early memories are happy. My parents were very close with Porter and Mary Lewis and they had Amy who was just enough older than I that I thought she hung the moon (and was my big sister). September 1969 my world changed. <br />
<br />
In late August I went to stay at Mema and Grandaddy's (Janie and John). I remember my Aunt going to school--it was her senior year of high school.<br />
<br />
Sidebar: My mother had two brothers, Richard and Jimmy. When they were 10 & 12 they drowned in a farm pond accident and my grandfather very nearly drowned trying to save them. My Auntie Beth was about 18 months old when this happened and my mom was 14. My mom says my Aunt saved them all because they had no choice but to take care of this little baby. My grandparents rarely spoke of them.<br />
<br />
So my aunt was 14 when I was born. She is right in the middle of my mom and me and I am much much more like her. I remember one Thanksgiving Beth and I came downstairs to help get dinner on the table. My mom looked at me and said, "are you going to leave your shirt untucked like that?" and my Mema looked at Beth and said, "are you going to wear that washer woman dress to dinner?"<br />
<br />
Back to my stay at Mema and Grandaddy's...Each morning I would see Beth off to catch the bus to high school and then who knows what all they did to keep me entertained. I was 4 1/2 at the time. They may have sent me to nursery school at their church. Then the big day came. Now I have had enough therapy to know that some of these are memories and some of these are fantasies, but we are going to accept them as my reality and thus my memory even though I can hear my psychotherapy teacher saying, "do you hear the fantasy in that? Hester there is no way that happened that way." Love and miss her. Oh and before you accuse me of ADD or something inability to carry on one train of thought--this is for me, I'm happy for you to ready it, but I'm sorry you will just have to abide my tangential thinking.<br />
<br />
The BIG DAY, I remember I must have gotten back from NC a little early because I was at my Grandmother Old's house. Grandmother (yes that's what I called her) lived next door to us. Bille and I were the fifth generation to live on that land--our house was built on a bit of the property and thus next door to her house. <br />
<br />
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I have a clear picture in my head of when I met Billie. We were sitting in Grandmother’s living room
and he was wearing a gown and wrapped in a beautiful white blanket. I literally felt as though my parents had
brought me a living doll.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have another clear memory of sneaking into his room
because I wanted to give him a bottle. I
had mixed up some Tang and fed that to him (not as bad as it would be today
since he was probably eating minced veal by that point). I know that it happened. Though I can’t really
think about it without “hear the fantasy in that, your mother would never have
let that happen.” Billie didn’t sleep a
lot so I’m guessing when he did she was immersed in something that would have
kept her from noticing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mom didn’t work, but she was gone a lot. Beatrice took care of us and cleaned our
house. Beatrice raised me and when
Beatrice went to take care of some other babies, her daughter Joyce came to
take care of us. Beatrice’s husband
Columbus took care of my Grandmother.
Columbus ran the Great Bridge bridge—he was the person who would run the
controls that put down the arms and made the bells ring and then open the
bridge. I loved to ride my bike down and
see Columbus when he was on duty.
Depending on what shift he was working he would stop by my grandmothers
and check on “Miss Anne.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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My grandmother was a widow at a very young age. She was born in 1899. My grandfather Livius must have died when she
was in her 50’s. She had two best
friends from growing up—actually three.
All sisters—Evelyn, Auntie Maude and Cabbie. Evelyn was widowed at and even younger age
and her son Bob also died. Cabbie died
when is was little. Auntie Maude moved
in with Evie. They were like my extra
grandmothers. I would go to Evie’s
house all the time. She would give me
Wink and we’d have saltines dipped in French Onion Dip or Bugles. Evie lived two houses down from me and I
could cut through the Gammon’s back yard so I could go visit Evie and
Grandmother pretty much anytime I wanted to.
On Sundays Evie, Auntie Maude and Grandmother would get together to have
dinner. I guess when you live alone,
Sundays are the longest day. So they
would cut through our yard (we lived in between them) to walk to each others’
houses for their Sunday supper. At some
point they discovered that they were getting too drunk so they decided that
each would bring their own liquor. I
think someone was drinking more than their fair share so they decided this
rule, but that’s just speculation. So on
Sunday afternoons they would cut through with now a jar (peanut butter, jelly,
mason) full of bourbon. My mom called
them “the girls.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dr. Woodley was our family doctor and his wife was his
nurse. I can remember his house because
I thought it was so cool. They had like
a rock garden with a fountain in it and his office was connected to his
house. Whenever something happened—24/7
we would run to Dr. Woodley’s house (unless he came to ours as he often did). One day our dog Princess (oh how I loved her)
bit me. I don’t think she meant to. Off to Dr. Woodley’s house we went and I got
my first stitches. Billie had a febrile
seizure one night and I remember being woken up and packed into the car to run
to Dr. Woodley’s house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I used to get strep throat all the time. I remember Billie had some health issues—a
hernia he was born with and he had his tonsils out. He was in the hospital twice. One of the times I was quite sick with strep
throat. I think it was Grandmother (but
might have been Evie) gave me a get well card.
I was so tickled because I was lying sick on Grandmother’s green sofa
while Billie was in the hospital and both my parents were with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I grew up a sort of combination of Episcopalian and
Methodist. I still haven’t figured out
the difference except for the prayer book.
We attended St. Thomas which was just down the street from our house (it
is one of the things that drew me to St. Thomas here in TP—my kids could grow
up going to church at St. Thomas.) We
went to church every Sunday. My dad was
an usher and my mom was on the altar guild.
I helped with the altar guild from a very young age. My Mema needle pointed all of the cushions
used in the church.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mema and Granddaddy when to Lea’s Chapel Methodist church,
just down from their house in rural Roxboro, NC. I loved going to church with them because the
church was filled with all sorts of aunts, uncles and cousins. From little little I loved going to Sunday
School there too. Miss Edna was my
Sunday School teacher. I remember being
a tad confused because the service was different, there was no prayer book and
no organ. They played a piano to go with
the choir. Oh and the choir had robes
like you see on TV, not the black and white ones like we had at St.
Thomas. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I loved going to Mema and Granddaddy’s farm. There was always something new to
discover. There would invariably be a
new puppy or kitten (it took a while until I recognized the pattern of why
there were constantly new puppies and kittens).
There would be piglets and cows and calfs. There was a pond. Granddaddy would show me cool things like how
to make hopper grass houses or crush up ink berries and then write with
them. They had a gas tank there on the
farm where you could fill up well mostly the tractor, but after a while our go
cart too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I went to nursery school and kindergarten at St.
Thomas. I can remember Beatrice walking
me up there with Billie riding in his big pram.
I can remember many of the kids clearly.
David—who would crawl around under the table and say things like “great
underwear show.” Jimmy—whom I was going
to marry because I liked his last name (it was farmyard). My best friends were Susan, Linda, Shawn,
Dara and Amy. I remember I had a really
good friend named Jill whose dad was a POW in the Viet Nam war. I had no idea what that meant at the time,
just that her dad was gone and couldn’t come home and he might be dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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First – third grade I went to Great Bridge Elementary. It was much like TPE though we couldn’t come
home for lunch. My first grade teacher Mrs.
Seaborn was a really tall lady with white white hair who had been taught piano
by my grandmother. Then there was Mrs.
Sewell who taught my dad also! Her son
was somehow Australian (or had just taken on that affectation). He called on my grandmother every time he
came to town.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was chosen to be in a PSA about stopping for the school
bus. There were 3-4 of us chosen. One was little Willie. Rumor had it Little Willie was 10 and had
failed the first grade four times.
Anyway, they had us go to the lost and found to get lunch boxes. I was devastated because I had to choose last
and got the Flying Nun lunch box!!!!<o:p></o:p></div>
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By third grade I finally got to ride my bike to school. I think I also got to be a crossing
guard. I’m pretty sure our school only
went up to 4<sup>th</sup> grade. I
remember a boy died in one of the other grades and for a long time we had to
wash our hands religiously so we too wouldn’t die. Yes they told us he died from not washing his
hands. Made no more sense to me then as
it does now. In third grade I was
informed that in fourth grade I’d be going to a another school. Devastated does not begin to describe how I
felt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While I lived in a neighborhood, it was considered the
boonies by folks “in town.” So fourth
grade I started going to a private school in town. There were 40 kids in my second grade reading
class and in the third grade I had tested out of all the English so while the
other kids were doing English, I had to read the SRA and do comprehension
stuff. I did not understand why I had to
move to this new school in town where we
would have to commute 30 minutes every day.
I was even more confused when my parents informed me that most of the
kids there were going to be richer than I, so get used to not being able to
have whatever they have.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My Mema made a lot of my clothes. For my first day of school I chose a pink
dress with pink ribbon trim. I still
remember that dress and how much I loved it.
