September 30, 2013

Moonlight Sonata- Five Movements

It's Tuesday, and if the last few weeks have been any indication, that means I'm linking up with Jen for Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday.

Jen Kehl

This week is an interesting challenge. The five songs which made me who I am today. This is less of a mix tape, and more of a musical biography.



When I was small, so small to only have the vaguest, faintest memories, the strongest memory fragments are of my father singing me lullabies. He sang some traditional Hebrew folk songs, some Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel tunes, and the occasional traditional lullaby or camp song... but far and away the bulk of his lullabies were James Taylor songs. To me, the sound of James Taylor singing will always seem somehow wrong. His inflection is always off. His timing is always oddly rigid to me. To me, the only way to sing his songs is the way my father sang them. Slowly, clearly, sitting in the dark of the attic bedroom I shared with my older sister, with me laying in the top bunk- peering down at him.

So why has this song made me who I am? Because I'm fundamentally a family person, because nothing says "family" to me so much as a parent singing lullabies to their kids in the dark, knowing that the other parent is beyond the glowing rectangle of light that leads downstairs again. If I had to pick a song  that embodied security and safety and love, this would be it.



My family lived about five hours away from my grandparents. Every so often, we'd pile in the car and drive up to their house. One snowy night, we arrived late. My parents were exhausted, but my sisters and I- aged 3, 4, and 5- were wired. We bounced around the kitchen, ran circles through the living room, and no doubt screamed our heads off. That was when my grandfather sat down at the piano and began to play- the Moonlight Sonata's first movement.

My sisters and I curled up on the couch with my mother to listen. I watched Aunt Genocide and Aunt Something Funny drift off to sleep, but I stayed awake, rapt. It was the most amazing piece of music I had ever heard, coming from my grandparents' incredible piano. My grandfather didn't speak much, but he played music as though it were conversation. I had seen him play the guitar, the mandolin, and I had tooted on his recorder many times, but to watch his hands drift over the keys and hear the rhythmic, lilting sounds... so sad, yet so uplifting...

That's me in the foreground
Almost immediately, I began to beg for piano lessons. When I was five, I started to play. I was never very good, but I loved it. Each year I insisted I wanted to play the Moonlight Sonata, and my teachers smiled and suggested more appropriate, simple compositions- She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain, or Can You Feel the Love Tonight. When I was twelve I pressured my teacher into working on the Moonlight Sonata with me, and he caved. And then I made the tragic discovery- my hands... my hands are too small. They will always be too small. I will never make the octave two, not on a traditional piano.

I cried many bitter tears over it. I never really got over it. And once upon a time, I did learn to play the whole thing, flubbing the octave two.

But the Moonlight Sonata taught me about the dedication you need to turn passion into reality. About how cruel the world can be that some things are simply impossible, but that it doesn't diminish them. I still love the Moonlight Sonata. I have never begrudged it my stubby fingers.

Everything instilled in me about the futility of desire... that stems from the Moonlight Sonata.



It may not seem it to you now, but when I was seven years old, Oh! Darling was the epitome of rock and roll. Keep in mind, my general association with music was with James Taylor cum lullabies, school songs, and classical piano. Listening to Paul McCartney's guttural screaming fundamentally changed me. I remember spending whole afternoons standing in the living room alone, playing the song over and over and screaming as I flailed and spun in circles. I loved the way my throat felt as the words tore their way through, I loved the rawness- it excited me to giddiness. Singing along with Oh! Darling made me feel... well... like a rock star.

Oh! Darling gave me an appreciation for things that aren't pretty. That gritty and raw are good, and not only in music. My newfound appreciation for Oh! Darling surfaced around the same time as my addiction to horror stories.

Without Oh! Darling, I would never have gravitated towards the beautifully ugly. To disharmony. To the appreciation of a certain kind of pain. If anything about me is edgy, I owe that, strangely enough, to the Beatles.



I wish wish wish I could embed the official video, because for the sake of this theme, it is relevant.

I was ten years old, and my older sister had started watching MTV. I didn't get it. I didn't get Beavis and Butthead, I didn't get Nirvana (yet), I didn't get any of it. And then came... The Cranberries.