Strike three against this new school, I walked in the first day in my
cute pink homemade dress and everyone else was wearing the same exact thing—uniforms! New kid, from the country, homemade dress,
and most of them not only knew each other but lived near one another and had gone to school together since nursery
school at Ghent Presbyterian.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-45234300302451682812013-02-16T06:19:00.001-08:002013-02-16T06:19:40.825-08:00The perks of being a wall flower<br />
Mixed tapes. Remember mixed tapes? Our kids will never have mixed tapes. Songs picked out by your friend, boy friend, girl friend, songs put in a certain order by them that you couldn't just "click" over, you had to either listen to or shrrrrrrrrrrrr shrrrrrrrrr fast forward rrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrr rewind because you went too far. Or you couldn't find the song because you didn't know the ones before and after.<div>
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I remember a boy I dated who made me mixed tapes. It must have been during college. He kept making me mixed tapes--of Bruce Springstein. I don't like Bruce Springstein. But he wouldn't give up. He thought if I just heard the right song I'd like him. Yeah it didn't work out for either one of them.</div>
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One of the many things I fell for in Anthony was his mixed tapes. He has a gift. To this day. Now he makes playlists, but I swear there was something to that whole mixed tape thing--the order. There are still songs I hear today and expect the next song to be the one that came right after that one on a mixed tape.</div>
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Mollie and I watched <i>The Perks of Being a Wall Flower</i>. WOW! Watch it. I might watch it again. Right now. Or I might get the book. Back to high school. Mixed tapes. Angst. Liking someone. Them not liking you back. Special friendships. Intense friendships. Friends you want to help. Friends you can't. Suicide. Suicide attempts.</div>
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On the map of my life there is a big way station--high school. It's almost like a neighborhood because it has so many intersections there. Things that formed me. Moments that formed me. In general I have a happy warm feeling about high school, but a movie like that can really take me back and remember that there were some very low days and nights. Nights I was home alone, "out in the country," feeling very far away from my friends in town. Feeling sorry for myself. Boys I liked, who didn't like me, or no longer liked me. Feeling like a misfits. Finding the misfits who felt like me. </div>
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<b>The Mac Sisters.</b> I had two friends Renee and Laura. We together with our brother Karl, were the Mac Sisters. Laura Mac, Renee Mac, Mr. Williams our fave teacher--Johnny Mac, me--Ho Ho Mac. I'm pretty sure Laura came up with the idea. I'm pretty sure Karl was one of the characters in the movie. Renee and Laura were good friends. Laura had scoliosis in 8th grade and had to go to Boston Children's to get a rod put in her back and then wore a body cast through much of 8th grade (or was it 7th?) Laura had big lips and had had the nick name Laura Lippa. Since it was deHegh who gave it to her, she took it as a sign of affection. Big lips were not necessarily the fashion statement they are today. Renee lived in Portsmouth (outside town) and was probably the first person I knew with divorced parents. Laura lived like 1/2 a mile from school--in the heart of it all. Once I could drive, we used to go to her house after school and eat Krafft Mac n Cheese and Nacho Cheese Doritos with French Onion Dip and watch General Hospital, which we called Gen Ho. Anyway, Karl's dad was an Admiral in the Navy and probably not all that tolerant of sweet sensitive Karl who I think was considerably younger that his next sibling. I never saw nor met either of his parents. He had this little yellow car (in my head it's a mini cooper but we didn't have those) and he would unhook the odometer when his parents went out of town so they wouldn't know how much he'd driven. Only problem with that is that the speedometer also doesn't work! So the Mac Sisters had many adventures. Some I'm comfortable writing about, some not so much. </div>
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Eventually Renee and her mom moved to Ghent, so she too was in the heart of it all and I was still in the country. Then we would go to her house after school. We'd stop at Burger King and get double cheeseburgers on the way.</div>
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Renee had an older sister and Renee got her drivers' license. Though there was a Tinee Giant we could go to where they had no idea how old we were and would sell us beer. I mean we were 16 and the drinking age was 18 so it was a little different than it is now.</div>
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By senior year Renee's drivers' license said she was 21. For our senior ski trip we went to the ABC store and picked up all the supplies that were needed for most of our friends. We put them in my car with the back seat down so you couldn't see it. It was March 2nd, I know because it was the day after my 18th birthday. I was driving home and "Come On Eileen" came on the radio. I was happily singing and hitting the dips a little too fast on the road I cut through to get to the interstate. And oops going about 10 over the speed limit. I thought, "crap 18 for a day and I'm already going to jail!" Fortunately I think the cop was about my age and just gave me a ticket and didn't search my car.</div>
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OK I've really got to go to the basement and pull out pictures because these stories will be way better with photographs.</div>
TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-76067297846309250562013-02-15T17:57:00.000-08:002013-02-15T17:57:29.320-08:00High School--the time of your life or not?<div>
I started this post a long time ago, but since it's relative to my Moments in Life them, I dug it back up.</div>
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I was watching <i>Glee</i> the other night. Mr. Shue was talking to Coach Beast, asking her to please stay. He said something to the effect of, people like you and me, we had a terrible time in high school and yet we return to that place every day.<br />
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Lately, I've been hearing what a horrible place high school is. The story line of the Glee was quite timely and relevant to part of the reason I've been hearing about it--the bullying of openly and not so openly gay kids. It's horrible. There shouldn't be bullying. I just read <i>The Wave</i> by Todd Strasser. It took me about 4 hours no kidding. It's about a high school history teacher teaching his kids about the Nazis. The kids are appalled and asked how people could let that happen. How could they join a movement like that? How could they turn a blind eye to death camps? The teacher was stumped, he said we don't really know. But upon further thought, he did know, it's just very very difficult to verbalize--unless you experience it. So he starts a movement in his senior history class called The Wave. They have a special salute, special symbol, motto, etc. I won't ruin all the details, but once he starts the experiment he realizes that he can't just say, OK no more. The kids have to realize the danger of this movement and stop it.</div>
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Bottom line though the kids who liked the movement the most were the ones who weren't popular or were bullied. Think about it. </div>
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The kids. That's the key. We can preach and give experiential programs and read books, but the kids have to stop it. Our job is to give them the tools. I don't know exactly what those tools are and how you empower the kids to use them. I am very interested in the recent bullying seminars they have put on at all levels of the Mariemont Schools. They talk about bullying not so much as stealing lunch money or pushing and shoving. It's more about exclusion and leaving kids out, maybe a little name calling. And now they can't get away from it--you didn't get invited to a party, well here it is in full living color--pictures of the people you thought were, you want to be, your friends. Someone have a sleepover and not invite you, oh look here's a picture of them all having a pillow fight, and here they are having pancakes for breakfast. It seems to be much harder for girls than it is for boys, or maybe it's that my girl talks about how hard it is and my boy either doesn't care (I hope because he's happy in his own skin) or keeps it inside (which scares the shit out of me).</div>
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But I digress (shocker). So apart from the gay bullying which is so serious I can't even address it (and if it went on in my high school, I was blind to it), was high school such a bad place?</div>
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I loved high school. It was some of the best years of my life. I think my sophomore and junior years were the best of the best. I loved my school, I loved my friends, I loved my boy friend, I loved my teachers. Sure I cried myself to sleep more than once, sure "the love of my life" broke up with me the summer after sophomore year (oh it was so so sad), sure I didn't win Homecoming Princess or Homecoming Queen (it was an honor just to be nominated, except for the fact that Jody Mersel campaigned against me because she was pissed I got nominated and she didn't), and yes I basically took a total stranger to senior prom because no one asked me (he was cute but behaved rather rudely at the end of the night and had to be sent home).<br />
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Some snapshots:<br />
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Latin class--I loved Latin Class. Robin, Beth, Robert, David, Kimberlee and of course Mrs Freeman. Who else? May have to get the old year book out and look.<br />
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to be continued</div>
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TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-86398053599976381112013-02-13T05:32:00.003-08:002013-02-13T05:33:25.046-08:00Today I got bracesUnder the theory that life is lived in moments, here is one. My teeth have been slowly migrating back to their very sad state of crooked before I had braces. So for Christmas I asked for Invisalign. Of course Anthony did not think this a very romantic Christmas present, but when I told him how much they cost he said they would make a fine Christmas present (and birthday and possibly anniversary too). And yesterday I got them. Damn, I do not remember braces hurting this much.<br />
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I got my original braces the summer before 7th grade. Dr. Walker was my ortho. He was about 100 and I think that's about how old the technology was he used on my teeth. On my teeth. Did you ever see the Simpsons where Lisa got braces from the discount brace place? That's what mine looked like, no literally, that's what my braces looked like. Still my teeth were so bad it was a huge improvement. First of all I had buck teeth that defined the word (Parker got the same ones but his were at least straight). One of them was sideways--pretty much literally. In my 6th grade picture I look like I'm either pretending to be a fish or trying to kiss someone because DeHegh Lille was trying to make me smile and I didn't want to show my teeth and that's the face that is frozen in time. Secondly, my nickname (my Girl Scout leader gave me (was Chunky Meatball). The summer before 7th grade was one of transformation for me. I went to Camp Seafarer for 6 weeks where I grew two inches and lost 10 pounds. That and the addition of braces and a cute hair cut and actually there were several people who did not recognize me when we went back to school.<br />
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So I remember the day I got braces--I don't know the month, I could figure out the year. It must have been after camp and before we went to the beach. I do remember putting on a two piece bathing suit for the first time--pretty much ever. My mother would not let me wear one before that because I was too fat. We won't go there right now.<br />
<br />
That was a truly transformative summer in so many ways. I can literally go back to that very moment, standing on the deck of the beach cottage in Anne Moss' hand me down bikini and feeling good, really good. I'm not sure that I actually wore it down to the beach, but that feeling of accomplishment and sort of peace with my body image if I think about it can come back to my mind's eye. <br />
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So much for the birth of Anne Hester Old story, maybe tomorrow. Or maybe someday.......<br />
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<br />TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-29790077019104127532013-02-11T19:32:00.000-08:002013-03-04T15:06:56.169-08:00We do not remember days, we remember momentsAs part of my discipleship group, we are making a life map. I started on my life map but really could not come up a plan, a format, a vision. I started just writing stuff down which was a good start. I got all the way to 4th grade. It was a good start and it made me think about pictures in time, moments. We really do not remember days, we remember moments.<br />
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So then as I was looking at journals on Amazon, I remembered I had this blog that I apparently have neglected for well over a year. Actually interestingly I've thought about it several times over the last week. I think this is where I am meant to take this journey. So I think this is where I will create my life map.<br />
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But alas, not tonight, for tonight I must go and read for my class and I have put it off until 10:30 which is really much too late.<br />
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I'll start tomorrow.<br />
<br />
The birth Anne Hester Old. TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-50232491182568567992011-12-12T07:58:00.001-08:002011-12-12T07:58:01.250-08:00Stationery card<div class="sflyProductPreviewWidget" style="width:425px; height:494px;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetTop" style="height:6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/top.gif);"></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetCenter" style="height:482px; padding: 0 6px 0 6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/bg.gif); background-repeat:repeat-y;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewLogo" style="width: 105px; height: 34px; padding: 14px 0 0 14px;"><img src="http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/logo.gif" style="padding: 0; background: #ffffff; border: none; box-shadow: none;"></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewContainer" style="height:350px; text-align:center; padding: 0;"><a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8EaMWzlozas8k&cid=SFLYOCWIDGET&eid=115"><img src="http://images-community.shutterfly.com/prs/v1/8EaMWzloza0/8EaMWzloza06k/p/67b0de21b3127d902548/JPEG/1323705467000/0/" style="padding: 0; background: #ffffff; border: none; box-shadow: none;"></a></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewMessageContainer" style="height:55px; background-color:#f4f4e9; text-align:center; padding: 15px 0 15px 0; line-height: 19px;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewTitle" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 15px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold;"><span>Our Moments Christmas Card</span></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewSEOText" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 13px; color: #333333;"><span>Personalize your holiday card this Christmas with <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery/christmas-cards" style="color: #6666cc;">Shutterfly</a>.</span></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewViewCollection" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 13px; color: #333333;"><span>View the entire <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery" style="color: #6666cc;">collection</a> of cards.</span></div><img width="1" height="1" border="0" style="padding: 0; background: #ffffff; border: none; box-shadow: none;" src="https://os.shutterfly.com/b/ss/sflyshareprod/1/H.15/111?pageName=sharekey&c1=msc&c2=blogger" /></div></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetBottom" style="height:6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/bottom.gif);"></div></div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-58466680454072894012011-11-30T11:49:00.000-08:002011-11-30T12:51:14.759-08:00A la recherche du temps perdu<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FvMAUN3hVaA/TtaXMBMvAiI/AAAAAAAAAGc/s-06bnug5xI/s1600/DSCN0881.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FvMAUN3hVaA/TtaXMBMvAiI/AAAAAAAAAGc/s-06bnug5xI/s320/DSCN0881.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680894212710531618" /></a><br /><i>A Remembrance of Things Past</i> is one of my favorite all time books. It's by Marcel Proust. It's quite a read. I'm not sure why it made such an impact on me. I read it my senior year. I had an early class with Walter Fowlie a renoun Proustian authority. I think it was on Friday after Thursday night Theta Chi kegs--and I don't think I ever missed a class (I was late, had wet hair and came directly from the Theta Chi section, but that's a whole other story which I may or may not have told). But I digress, I think the reason that I loved this book so much was that sense memory is something that I cherish. I may not always take time to smell the roses, but when I do, I remember what they smelled like. I remember the feel of the breeze or the warmth of the sun or the rocking of the dock.<div><br /></div><div>So last night I made what our family fondly calls Guacamole Chicken which is really "Cumin Dusted Chicken" a la Becca Worple.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I dusted the chicken and smelled the cumin, I was transported back to the kitchen on Thallata. I remember being there with Becca, who asked me a Beccaesque question like "oh that was tablespoons?" We are giggling in the kitchen and glance out the window to see our friends lounging on the dock. It's our turn to cook. I hear the boats buzzing by, the waves lapping, and the crack of laughter from below. Shoot, what are we missing?</div><div><br /></div><div>And I think of cooking on the rocks on the charcoal grill where there was a 50/50 chance there was charcoal, fluid and no broken ankle. I remember the steak with the asian slaw. I remember drinking bloody marys and going on a boat ride. I remember that first beer opened on the boat on the way, the anticipation. Of course I remember standing with a pillow covering my front and nothing in the back, or waving nude to the passing boats in the twilight (now there's a sense memory for someone!). I can smell the living room where we are all squished around the table, drinking wine and laughing until our stomach hurts. A certain person stuffed a certain substance down her pants, someone made out behind the bowling alley and who can forget Hank? </div><div><br /></div><div>And I wanted to be there. I wanted to be at the grocery store buying our list. Or calculating 3 bottles of wine for me per day times 4 days equals--ha! a case! Or loading the boat. Or looking for snakes. Or talking loudly to scare Phelps the bear out of the way. I wanted to be among friends. Well more than that, a very special group of ladies who may not have been the best of friends to start, but who bonded over sprained ankles, spider bites, secrets revealed, fear of snakes, love of wine, dislike of shrimp, love of shrimp. I will always remember at least 1 of Cosmos top ways to get your guy _______. And laughter. And simplicity.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I felt happy. I felt the peace I felt lying in the sun on the wooden dock with no cares in the world. Chardonnay at 10 a.m.? Why not, I just had a big ol' breakfast of biscuits and gravy. Then I think I'll jump out of the window into the icy cold water. Or dodge giant underwater boulders for a little ride around the sound. Or kayak for a while. Oh shit, there's the snake.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I realized, we will probably not ever have that magical experience again. But thanks to that cumin, I went on a little vacation last night as I cooked dinner. And I felt happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I feel happy as I think about it today. Thank you, Becca, for sharing your special place and bringing a rag tag group of ladies together to create some really awesome sense memories.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-39155533370182071762010-11-03T03:51:00.001-07:002010-11-03T04:25:22.220-07:00Forever an optimistSo I'm more than a little sad this morning. But probably not for the reasons that people would think. People know what my core beliefs are, although I rarely talk politics except with people I know agree with me.<div><br /></div><div>I'm really sad for David Pepper. He stuck his neck out, he crossed party lines, he is a thoughtful person who isn't afraid to stand up for what he believes to be right. I truly believe that he lost not because of who he is or what he believes, but because he had a (D) by his name and people here vote blindly for anyone who has an (R) by their name.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also sad for President Obama. He and the people he was elected with, were elected by a thoughtful electorate. People had hope for change. People had hope that congress would work together. President Obama reached out to those "on the other side." They said, "We will come sit down with you and hear what you have to say." Then they literally just did not show up--said they would come to a meeting at the White House and then literally did not show up. </div><div><br /></div><div>President Obama, Steve Driehaus, and Governor Strickland are not responsible for the things they are being blamed for. For the short sighted, or short memoried, the economic melt-down started under President Bush before President Obama was sworn in. President Obama WORKED WITH the Bush administration to come up with a plan to keep the country from sinking into a depression. President Obama WORKED WITH President Bush. When President Bush took office there was a SURPLUS. When President Bush left office there was a DEFICIT. President Obama is not responsible for that, however, he has done a pretty damn good job of staunching the bleeding.</div><div><br /></div><div>He's also passed healthcare reform. I do not understand why people are against this. Here's what Anthem told me I get as of January 1:</div><div><b>No lifetime maximum.</b> My current lifetime maximum is $7,000,000. So when I get breast cancer, or if God Forbid, someone in our family became sick, we can't be kicked off our insurance because we've spent too much money.</div><div><b>Adult Dependents</b>. My children can now stay on my health policy through the age of 27. This has so many advantages, I can't even list them all here. But when your kids get to be 19, think about whether you would want to just cut them loose to fend for themselves on healthcare.