Again- I was ten. I didn't know anything about the IRA. I didn't know that there were wars happening all over the world. I was oblivious. I didn't understand half the imagery in the music video. But it spoke to me. And the next time my family went to the Green- the town commons- I followed Aunt Something Funny into the Sam Goody and I bought a cassette tape of the Cranberries, No Need to Argue.

That's me in the hat.
As you can see I was VERY cool.
I felt like an impostor. Like a fugitive. Like the guy behind the counter would see me with my cassette tape, and laugh at me, because this was rock music, not oldies, not the Beatles, not my parents collection of Beach Boys and Pink Floyd, this music was cool. Too cool for me.

But I bought the tape with my allowance, and I listened to it thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of times. When I got my first CD player, one of my first purchases was Everybody Else Is Doing It Why Can't We.

Over the next decade, my sisters made fun of every single music choice I made. Always mocking the Cranberries. And why wouldn't they? My sense of self consciousness must have been utterly palpable to them. If I felt like an impostor, I must have been one- and they were more than happy to point it out to me at any opportunity. I wasn't cool, The Cranberries were proof of that. But I never wavered. I loved them, and one day, when I was eighteen or so, my younger sister came up to me and said, "You know what? You were right- The Cranberries were a pretty awesome band. I have no idea why we gave you such a hard time about it."

Zombie was sort of my rite of passage into adolescence. Finding my own sense of identity, of what I liked and didn't like, and asserting myself- experiences fraught with self consciousness and fear- that's all tied to this song for me.




I know, right? How on earth can this be one of the most formative songs of my life? It's not- the whole score is.

I'm going to tell you a story now, and you have to understand that nothing about this is as bad as it seems.

I developed breasts early. And thoroughly. For Halloween the year I was twelve, I went as Jailbait- in a tiny cocktail dress with a sign that said "Jailbait" taped to my back. The Rocky Horror Picture Show didn't exactly scandalize me.

Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those peepers...
When I was thirteen, my parents let my sisters and me go to the midnight Halloween showing- complete with stage cast. But that night there was a problem backstage. Half the actors were in a car accident, and the director (who normally played Magenta) had walked in on her husband and a sixteen year old girl. But you know what they say, "The Show Must Go On." She saw me sitting in the front row, dressed to a T like Magenta, with my big poofy hair, beaming at her.

"You- do you know this movie?"

I'd been watching the movie religiously all week. All year. "Yes!"

"You ever been onstage before?"

"Yes!"

"Get the fuck up here."

She didn't ask me how old I was. Why would she? So I scrambled onstage, and the lights dimmed. I stripped to my underwear in the darkened backstage, where nobody seemed in the least perplexed by my presence. I put on the costumes, I improvised the blocking around the set pieces, I hardly fucked it up at all. And at the end of the show, the director walked up to me. "You want to do this again tomorrow?"

I don't think she figured out how old I was for months. But by then it was sort of too late. I'd ingratiated myself to the whole cast and crew. The Dynamic Tension stage cast became sort of my second family. We practiced our pre-show Thriller dance routine in my parents' driveway. When I needed a ride somewhere, I called my Rocky crew. We partied together, we vacationed together, we practically lived together.

These weirdos were my best friends. Some of them still are.
When I was seventeen I was in college, taking 27 credit hours. I was acting in two plays with the school- La Casa Bernarda Alba and Gypsy, I was applying to transfer to art school, and still doing Rocky.

Each night I got out of class after 7pm, went to a friend's house for rehearsal, then stayed in the basement- building set pieces and sewing what felt like thousands of red velvet corsets for the pre-show Chop Suey routine. At 5am, MASH came on TV, and while my friends watched, I slept on the couch. For two hours I slept, and then I headed back to school. It was one of the best years of my life.

I performed in Rocky every Halloween for ten years. Ten years. I was Magenta, Trixie, Janet, and once
even Frank N' Furter. I danced to Thriller, to Stay, to Chop Suey, every year. Whenever stores start laying out their back-to-school stuff, I start rehearsing the Thriller dance in my sleep.

I do a mean zombie.
I'm not sure how to describe all the parts of my personality that are what they are today because of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and my cast. My ability to shelve fear and go for it, my jaded lack of enthusiasm for drugs and alcohol, my can-do "The Show Must Go On" attitude, my inability to get ahead of things and not wait until the last possible moment... my undying love of all things theatrical and campy... my understanding of the people who so often feel neglected by society, especially. Dynamic Tension was gender neutral, some years girls played Rocky and Frank, once in a while a guy played Columbia in drag. Some years Janet was black, some years Ola Ray was white, it didn't matter. What mattered was that we loved what we were doing, and we loved each other.