</div><div><b>No preauthorization for emergency services</b>--especially out-of-network. This makes so much sense it's self-explanatory. When Mollie was a baby, she got sick every time we went out of town. When your baby is sick, do you take them to the doctor or do you call the insurance company to find out if you can please take them to the doctor. I ended up paying for every out of town doctor visit she ever had.</div><div><b>Women no long need a referral from their PCP to go to the gynecologist. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>And coming soon--no denial for pre-existing conditions.</b> Did you hear the one about the baby who was denied coverage because his heart defect was a "pre-existing" condition to his birth.</div><div><br /></div><div>So now my confession. I did not vote for Rob Portman. I'm sure many people are not shocked, but the reason I didn't is not because he has an (R) next to his name. He is a great person, nice neighbor, has a wonderful wife and kids. I was prepared to vote for Rob Portman for the mere reason that I know him as a person and know him to be a thoughtful person. But then I went to his web site and read his positions. Did any of the other voters in TP do this? He clearly stated in his position that he plans to help dismantle health care reform. Look at the above 4 things that come into law on January 1. Why would anyone be against any of those? I plan to send him a congratulatory letter later today and ask him to rethink this position. Since that issue was buried in his position statement, hopefully he will.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have one more question, which I probably won't ask him, but would like to know. Can Portman now finally take a public stand against the Martin Marietta Limestone Mine? It is part of the reason I'm sad this morning. The guy who did the right thing and stuck his neck out for us, was defeated. The guy who said he couldn't "because it would be about him" aka political, was elected.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's why I'm not totally sad. Here's why I still have Hope. If we have a split House and a split Senate, I hope that our government officials will sit down together and try to figure out what common goals we all have and how to work together to get them. All these guys running on "Washington is Broken." Yes because no one will talk to each other they are just interested in drawing lines in the sand. Fix what's broken by working together.</div><div><br /></div><div>And here's my other hope. I hope that the people newly elected are truly committed to what they ran on, to fixing things that need fixing (like creating jobs) and not doing things like cutting taxes for the very wealthy (which is one reason Bush left us with the deficit that Obama inherited. I won't even mention his ill-gotten war that now no one believes in).</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's my concern. That people elected will not work for the people, but for themselves and their party. See here's the core reason I'm a Liberal Democrat, because I believe that elected officials should work for the people and not for themselves or their party. I hope that John Boehner (who I believe is one of those people who has worked long and hard for himself) did mean his tearful I will work for you speech.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because while I think it's completely ridiculous that people blame Obama or Driehaus or Strickland for job loss, the deficit and our current economic condition (see above--all inherited from the Bush administration), I'm hopeful maybe people will work together.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm forever the optimist.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-81250010777039676332010-09-07T04:26:00.001-07:002010-09-07T04:34:24.439-07:00Firsts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TIYi73rO99I/AAAAAAAAAFA/m6M-JxMZZO0/s1600/IMG_0623.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TIYi73rO99I/AAAAAAAAAFA/m6M-JxMZZO0/s320/IMG_0623.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514133205714663378" /></a><br />Remember when your baby first smiled, first ate cereal, first ate peas, first rolled over, first sat up, first pulled up, first word, first walked? I think I have pictures of every single one of those from every angle (well except no one can remember what Mollie's first word was--don't tell her that though--we're going with Parker--that's my story and I'm sticking to it!) Someday they will be at least filed orderly in a box for each child. Right now they are shoved in a variety of boxes in a variety of places.<div><br /></div><div>So a couple of weeks ago, Parker shaved for the first time. I'd been kind of bugging him to get rid of that "milk" mustache he had. So while we were at the beach he said, I want to shave. I thought hmmm, sensitive skin, salt water, probably not a great combo. So we waited till we got home, just. I think we pulled in the driveway, got out of the car and went straight upstairs to the bathroom to find him his first razor. So I ran and got the camera--actually it was still packed in the car, so I got my phone. I step into the bathroom line up and shoot. Parker goes "what are you doing?!?!?!" I said, "it's the first time you are shaving, I'm taking your picture." He said, "Are you crazy?" and shut the door. So this was all I could capture of the first.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-69779180724438048452010-08-03T04:57:00.000-07:002010-08-03T06:30:22.192-07:00A Real Rant<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgZkebuThI/AAAAAAAAAEw/3fp5nGgKrVQ/s1600/IMG_0293.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgZkebuThI/AAAAAAAAAEw/3fp5nGgKrVQ/s320/IMG_0293.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501175059268390418" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgLwJ6EThI/AAAAAAAAAEo/zTeHn0VImmU/s1600/IMG_9425.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgLwJ6EThI/AAAAAAAAAEo/zTeHn0VImmU/s320/IMG_9425.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501159866754158098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgLv-E0SJI/AAAAAAAAAEg/jcRYUscrVyg/s1600/DSCN0735.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgLv-E0SJI/AAAAAAAAAEg/jcRYUscrVyg/s320/DSCN0735.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501159863578019986" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/TFgLv-E0SJI/AAAAAAAAAEg/jcRYUscrVyg/s1600/DSCN0735.JPG"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; ">So I couldn't decide whether to write the cute story of Parker's first shave and Mollie's first surf or my rant to my sister in law first. I decided to go ahead and get the rant out of the way. I apologize and wanted to be up front with everyone that this would be yet another pissed off post to my sister in law. But as I tell this story over and over again, people seem to find comfort in it. I mean we all have weirdness in our families and it's so comforting to know that we all have it (and that there is someone else who has it worse than you at the moment).</span></a><div><div><br /></div><div>Recap:</div><div>Five years ago we decided that our summer vacation would be to rent a cottage in Sandbridge. It's a cute little area south of Virginia Beach (although technically in the city of Va Beach) very close to the North Carolina line. For lack of a better description it's the Virginia Outer Banks--a narrow strip of beach with the Atlantic on one side and the sound on the other and I don't think it's every more than a mile wide and it's about 7 miles long. There's one little market--that makes homemade donuts every morning, three restaurants--one of which is owned by my friend from high school and has a dodgeball tournament every week during the summer. I went there growing up and it's some of our happiest times as a family. Going now I see high school friends, their kids and their parents. It's a pretty magical place to me and I've been able to share that with my family and I think we are making some pretty special memories as a family. We keep thinking we should go somewhere else--explore the country, but alas, we spend two weeks as a family where everyone is happy and together. So in the end we'll keep doing that as long as they'll do it!</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah but of course I digress. So we decided on Sandbridge for a number of reasons, not the least of which was a solid amount of time to be near my niece--my brother's daughter. In our fantasy, she would come to visit, my sister in law would take off of work, they'd come spend time with us in a no pressure situation and we could grow closer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nope.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first year they did come for Mollie's birthday dinner. I don't think they ever went to the beach with us and Nancy certainly didn't take off any work. Don't even suggest that she leave Emily with us.</div><div>The second year, she had many excuses and was able to meet us twice for dinner.</div><div>The third year, she said it was too painful to come to Sandbridge because off the coast of there was where Billie killed himself. So we met once for dinner and came to meet her at her pool.</div><div>The fourth year, last year, she met us once for dinner and then we stayed extra so we could see her (and my other niece and step sister). We saw her once at her pool. In her defense, she does try to be sweet--on her terms.</div><div>This year, I emailed her a week before we came down. I know I should have written and I planned to but I ran out of time. I emailed her for two reasons, 1) I didn't want to have a discussion without some thought on her part--ie I didn't want her to just say unequivocally "no" without thinking about it and 2) I'm a big chicken.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here's how the emails went:</div><div><br /></div><div>From me:</div><div><blockquote type="cite" style="font-family: Optima; font-size: medium; "><div><blockquote type="cite"><blockquote type="cite">Hey Nancy,</blockquote></blockquote><blockquote type="cite"><blockquote type="cite">Hope you and Emily are having a great summer. We are coming down Saturday for two weeks. We'll be in the same house in Sandbridge. I know in the past you've said that it was too painful for you to come to Sandbridge. I hope with time and space that you will be able to come down this year. Sandbridge was one of the places that Billie was happiest and I'd love to be able share that experience with Emily. </blockquote></blockquote><blockquote type="cite"><blockquote type="cite">If not we'll make arrangements to meet for dinner.</blockquote></blockquote><blockquote type="cite"><blockquote type="cite">Hugs to you and Em,</blockquote></blockquote><blockquote type="cite"><blockquote type="cite">Hester</blockquote></blockquote></div></blockquote></div><div>From Nancy:</div><div><blockquote type="cite" style="font-family: Optima; font-size: medium; "><div><blockquote type="cite">Hi, Hester - I feel like that is a personal topic about the area of his death that I am not comfortable communicating via email. </blockquote></div></blockquote></div><div>My Reply:</div><div><blockquote type="cite" style="font-family: Optima; font-size: medium; "><div>I had planned to send it to you in a hand-written letter but I ran out of time. I wanted to give you time to think about it rather than ask you over the phone. I did not expect a reply in that tone.<br /><br />Please take some time to think about it and call us if you'd like once we get down to the beach.<br /><br />H</div></blockquote></div><div><div>After we had been at the beach for a full week, she called. Now to those who live a quiet life we are known as the Louds. If you call, please expect pandemonium in the background. So anyway, she calls. She says, "Emily and I don't really have plans tomorrow afternoon. We have a membership to the Cypress Point Pool, you could come meet us." After a few more "pleasantries" we hang up and I tell her I'll call tomorrow when I know what our plan is. This of course was a lie on my part because I'm not leaving a beautiful beach day with good friends to go to her hot fucking pool so things can be on her terms. So I called her on Monday and apologized for not coming on Sunday because it was a beautiful day on the beach and we rented a kayak and watched dolphin playing off the beach. We are going to Shogun (a halfway point between the two of us. 20 minutes if that from her house) on Wednesday night and would love to see them, we're going about 7. Her reply, "7 on Wednesday is very late during a busy work week and we can't go all the way out there for such a late dinner. Call us and we'll try to find another time." </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I did not call her back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anthony still clings to the fantasy that she would let us take Emily for the day. HA! My mom stayed in Va Beach (she should be living in Ohio) to see Emily and Nancy deigns to see her once a month or so and has let her take Emily something like three times in the last 5 years.</div><div><br /></div><div>What would you do?</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Here's the letter I would like to write (the italics are things I think but probably wouldn't include since she would just stop reading):</div><div><br /></div><div>Dear Nancy,</div><div><br /></div><div><i>{I'm not sure I want to continue our relationship. In fact, if you did not have Emily, I probably wouldn't have spoken to you in five years. I'm not sure anyone has really drawn you a picture of what life looks like outside your self-centered bubble. My parents never will for fear that you won't let them ever see Emily again. Do you realize have deigned to allow us to see Emily six or seven times in the last five years? Do you realize how truly hurtful you are to your family? Yes, because you are the mother of my brother's daughter, you are our family like it or not.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>As I write this I'm wondering if aunts have any legal rights to sue for visitation. I think I might just look into this. My parents won't sue for grandparents visitation rights for fear they'll lose and then lose their month visits they currently get. But I've got really nothing to lose. I could call your 80 year old neighbor as a witness who researched and called Dad to ask him why you look at him like he's going to rape you or steal Emily. I could just have a male judge try to interact with Emily since she won't speak to or look at men--even her grandfather. Do you know Parker used to burst into tears after everyone of our visits because Emily wouldn't speak or look or interact with him? Did you try to get her to? No. So I've got a lot of evidence on my side that she would benefit from spending time with our family. I could bring Daphne and just let her tell the judge how much she loves spending time with HOS and YaYa. How much she loves YaYa Day.}</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Six years ago we made a conscious decision to spend two weeks in Sandbridge to be near Emily. We felt if we provided the place and the time and the open flexibility, you and Emily would feel comfortable spending some quality time with us. We knew you and Emily loved the beach so we thought it was the perfect place. Also, some of my happiest family memories, and some of the best times Billie and I ever had as brother and sister were at Sandbridge. When I think of those times I think of happy Billie. I want Emily to know her father had a happy childhood. I know you like to think he didn't, but you are wrong. She should know some of the funny things that happened and some of the great memories of fishing early on Sunday mornings for spot, cleaning them and then frying them up with lacey cornbread for breakfast. She should have the opportunity to relive some of those things with us and make those memories.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe that's part of my problem. You won't let us make memories with Emily. Why is that?</div><div><br /></div><div>So the third year we came to visit, you finally mentioned it was too painful for you to come to Sandbridge because it was where Billie killed himself. That was five years after he had died, but we were willing to accept that and try to make other arrangements to see you. Now in our fifth year and the seventh since his death, I suggested that perhaps enough time had passed that you could come to Sandbridge so that we could share some happy memories with Emily and let her know the place where her dad had some of his happiest memories. So why is it that this suggestion resulted in your digging in your heals and making it so we couldn't see you at all?</div><div><br /></div><div><i>{And why is it you won't allow my mom, Billie's mother, to ever speak of her son to Emily?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Why is it that you tell my parents a good time to drop off a present and then don't answer the door?}</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Lots of people lose their spouses at a young age. It's sad. It's very sad. I fortunately have not lost my husband so I don't know how sad it is. But I've lost my brother who was the same person who was your husband. Yes you were obviously closer to him than we were at the time. Yes he and I had had our problems. But when Parker was born and he discovered the love of that little boy, something melted in him and we became closer. When you all got married, he became kinder and more loving still. I really liked who he was when he was with you. I will always fondly remember the trip you all made for Parker's birthday to NYC. I will also always remember what an amazing trip to Hatteras we had that last time with you and baby Emily and Billie. I'm so glad we had that time with him. He seemed content. <i>{I also remember that you tried to keep him from coming to dinner with us that last night and tried to make him feel guilty for coming with us.}</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>{Only you know what happened and what changed in the last month of his life.}</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I won't have a conversation about Billie with you. The last time we did, I agreed to disagree with you about his death. You would like to believe that we his family did some irreparable damage to him as a child. I know that this isn't true. I am steadfast in my belief that the more successful Billie became, the harder it became to be him, until he could no longer stand it. I also know that he is at peace. He came to me in a dream and showed me.</div><div><br /></div><div>So Nancy, here it is. I have no interest in having a relationship with you. I would like to know my niece and spend time with her. I would like to be able to share the Old Family with her and the Sullivan family--her family, her cousins. I will continue to make an effort to see her. And every time you thwart me, I am going to write her a letter about the memory she didn't get to share with us. When she's older, I'll reach out directly to her. And if you tell her we didn't want to see her, then I'll just give her the letters. Sadly it sounds like a moving script doesn't it.</div><div><br /></div><div>We'll be in Sandbridge next year from July 16 - July 30. We'd like to see Emily. I will happily come pick her up and she can spend as much time with us as she likes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hester</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-71725629660294168212010-05-18T05:05:00.000-07:002013-02-13T05:37:19.958-08:00Depression<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/S_KRtYh3k1I/AAAAAAAAAEI/N5-ijDu6cbE/s1600/827387630103.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472596706073219922" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/S_KRtYh3k1I/AAAAAAAAAEI/N5-ijDu6cbE/s320/827387630103.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 214px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1169449/index.htm">A Young Man's Fall To Grace - 05.17.10 - SI Vault</a></div>
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OK so I guess I should have named this blog angst and death. But perhaps that's what I need to get out (or it's what I can publish--I've got some great drafts in here that I can't really share--but in the end, I think a blog is like a journal and in a journal guess who is the center of the universe? Me. And so sometimes I just write.). But I digress.</div>
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I happened upon the above article in Sports Illustrated this morning by Selena Roberts. Yes I read Sports Illustrated and no I don't actually care about the Swim Suit Issue because I'm really tired of giant fake boobs. Who can order a swimsuit anymore? No one's boobs look like that (forget the rest of the body). But I digress again.</div>
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What a great article. It talks about depression in a way that people can begin to understand. Depression is not just about being sad. It can be anger, it can be angst, it can be so many things. If we think of depression as just sadness, we will miss a lot of signs that we need to see. Take it from me, I know. </div>
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First of all, she talks about the dichotomy between this high achieving, popular kid. Who would think he was suicidal? She accurately points out how depression can "suffocate joy, bully perspective and intensify pressure until a nothing-I-do-is-good-enough belief crosses the threshold to an I'm-not-good-enough hopelessness." It's probably the hardest thing of all to understand about mental illness. How the brain can turn things around on you. Most people who hear voices started out hearing them because they needed someone to say something nice and reassuring to them. At first the voices do, but then they turn on you and begin to belittle you.</div>
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But back to this "nothing-I-do-is-good-enough belief." In my constant search to make sense of my brother's suicide, I keep coming back to this one thing. The more successful he became, the harder it became to be him. So at a time in his life when it looked like he had it all--a wife, a new baby, a great job, a promotion--it became nearly impossible to live up to the bar he had set for himself. And of course there was no one he could confide in because then they would know his secret--that he wasn't good enough no matter what he did. The boy in this story was in therapy and doesn't tell his therapist his true secret.</div>
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So just like the boy in this story my brother turned to alcohol to numb the pain. Then he went to a place where he had once felt carefree. He took his boat out and anchored off the shore of the place we vacationed when he was little (even using GPS to find the exact spot). Where he had spent hours fishing or surfing on his boogie board. Where there were no standards for success. Where there was just sand, sun, surf, family, friends and fun.</div>
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But alcohol is a disinhibitor. So I think it allowed the demon to take over. </div>
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In the SI story, that's the thing that's important to understand. The boy in the story has no memory of attempting suicide. In fact, he asks who pushed him out the window. People who commit suicide are psychotic. It means they are beyond rational thinking. Once he was back to his rational mind, it could not remember this irrational act.</div>
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So why am I on this this morning? Well for one thing it's this quest to make sure my theory is right. I don't want to blame someone for my brother's death. He alone is responsible. He was sick. His brain was sick. It was like an undiagnosed tumor that took over before the doctors could find it. Actually he hid it and hid it well, until it was too late. Just like my (great) Aunt Blanche hid her breast cancer until it was too late.</div>