Nobody cared if somebody was gay, or straight, or asexual. Nobody cared if somebody was half naked, running backstage in nothing but a g-string and pasties. For all the worry people have about exposure to sexuality being bad, I have to say... being around all sorts of different people in as free and explicit an environment as that? It fostered nothing but respect and acceptance.

Nobody ever pressured me for sex. Nobody ever made me feel less-than. Nobody ever treated me as though my body were a commodity, or a weapon. As a teenager? Hanging out with twenty five and thirty year olds in next to nothing was liberating, and judgement free.

And prancing around onstage in your underwear? It does wonders for your self esteem. I knew I would never be rail thin, I knew I would never be tall, or have long legs, or a particularly nice butt... but when you're standing onstage- rolls and all- and the audience is cheering for you, you can't help but love your body. To this day, the only person I know I need to please when it comes to my appearance is me.

I owe so much of who I am to those years, which never would have been but for Rocky. Science Fiction Double Feature will forever bring to mind the best times of my youth, and my early adulthood.

"Trixie" is the Lips, or an usherette in the stage show.
And I know it's cheesy, but maybe... just maybe... the most important thing I took away from those years I took away from the movie itself.

"Don't dream it- be it."

September 29, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 9.29.13

Hello! And welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!

There were some spectacular posts this week. Enjoy!


Scary Mommy
"The Invisible Moms Club" - Scary Mommy
You may remember once upon a time I wrote a post, a letter to Invisible Moms. I've known many, and my heart breaks for them. Most women with children don't know how to relate to the invisible moms. How to talk to them, how to treat them.  This post is a beautiful, tender explanation. From a member of the club.


"Why I Want My Kids To Read Banned Books" - Agony of the Untold Story
This week was Banned Book week! Banned Book Week is one of my favorite times of the year. I pick up some of my very favorite literature, I challenge my preconceptions and my comfortable ideas of the way I see the universe, and then I enjoy a spectacular story. This post explains the value of literature that broadens your perspective, and discusses the varied (and invariably incorrect) reasons that parents in particular pressure schools to ban books. A must read.


"Don't feel bad that I'm gone." - Letters of Note
Tuesday was Aunt Something Funny's birthday. But it was also the anniversary of Jim Henson's death. Jim Henson was a true educator, teaching not only lessons about the alphabet and numbers, but compassion, kindness, acceptance of people- monsters and birds and humans alike. But perhaps one of the greatest lessons he ever shared was grace and understanding and peace in the face of death. These are letters he wrote to his friends and children, to be delivered in the event of his death. They are beautiful.


"Children of Alcoholics" - Caffeinated Chronicles of a Supermom
Alcoholism is a disease that affects more that those who suffer from it directly. Their families, their friends... and in particular, their children. This is Sara's story, and it is worth reading.


"The Palmer Station Bar" - Antarctica. Srsly.
When he's not galavanting around North American on a motorcycle (see how I linked in his other blog here?),  my friend Brendan is in Antarctica, and some of the most amazing things about life at the bottom of the world is the dedication of the people who live there. Who work there. Who take time and resources from their own limited supply and use them to create something beautiful. This is amazing.



Renegade Mothering"A Logical Argument Against Sheltering Your Kid for Religious Purposes" - Renegade Mothering
I agree with absolutely everything said in this post. The thing about sheltering your kids is, in almost every single circumstance, it doesn't actually help them. It doesn't educate them, it doesn't protect them, and it doesn't help them cope with the world around them. Education is always preferable to intentional ignorance.


"Parenting Issues Effect Us All" - The Kopp Girls
Okay, so I didn't watch the Emmy Awards. So if it weren't for Kyle, I wouldn't have known anything about this hysterical bit of parenting humor. I adore Will Ferrel's bits with his kids, and this is definitely the best of the best. I think every parent in the world can relate. And what a fun way to get your kids to go to work with you.


"Amazing Historic Compilations of NYC Crime Scenes" - My Modern Met
This. is. so. cool.
Seriously, Marc Hermann takes old crime scene photographs from around New York (mostly Brooklyn, from what I've seen), and returns to the scene of the crime. He stages his photographs to match the angles perfectly, and then photographs the scene again. And then superimposes the original image, collages them. The result? Spectacular.


"Modeling Consent" - Disrupting Dinner Parties
This post is... wonderful. I, like may feminists, advocates, survivors, and conscientious human beings, have written a great deal about Rape Culture, about creating a culture of consent rather than engaging in rape culture. But there aren't a lot of models for how that's done. This. This is an excellent model.


"The Moment You've Been Waiting For..." - Blogger Idol
Guess what??? GUESS WHAT?????
I'm in Blogger Idol!!!!
I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you all! Now remember to get over there and vote for me every week! I promise I'll provide the links. :)

September 24, 2013

Drive Slow

One cool baby.
Jen Kehl
It's Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday again! So yes, I'm linking up again.

This week's theme is Slow Jams.

I listen to a lot of slow music. But I feel like it's not really a "slow jam" unless there's also a real beat. Unless you can jam to it.

Yes, I break my own rules. So yes, there's at least one song on this list that doesn't exactly qualify,

Yes, this is a particularly long mix tape. I couldn't help myself. Previous weeks I've held myself to ten- but this time, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to listen to more good music.

...and yes, I may in fact have put in some jams that aren't *exactly* slow. But they are all awesome.

Go ahead and jump in. I know you're dying to hear the mix tape. :)



Heavy, slow, uplifting... maybe the world's most perfect slow jam. For a while, I started every. single. day by listening to this song. And you know what? It really did make my whole day better. Try setting it as your alarm someday and see if you don't have the world's best shower.



I tried. Oh how I tried to find a video of the whole band performing this song. Pearl and the Beard- such a STELLAR band. And while Emily's solo rendition is glorious, it just can't compete with the roundness of the sound with the three part vocal harmony in the refrain. Wow. So go out and download it, even pay the band for it because they're poor, and never ever regret it.



I never lie. Well, sometimes I lie. But not about John Lennon. John Lennon was amazing, and like I said last week, goes on pretty much every mix I make. If you're not familiar with his solo work, take a moment and be wowed.



This is a band that only existed for about eight hours. Amanda Palmer (of the Dresden Dolls), Ben Folds, Damian Kulash (from OK Go), and Neil Gaiman put together a band and recorded an EP in one night. They wrote songs based on suggestions from fans. Then they made all the tracks available for would-be videographers to make their own music videos. This song is remarkably tragic, and the video is beautiful. If you're going to slow down, you might as well make it worth your while.



I love this song for all the Chicago references, I love it for the storytelling, I love it for that slow, lazy hook... I love everything about this song. And no matter how weird and self obsessed he becomes, I'll always love Kanye for being this guy.



One of the greatest songs of all time. As far as I'm concerned, this is the definitive recording. I know, I know, you love Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Fine. You're entitled to your opinion. But you're also wrong. This version is better.



I know, this song is everywhere. Sorry. But it's beautiful, and I think it's important. It would be more important if it weren't simply an ally ballad, we need LGBT voices in hip hop. We need them everywhere. But until then, we should all be grateful for voices like Macklemore's.



Let's all just sit back and smile and remember all the happy places we've been while this song has been mysteriously playing from somewhere.



Yes, this might have been the song that spawned all of Emo. But you know what? It's amazing. It's an incredible song. And I can't hear it without cranking up the volume and tearing up a bit. And unlike most of the Emo crap that started coming out post-alternative, this song actually has a message of positivity to it. Now get off my lawn.



I dare you not to slowly move to the beat. You can't help yourself. It's a biological impossibility. No matter what, you sway in your seat, tap your foot, snap, nod... you just can't help it. That's okay. It's not your fault.



It's barely slow enough to qualify, but it does. There's just something velvety and rich to everything about the sound of this song. It's another song you can't help but move to. And at the same time, slow. Including this song helped me justify leaving out "Gin and Juice." Okay, fine...



There. Moving on...



Another one that barely counts as a slow jam. Yes, I can be found most school days driving to pick up my kids from pre-K while BLASTING this song and belting it out my windows. Without shame. I will karaoke the shit out of this song. I fucking love this song.