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Secondly, I'm terrified. I'm terrified of teen depression and suicide. I'm surrounded by this great group of 13 year old boys whom I love. They are all wonderful boys, good students and athletes. They have great friends. They have great parents. They have a great life. And I worry and watch. Because I want to find the demon before it is allowed to grow. I look for changes--who is sullen, who is being picked on, who is angry, who is separating themselves, who is getting left out? It's hard, hard to know and hard to confront. No one wants a friend to tell them their son might be depressed. But I will. And I will watch. And I will listen. And while I'm no one's confidant right now, I hope that I'm in a place where I could be.</div>
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One last little thing before I sign off this very depressing little writing here. If you have hand guns and firearms. Keep them locked up. Hide the key. While girls attempt suicide more often, boys are 5 times more successful because they are more likely to use a gun. So access to firearms makes it easier and more tempting. That might be the one thing I could blame. My brother had a hand gun and he knew how to use it.</div>
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<a href="http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1169449/index.htm">A Young Man's Fall To Grace - 05.17.10 - SI Vault</a>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-26567699924411782222010-03-05T04:41:00.000-08:002010-04-12T06:37:37.868-07:00Snow Happens for a Reason<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/S8Mh6Aatp0I/AAAAAAAAAD4/n_lkUmCf1rM/s1600/IMG_0372.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/S8Mh6Aatp0I/AAAAAAAAAD4/n_lkUmCf1rM/s320/IMG_0372.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459244453731346242" /></a><br /><div>My dad and step mom came to spend time with us over New Year's. We don't really have a holiday with my parents (either mom or dad) and New Year's has worked for them. Taj loves meeting our friends and finding out about where they are from and other things I've usually never known. Dad, for one night, loves the chaos of the people and kids and the general merriment. He even likes the banging of the pots at midnight (because he's not wearing his hearing aids as usual). So they came, we had a great visit and they went home. I didn't hear anything for almost a week. Then I got a call from Taj on Friday that dad had fallen and hit his head THREE DAYS AGO and that he had been the hospital for THREE DAYS and that they were going to keep him until probably Monday. He's fine they say. Well I discussed with both of them that I really would like to hear on the day something like this happens. Apparently Dad didn't want her to call, but being second in command as it were, I would like to know. </div><br /><br /><div>Now I'm leaving a big pink elephant out of this. My dad has always been a drinker and he ebbs and flows with problem drinking. (eg a drink in the middle of the night, a drink in the morning, and a steady buzz throughout the day--fine on holiday but not necessarily so on your average Wednesday, especially when you have balance issues or are diabetic and on an array of pills that would impress pfizer) He gets depressed when he leaves us or after a vacation. This has caused a variety of problems from yelling at my dear husband for nothing to drinking himself into a head injury (he was getting the mail). Taj noted that she had had enough of this crap and he was not going to drink anymore. I agreed that we would do what was needed at this end. And I wrote him a heartfelt letter. Because whatever--from drinking to not taking his meds to getting up on ladders, it seemed he was slowly and/or quickly killing himself. I love my dad and I want him around for a long time. </div><br /><br /><div>So back to the head injury. I got off the phone and after my initial roller coaster of feelings, I thought whoa. He hit his head. He had a CT scan. He's going to be in the hospital for at least 5 days? Oh you know there's the whole self-preoccupation about why wasn't I called and there was the DENIAL (my favorite) and there was the guilt and there was the should I stay or should I go. So there was constant contact for the next several days and he was getting better and he was coming home. He had a therapist coming to the house (huh?) and several more CT scans (huh?). We did finally convince him to see a new doctor who would reevaluate his medicines and he agreed to quit drinking. I offered to come help, no it's OK. I offered to come help, no it's OK. I offered to come help, no it's OK.</div><br /><br /><div>Slowly information began to chip away at the denial. Partly it was the slow gathering of information and partly it was the peeling away the layers. So the reality was that he fell. He hit his head. He was unconscious. Fortunately Taj was on alert because she was concerned by his balance (this time not inner ear but inner alcohol) and had been checking the window to watch his progress to get the mail. Now of course she had said "sit, sit there I'll get the mail" but he was bound and determined to walk to the mailbox and so it was. So she looked out the window and there he was lying on the driveway in the blink of an eye. She was changing clothes and ran out, realized her error (as in she didn't have any clothes on), ran back in threw something on and called the neighbor who called 911. (This may or may not be the complete correct sequence of events but close enough.) I would like to thank that ambulance driver whomever he may be because he said "I want to take him to Va Beach General because Dr. Ang is there and he is the best neurosurgeon I know."</div><br /><div>hint hint neurosurgeon=bad head injury</div><br /><br /><div>So it comes out that it wasn't a simple concussion but a double brain bleed. The bleeding stopped on its own, there was no need for surgery. Thank God he's one of five 78 year olds who isn't on blood thinners! Again, can I come visit, can I come help. There must be more going on than I know because a physical therapist is coming to the house. no no no everything is fine</div><br /><br /><div>In the mean time, Milo has hip surgery, Mollie breaks her ankle, and Parker gets braces.</div><br /><br /><div>And one day I'm talking to my dad and he says, "What will it take for me to get you to come down here and help me learn how to use my Kindle?" That is the heartbreakingest thing to hear because it's really, "I need you." You want your parents to want you, but you don't really want them to need you. </div><br /><br /><div>And so the planning began. Mollie and I would go to Va on Saturday and return on Monday. She would get to skip school, but she needed to learn to walk without crutches so we could get through the airport. We needed to leave on Saturday so we could see Marc Michaelson's annual show at the Winter Club. We'd fly in we'd go have dinner, we'd see Mom, we'd see Lin, we'd go to Lin's restaurant, we'd have brunch. Fun, fun, fun!</div><br /><br /><div>And then it snowed. In Virginia. 10 inches. Our flight on Saturday was cancelled on Friday afternoon. We rebooked for Saturday night hopeful things would be cleared out. Dad called on Saturday morning and said please don't try to fly and even if you do I don't think we can drive to the airport to pick you up because of the road conditions. So I called Delta and they let me change the plane to the next weekend.</div><br /><br /><div>And then it snowed. In Virginia and Cincinnati. Actually it rained in Cincinnati and I didn't really believe that there would be snow until I woke up at 6 a.m. (after waking at 4 and 5) and saw what looked like a blizzard. Anthony and my dad had begged me not to fly out in snow and I promised if there was any kind of snow emergency I would not fly. Sure enough Hamilton County was under level 1 and Boone (where the airport physically is) was level 2. So I called Delta and they let me have a full refund. I didn't try to reschedule for the next weekend because the next week I was going to Florida for a marriage maintenance weekend and my mom was coming to keep the kids--her drive is another whole snow blog about determination and driving through the mountains in the snow.</div><br /><br /><div>So we began to make other plans. Dad was better, and Taj cancelled her hiking trip but was hopeful she could go to Turkey with her nephew so he could meet the rest of the family. (Social studies note, Iranians can travel freely to Turkey, Americans can travel freely to Turkey so it's a good meeting point.) Dad would come stay 5 days with us. This is big news because he was willing to fly by himself. He was doing well! Maybe Dad would stay the entire three weeks with us, maybe he got to choose, maybe he didn't--depended on how he was doing, but so for so good.</div><br /><br /><div>Then on Sunday February 28 as we were driving home from our basketball victory dinner, Taj called. I could tell she was very upset and she asked if I would come home. I said I would call her in the morning when I did not have a car full of screaming children and that I would be there in the next 48 hours.</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>The next day was my birthday. The following day some friends were taking me for lunch. So I decided to fly out on Wednesday. I was a little resentful. I thought things were going well. </div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>On Monday, we chatted, it was my birthday everyone was happy. I'd made my reservations for Wednesday and since everyone, including Dad, sounded good, I didn't feel so bad for waiting until Wednesday. I figured, Taj is tired and needs a break, I'll fly down and help her out and we'll have the visit we were supposed to have three - four weeks ago.</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>And so, third time's a charm, I got off without a hitch and landed 1/2 an hour early. Taj picked me up and said she'd called the doctor because she was worried about Papa. When I arrived at the house I was shocked by the old man who greeted me with some weird glasses askew. He was not the man who left my house on January 3rd. We said our hellos and he said let me go upstairs to my room where I feel more comfortable. This was not a simple climbing of the stairs. This was not what had been described the several weeks before. This was about 11:30 a.m. I went up, we chatted. I asked him if he'd put his hearing aids in. And things steadily went down hill. </div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>Layers began to peel away. He'd been on a roller coaster of behavior over the last 4 days. The most significant thing to Taj was that he wasn't fussing anymore. Then the word salad started. I mean complete mumbo jumbo coming out of his mouth. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The long and short of it was successful brain surgery which I can describe in detail, an early discharge from the hospital, rehab, more word salad, back to the hospital because of fluid and swelling, Hester back to VA, success in the hospital, bad rehab, switch to good rehab, and now he's home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank God I was there. Snow Happens for a Reason.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-35863434018184846832010-01-05T16:28:00.000-08:002010-04-12T06:42:28.546-07:00Processed Foods and Perfectionism<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.jamieoliver.com/core/images/hot_topic.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 65px; height: 65px;" src="http://www.jamieoliver.com/core/images/hot_topic.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I was reading my new Cooking Light today (do I sound virtuous? I'm not sure how I started getting it-was it a reward for selling a lot of wrapping paper, or did I buy from some other kids' fundraiser? Well now that Gourmet is gone....) and I read an article about Jamie Oliver. Now we watch a fair amount of Food Network, and I'd heard of the Naked Chef (never sure why he was called that), but I never put 2 and 2 together. Anyway, the article talked about how charming he is blah blah blah and then the fact that he is on a crusade to improve nutrition. Hey I'm on a crusade to improve nutrition--in my head. No really I want to be on a crusade to improve nutrition. I organize a group of concerned moms and dads and we overhaul the school lunch system into fresh nutritious foods our children will actually eat and I'll never have to make lunch again. But I digress.<div><br /></div><div>So Jamie is doing a reality show from Huntington, West Virginia. The least healthy town in the USA. His premise is that he will teach different people to cook one meal. They'll teach others and Huntington, West Virginia will move out of the top (bottom) 10. He talks about "proper food." Which coming from a mother who talked a lot about "proper" things, my ears immediately perked up. He feels that if people did something from remotely from scratch half the time, it would fix 98% of the weight and nutrition problems.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I began to think about proper food. I read all the labels of the tacos I was making for dinner. Fortunately I shopped at Fresh Market this week, so my taco seasoning only had 5 ingredients. I knew they had ground my beef and made my guacamole. But then I looked at the taco sauce, cheese (that at some point had at least seen a cow) and thought, ugh I can't do that. I can't make everything from scratch. I love the idea. I'd like to make my own taco seasoning, but I don't. And what about my Rao's Marinara Sauce? Yes it leaves a dark red grease stain, which homemade marinara would not do, but my Rao's I've got to give up my Rao's? and my easy and much loved LaRosa's meatballs--all I have to do is reach in the freezer, put them in the pot with the Rao's, boil some (protein & fiber added) pasta and shazam! dinner that everyone loves and admires. Well if I can't have perfectionism, I'm not even going to try.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I thought about it and that's pretty much my problem all around isn't it. (And I'm having a deja vu that I've written about this all or nothing/perfectionism but I'm on a roll so I'm not looking back.) If I can't do it 100%, I'm not even going to try. If I blow the diet at breakfast, well I may as well just eat everything in sight until the following Monday (everyone knows the diet begins on Monday).</div><div><br /></div><div>So I bought his cookbook and I'm watching his TV show and I'm trying. I even made homemade meatballs and sauce. And I'm trying to do better at not being a perfectionist--rather than reorganizing an entire room, I'm just doing a closet. Shockingly, it works! Better to have one closet organized than that guilty feeling of needing to go through everything. The only problem is that by the time you've finished the room, that first closet needs organizing--again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone want to join me:</div><div>http://www.jamieoliver.com/campaigns/jamies-food-revolution/school-food</div><div><br /></div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-29478371133897223582009-12-14T08:40:00.001-08:002009-12-14T08:43:58.233-08:00Parker's Social Protest PoemParker had to write a social protest poem for Language Arts. Here's what he wrote (with no help from me). I'm so proud.<div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:20.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Social Protest Poem<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:20.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Why do those who have none suffer while who have lots thrive<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Why is the government giving money to the millionaires Instead of those who can’t afford food for their family<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The people who have don’t give <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">And the people who don’t have can barely live<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Imagine watching all the people walk by throwing away their Half-eaten sandwiches spilling their extra large drinks <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Things wasted that you would kill to have<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">You can’t afford it but that’s okay <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Because A.I.G. has enough to pay <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Their execs bonuses that they don’t need <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">When five jobs isn’t enough to provide what we need <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">To get help (from our fellow people) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">And when they don’t answer <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Where do you go?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">You have nowhere to go<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Like there is no light (at the end) (of the tunnel) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Like the government is a bully<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Like they don’t want you to succeed<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">But don’t worry <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">You can do whatever you set your mind to<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">You’re as strong as a rhino and as smart as Einstien<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Money may be avoiding you<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">But you can catch it <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:16.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">You can make it in this world <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-82478819785554520522009-12-12T17:58:00.000-08:002009-12-13T06:11:11.077-08:00The Magic of Christmas<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div><i>"Though I've grown old, the be</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><i>ll still rings for me and for those who still truly believe."</i></span></div><div><br /></div>I recently found out that my sister in law told my niece there is no Santa. She's 5. I'm not sure she's ever been allowed to have Santa. You see my sister in law is incredibly bitter. My brother committed suicide and left her with a 9 month old baby five years ago. Obviously, I have lots of unresolved feelings. I've been to two therapists and talked endlessly about it. However, I know my brother is at peace. Some people can't find peace on earth. He was haunted from the time he was a little child. I remember him complaining of terrible headaches and saying, "if I were a squirrel someone would shoot me to put me out of my misery." He went to see a psychiatrist. I wish we knew then what we do now. I wish people knew that depression was more than just being "sad." I think he would have had a whole other life. I tell people, I always knew Billie was tightly wound, I just never know how much. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Shortly after he died, my brother visited me in a dream. I was being chased by someone who wanted to kill me. I struggled and ran and ran and finally my brother came to me and told me to let them catch me, that death is a relief. That I would have peace and relief. A peace he could not find on earth.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm sitting here with Mollie watching Polar Express (we started out watching It's a Wonderful Life). It was really weird. I was watching this one part and suddenly my brother was sitting beside me and then he was gone. I don't really believe in ghosts, but I do think there is another dimension where others exist. Be they angels or guardians or whatever they may be. I mean who hasn't felt the present of a departed loved one at some time or another? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Anyway, so there was his brief presence as I thought of the magic of Christmas. There is a magic to Christmas. I hope there is a magic to this entire season for all, no matter their beliefs. But I thought of the magic of Christmas, here he was and then I thought of Emily (my niece). There was a message there. I want her to know the magic of Christmas. I'm afraid the cynicism of my sister in law has denied her the magic. I'm comforted that my sister in law is religious and so you may deny Santa, but hopefully not the miracle of Christmas.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I was thinking of writing her a letter to talk to her about the magic of Christmas. Then I thought of sending her the book the Polar Express. It is an incredible book. Royce (a sort of faux cousin/aunt) sent it to us. Parker loved trains at the time and it was a such a wonderful tradition to read it. We love the movie too can't remember if some of the lines are from the book or the movie like--"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can't see." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So then I began to think. What is the magic of Christmas? My kids have asked me several times over the past few years if I believe in Santa. This is our first Christmas without the mythical Santa (although the Elf still seems to have magic). I always told them "I believe in the magic of Christmas." There is no mistake that things happen at this time of year for a reason. That people go the extra mile, give the extra. That it truly is better to give than it is to receive.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For me the magic is traditions and memories. I love watching the same movies and hearing the same songs. Looking at the Christmas tree and just sitting and looking is a daily activity. I could definitely use a "move the Elf" app because that's a new one on me. The tree, really I just love the tree. And even the hokey Folger's commercials. The kid comes home from college (turns out now he's in the Peace Corps in West Africa) and I cry. I love helping my kids choose gifts for others--be they relatives, friends or strangers. I've actually never been a "happy holidays" kind of gal. I'll say Merry Christmas because I don't believe that my beliefs offend anyone because their beliefs don't offend me. Please wish me a Happy Chanukah or Happy Kwanzaa or </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Assalamu alaikum</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-I'm happy to celebrate all.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"The true spirit of Christmas lies in your heart." -Santa</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> The Polar Express</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so in the end I guess we have to find our own magic. But I will also do my best to help others find it too.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Peace on Earth. Pax. Shalom. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Assalamu alaikum.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">***** As I think about what I wrote last night, I'm afraid it sounds like suicide was the right thing for my brother. I just want to say suicide is NEVER the answer. He may be at peace, but he left Hell on earth for a lot of people. If you or anyone you know ever mentions anything close to killing themselves--make sure they talk to someone. Or talk to someone for them. I wish every single day that my brother had talked to someone. That he had let someone know that he felt the world would be better off without him. Because the world is not better off without him.