Erykah Badu- Green Eyes

I know, it's long. I can't help myself. I gravitate towards songs that have a lot to say, and to say well. And frequently that means they're too long to be a single. And this is one of those songs that you listen to all the way through, feel let down that it had to end, and then realize how long you spent listening to it.

And to close it up...



I know, you've never heard of this band. Now you've heard of them. You're welcome.
You want a song that sums up everything that's great about the slow jam? This song does it. Because a slow jam is tasty. Anytime we mellow out.

September 23, 2013

What do you want to be when you grow up?

"Old Economy Steve" sums up a lot of life's troubles for Gen Y.
When I was a kid, there was a question I heard constantly. Every year, at least, our teachers made a production out of asking us. Our grandparents asked every visit. Our parents, our uncles and aunts, babysitters... everyone.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

When I was small, I had an answer. I wanted to be a mommy. But that wasn't good enough for my Baby Boomer teachers and parents, my Gen X babysitters. They were modern people, who refused to accept a little girl's limited understanding of gender roles. I could be anything. I could be anything I wanted to be.

When I got older, I read "Sedako and the Thousand Paper Cranes," and decided that when I grew up I wanted to cure leukemia. I wanted to put on a white coat and spend all day in a lab, looking through microscopes and testing drugs on monkeys. Then I learned more about monkeys, and I wasn't so sure I wanted to do that anymore.

So I decided I wanted to be president. I was going to go to law school, to become an organizer, to make changes in my community and country that would benefit everyone.

When I was a teenager, having the time of my life, politics and law school sounded like too much work. When people asked me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I told them if worst came to worst I could wait tables to pay for art supplies.

It wasn't really an answer. It was the most practical answer I could give. And now, I'm a stay at home parent.

I'm a Gen Y mom. A Millennial mom.

We're an odd bunch, us Gen Y mothers. As the oldest of the Generation Y crowd hit thirty, we find ourselves confronted by expectations of adulthood that don't seem to fit. We've watched Gen X grow up and cope with changing social standards, and we've hesitated.

They didn't make adulthood look very promising.

They made movies like "Reality Bites," about the illusion of adulthood and redefining personal success. They changed the standards regarding marriage and cohabitation and hyphenated last names. They embraced birth control, becoming "one and done" parents and heading back to work.

And then there's us.

Plenty of stories have been written about the Millennial's unwillingness, or inability, to grow up. About how long we live at home. About how many of us don't bother to get driver's licenses. About how apathetic we seem to be.

It's as though when everyone asked us, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" we all glibly retorted that we had a crappy job back-up plan. And we all just went ahead and focused on those.

As always, reality is more complicated.

Yes, we came of age in an economy where we had little hope of ever earning at our parents' potential.
Yes, we came of age in a society that requires us to get accredited four year degrees to qualify for jobs waiting tables and answering phones.
Yes, we go into the world loaded with debt in a time when our grandparents are still in the workforce, still occupying jobs we want, still working to save for retirement when their entire life's saving may have been lost.
And yes, we all have friends we've sent to war, friends who've never come back.

Most Gen Yers are waiting to have kids. We go to college, work, get our Master's degrees or even Ph.Ds, work, establish a career, then get married. And then start considering if it's time to have kids. And by then, we're hitting thirty- our healthiest child-bearing years already behind us.

Nobody asked us, "When you grow up, how do you want to support yourself until you finally manage to find a job that utilizes your degrees, personal skill sets, and passions?" They asked us what we wanted to be. And most of us, in the secret dark holes in our hearts, we know we're not what we wanted to be. We're baristas working through grad school. We're nannies, waiting for that teaching job to open up. We're waiting tables, using our degrees in history to strike up conversations with patrons. We're car salesmen with degrees in gender studies.

It's not what we expected. We're not what we expected.

And more importantly, our sense of stability. It's not there.

That's because stability, as we know it, doesn't exist. People don't go to school, major in something, and then start a career in that same thing, working in the same field until they retire. That isn't the way it works.

When the Baby Boomers came of age, they could get a job, advance in their career, and retire without having to learn a new trade for fifty years.

They could say, "When I grow up, I want to be an inventor." Lo and behold, they grew up and became inventors, building machines that eliminated half the industrial age jobs still lingering in post-computer America. And when they tired of that, they retired. Or suddenly lost their retirements when the banks failed and found themselves plowed under the wave of technology, fighting their kids and grandkids for jobs that could pay their bills.