*****</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div></div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-30598434308657470702009-11-21T19:33:00.000-08:002009-12-06T09:15:35.926-08:00Girls Dry Your TearsI've talked a lot with friends about the difference between being a girl mom and a boy mom. I have a friend who firmly believes that there are those who are just meant to be "boy moms." That may be true, but Mollie has several very special women in her life who are "boy moms." Maybe they were put on this earth to help her and be there for her since they didn't have girls. Who knows, she's just a lucky little girl to have extra moms. <div><br /></div><div>Still we struggle. I love her and there is no one I love to snuggle with more. (BTW Anthony doesn't snuggle so it's not a dis at all.) We've always snuggled from the start. She struggled, we snuggled and that solved it. But still, we'll be calling out something and she'll cry because of the way I called it out or the way I didn't call it out or perhaps I just gave her the correct answer too fast. Anthony will come intervene "why is she crying?!?!?" Always because of something I did or didn't do right. Which of course is correct. In its own way.</div><div><br /></div><div>But tonight I understood. I understood why we struggle and why we must bond in such an intense way. For me it's easy to love my son. He's beautiful, he's smart, he mostly does his work without effort. He's fun to watch in sports. With Mollie it's much harder. She's one of the sweetest children on earth. And yet we struggle. She worries about her weight, I worry about her weight. We talk about it, we act on it, we ignore it. Same thing with her learning style. I know she has a special learning style I just haven't figured out what it is yet. I know she has a gift. I'm just not sure I've figured out what it is yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've heard others, including my own mother, complain about their difficulties with their daughters. Friction. Miscommunication. Assumption. Resentment. But the other night, as we sat with friends and watched <i>My Sister's Keeper</i>, I found the answer. If you haven't seen it, it's really really sad. Mollie looked over at me in the movie and sweetly wiped each tear that fell from my eyes. As one would roll down my cheek, she would wipe it away. I knew in that moment that I need to remember that feeling. Because no matter how we struggle, I knew in that moment that she will be there for me to wipe my tears. And I know also, I need to do a much better job at wiping hers.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-55272555378296978202009-11-09T10:31:00.000-08:002009-11-09T10:36:37.131-08:00Contrary Stance<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/aaron-e-carroll/its-amazing-whats-conside_b_350558.html">This</a> made me say wow. It also supports my thoughts that some people are taking a contrary stance, just to be contrary.<div><br /></div><div>I would like to remind the suddenly fiscally concerned Republicans that they marched us into two wars that caused this huge deficit. That their deregulation brought about not just the crash of Wall Street, but even before that the airlines. It's time to start on common ground and build. It's time to stop listening to people who simply want to create controversy--and their livelihoods depend on it.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-1493523088067914182009-10-22T16:32:00.000-07:002009-10-22T16:35:08.865-07:00Things I HateI haven't compiled a list. But here's something to add to it when I do. My favorite jeans ripped. Did they rip in the knee? NO. <div>The butt? NO. </div><div>The crotch? Close. </div><div>The inner thigh!!!! </div><div><br /></div><div>How does that happen?? OK I know how it happens but really, that sucks. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because an inner thigh rip does not look cool under any circumstances.</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-3247849823630709862009-10-22T06:31:00.000-07:002009-10-22T07:06:28.048-07:00Top 10 Reasons to Miss Your Training Session<div>Every Wednesday I go to see a personal trainer. Yes, it's indulgent, but it's way cheaper than therapy. For me the thing I most got out of therapy was that there were 45 minutes when it was all about me. Yes I talked about other people, but I was the most important person in the room. A trainer is much like that and for me improving the outside, can't help but improve inside. Now I don't have to analyze why I did or didn't call my brother's wife, I can talk politics or the weather. Or I can complain about my brother's wife to someone who is quite sympathetic. All while burning calories.</div><div><br /></div>So this week illness struck our household. On Tuesday I knew I wouldn't make it to my training session on Wednesday. So I went to text my trainer. As I looked at my past texts, it looked like a bad top ten list. Since I got my iphone here are my excuses:<div>Mollie and Anthony have the throw up disease and I got it.</div><div>No school because of level 2 snow emergency--as much as it's tempting could not justify driving to training as an absolute necessity.</div><div>Going on a field trip.</div><div>Parker is home sick.</div><div>Spring Break.</div><div>Parker and Anthony are sick.</div><div>Going to French Lick.</div><div>Mollie has lice.</div><div>Mollie hurt her arm and is going for xrays.</div><div>Swine Flu.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last three are the ones that struck me as really funny--if you can laugh at lice, a broken arm and flu. I mean they actually sound made up. I guess you can't make up real life.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the way, I've got nothing against actual therapy. I am after all a trained psychotherapist. I'm just saying sometimes there are alternatives and also here is how I rationalize going to a personal trainer. Now that I think of it, maybe that should be the tag line for a friend's new personal training business--"personal training with xxxx--it's cheaper than therapy."</div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546197808476195911.post-84891393295442426062009-09-11T09:26:00.000-07:002009-09-11T10:47:56.776-07:00The Day After<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/SqqGqzNU-MI/AAAAAAAAADY/yGEGRIB-irc/s1600-h/9-11_firefighters_w_flag.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_rPOxL45BgVw/SqqGqzNU-MI/AAAAAAAAADY/yGEGRIB-irc/s320/9-11_firefighters_w_flag.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380260774706215106" /></a><br />OK, I don't know why, but I have a problem with all this 9/11 "Never Forget" stuff. What has remembering gotten us? A war in Afghanistan? A war in Iraq? A lessened position in world politics? A new and growing prejudice against a religion of many because of the actions of a few? Maybe it's the politics of hate that I have a problem with. <div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry, I don't want to remember 9/11. I don't want to remember walking down a deserted street with Parker on his first day of school. I don't want to remember the crowds of people standing around cars listening to the radio to try to get information. Walking by the TV stores with the big screen TVs showing over and over the planes flying into the World Trade Center. I don't want to remember trying to explain to my 4 year old why his school was suddenly shut down and why we had to walk home and why those images were on TV. I don't want to remember the desperation I felt trying to get the mile home to find Mollie and to gather my children up and keep them safe. I don't want to remember that my husband wasn't allowed to come home that night. I don't want to remember being unable to reach anyone by any means for hours. I don't want to remember the guilt my friend who worked for Cantor Fitzgerald had because he survived because he was hungover and couldn't get a cab. I don't want to remember sending my babysitter home to Brooklyn to be with her babies in Anthony's running shoes because she had no idea if she could even get home. I don't want to remember the haunted look in my friend's eyes because he walked out of the Wall Street subway station as people began throwing themselves out of the building. I don't want to remember that his wife couldn't come home to be with him because she worked outside the city. I don't want to remember that my brother's birthday was September 11th and he committed suicide two years later. I don't want to remember the neighbor who got her entire law firm out of the building and then did not return home to the little girl she had so excitedly adopted 3 years before. I don't want to remember that two people I knew who crashed in the field in Pennsylvania. I don't want to remember how my friend felt knowing he sent people on that plane, or his friend who put his mother on that plane. I don't want to remember the fear, hatred and paranoia people suddenly had for men with beards and dark skin.<div><br /></div><div>What exactly do we not want to forget about that day? I know what I don't want to forget.<div><br /></div><div>In the days following, while the city was still pretty much shut down. There was a beautiful peace in New York City. People were certainly sad over the massive loss of life, but we were one. People stopped making fun and criticizing New York City and sent an outpouring of love from all over the world. We truly were the center of the universe that first week. Fire fighters and police officers looked for their brothers in the ruble. People baked cupcakes and cookies and took them to the fire houses and police stations. People stopped and waved and saluted to the fire fighters. And people were kind and compassionate to their neighbors. Even the kids in the playground were different. I didn't see a single fight over a toy and when someone fell down, someone came running over to make sure they were alright. When someone said, "How are you?" They meant it. People were kind and compassionate. People were patriotic in their hearts.</div><div><br /></div><div>But somewhere along the way it feels to me that September 11th became about hate and not compassion. It became about getting Osama Bin Laden. It became about you aren't patriotic if you don't fly an American flag, or wear one in your lapel. It became about "where were you?" So forgive me but if I try to forget September 11th. I will try to never forget September 12 & 13th. I want to remember the calm after the storm. I want to remember the emails people sent me saying thank God you are OK. I want to remember the caring that every New Yorker had for each other and the nearly every other person in the world had for New Yorkers. I want to remember the fire fighters putting the American Flag up in the ruble.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will never forget kindness and compassion. I will never forget funeral procession after funeral procession. I will never forget the love and respect we suddenly remembered for the brave men and women who fight fires, save lives and keep us safe. I will never forget the love and respect we found for our neighbors--be they strangers or friends. I will never forget a child picking up a toy for another child and handing it to him. I will never forget gathering with my friends in the playground and making sure everyone made it home. I will never forget finding out who didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess that my wish is to never forget that September 11th is not about hating the people who took down those planes. I don't need to remember those horrible images. My wish is that September 11th is the day we are patriotic in our hearts and turn to our neighbors with love and compassion--be they next door, down the street or half way around the world. That we remember that caring was the first emotion people felt in the days following and that caring and compassion is what we should take away from this day.</div></div></div>TP Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13247974158424154468noreply@blogger.com7