Fifteen years ago, the Gen Xers turned career longevity on its head, with an average career length of seven years. Not job, career.

They could say, "When I grow up, I want to be a musician." And they couldn't really become professional musicians, most of them, but they got jobs in music. Teaching music. Writing about music. Producing music. And after a decade, they decided they wanted more stability, and they took comfortable desk jobs that somebody with a decade of work experience could do, and when they started to tire of that they started a non profit providing musical instruments to kids in Uganda.

And us Millennials, we're still asking ourselves, "What do I want to be when I grow up?"

I look at my children, kids already familiar with technologies that didn't even exist when I was a kid, and I wonder what on earth I can teach them that will apply to their own lives. Their own personal economy.

And I refuse to ask them that question.

The jobs my friends are taking now are split. Some work in whole fields that didn't exist when we were born. When our parents asked us, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" nobody could have anticipated the response, "I want to design iOS aps!" or "I want to run a GMO free vegan cupcake truck!"

And even more of my friends work jobs that we were led to believe were somehow "below us," considering our degrees. Twenty seven year olds with degrees in non profit management, waiting tables at mid to high end restaurants. Grocery store baggers with degrees in Russian Literature. Wedding photographers with degrees in World War II history. Bartenders with degrees in fine art.

And the third group, the smallest group, are those who did it. Who decided when they were barely old enough to plan ahead that they wanted to be engineers or biomedical researchers, who worked as hard as they could through high school, made it into good colleges, and then got themselves advanced degrees in their field, and eked out a job in that field. And those Gen Yers are few and far between. Those are also pretty much the only Gen Yers with job related benefits- 401Ks, health insurance, vacation time.

Most of us are wandering around, looking at our lives and asking ourselves, "Is this is? Are we adults now?"

There is no, "What do you want to be?" There is only, "What are you doing now?"

And so I'm not going to ask my kids. I'm not going to imply that there's an end result- that there's a final destination at which you have arrived, when you have grown up and are what you thought you wanted to be.

I'm going to ask my kids what they like. What they're interested in.

I'm not going to tell them that it matters what they get their degrees in. I'm going to tell them that opportunity is what you make of it, that your life is defined by your actions, and that whatever you're prepared for will be another door that can open for you.

I'm going to encourage them to study everything. Science, math, humanities, fine arts, business, languages. I'm going to encourage them to be Renaissance women, because there is no assurance that any jobs I know today, any careers, will still exist.

By the time they're ready for college, there will no doubt be online-only schools with as much academic prestige as the Big Ten.

By the time they're ready to take their first job, there will no doubt be position titles like "Interstate OS interface manager," or "Insulin chip system administrator."

I have no idea what the length of those careers will be. I have no idea how lucrative they'll be, how much stability they'll have.

I have no idea if when my kids are my age, it makes any sense for them to start families. Or if, like me, they will chose to have children when they're younger, to gamble on insecurity.

But I do know that this question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" didn't do me any favors. It didn't do any favors for my friends who became sommeliers, who started up cooking magazines, or who bake cakes from rented kitchen-shares.

This is a new economy, filled with temporary jobs and service jobs and thirty year olds who play video games instead board games with their friends.

"What do you want to be?"

We want to be happy. We want to be secure. We want to be confident that there will be food on our tables and a roof over our heads and service on our phones.

Everything else needs a new set of questions.

September 22, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 9.22.13

Hello! And welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!

It was another fantastic week in the blogosphere. I'd tell you all about it, but then I'd be taking valuable reading time from you instead of letting you get to these spectacular pieces.

Enjoy!


"Our Land- The Water Lily" - Finding Ninee
Frequently when we hear stories about special needs kids, because they're special needs kids, it's sad things. Bullying, abuse, a lack of intervention, lack of access to care, unanswered questions. A guest post from the Tao of Poop gives us a different kind of story. This is a story about the many facets of a single label, and what happens when all children are given the opportunity to grow.


"Dear parents, you need to control your kids. Sincerely, non parents." - The Matt Walsh Blog
This is not a letter to parents from non-parents. This is a letter to a single guy, who insulted a mom in the grocery store with a screaming kid. This is a love letter to that mom. This is an anthem. This is the pat-on-the-back I need whenever being a good parent trumps being quiet. Bravo.


"Quiet is Good" - Fortuitous Sometimes, quiet is good. But not the quiet that tells you your kids are painting your living room with nail polish. The quiet where you exist together, peacefully, enjoying the day or the company or just... quiet. A lovely break from the rest of life.


"Bed Time Poem" - Ask Your Dad Normally, I am not a huge fan of this kind of thing. I started reading it, and I was all ready to just post him the link to "Go The Fuck To Sleep," when it took a turn. As parenting so often does. It's not so much a bed time poem as it is a plea for understanding from parents and children alike. And a reminder that with little kids, it's moment to moment. Some are good, some are bad, some are easy, and some aren't. Lovely.


Mommy Needs A Martini!"Character Assassination Carnival: The Very Hungry Caterpillar" - Mommy Needs a Martini
As anyone who's spent a lot of time with small children knows, sometimes you read a book one too many times. And sometimes, no matter how fond your associations with it, you want to throw it out the window. And sometimes, those books are ripe with comedy gold.


"Dan and Matt and a Woman Friend" - Theresa Basile
This is an old friend of mine from way back in the day. She's a comedy writer, among other things, and now she's writing for this web series that you DEFINITELY should watch. Being a feminist blogger (as I said, other things), she was a perfect candidate to describe whether or not the Dan and Matt Show is a feminist show. And who says feminists don't have a sense of humor?


"At Least Albert Finney Doesn't Mention His 'Rocks'" - 649.133
Along with those books that we love but love to tear apart, there's those movies. I love Annie. I love that my kids love Annie. And yeah, there are some huge freaking racist problems with Annie. But there are also so many spectacular jokes in there for us, the adults. My personal favorite is Bernadette Peters asking what Carol Burnett is "incinerating" and then looking hard done by as Burnett removes her string of pearls from Peters' cleavage.


"Sticks and Stones Aren't Shit Compared to Words" - Writer B Is Me
This. When I was a teenager, I also got messages about my body everywhere. Not so much from my mother, but I assumed that she was oblivious, or somehow stupid, not to notice how fat we all were. Here's the thing, we weren't fat. We were just never skinny. While my older sister jumped in and out of anorexia, shedding dozens of pounds and packing them back on, I silently stared at myself in the mirror, hating what I saw. And every word cut.


"You Must Not Worry About Santa" - Letters of Note
This letter is one of the most adorable things ever. A little girl heard that the Russians were going to test nuclear bombs at the north pole, and she panicked, writing a sweet letter to President John F. Kennedy. And he wrote her back.


"Watching the Waves" - Daddy Knows Less
More on the subject of quiet, and then not. DKL has written quite a bit about the Jersey Shore, and there have been plenty of things to write about lately. This is a lovely story about his grandfather, and learning to appreciate the things that are both free and eternal.


"Gush" - Finally Mom Normally, I don't really post links to other people writing about how spectacular their kids are. Normally, I figure that's the kind of thing that we mostly keep to ourselves, to our own blogs, to our own lives. But this was just too sweet, too tender, and too honest not to share.


"Boys" - Mamalode
Jenni Chu  shares this pearl with us, about rape culture and raising boys. This is the story of something horrific, and rare- a home invasion sexual assault. But that's only a brief interlude, because this is a story about something we all need to consider, that we can all relate to. The way we raise children, and the way we were raised. This is rape culture. This is what we can fix with our children.


"Antarctica. Srsly." - Antarctica. Srsly
My friend Brendan is back on the ice. And his photographs are WONDERFUL. So if you want to take a few breaks from your autumn and remind yourself that you're not really cold, go look at his spectacular shots of ice floes, penguins, seals, and science station hijinks.

September 20, 2013

My Daddy Snores, and Other Avoidable Bedtime Catastrophes

DD and SI testing out mattresses
(This is a sponsored post. I was given the book I review, but all of the opinions are my own.)

You probably don't know this, but sleep health is sort of a pet issue of mine. From the time I was about eight and a half until well into my adulthood, I suffered from severe insomnia.

And I mean SEVERE insomnia.

By the time I was ten my mother essentially gave up on forcing me to go to sleep. Eventually, she tucked me in on the couch, handed me a collection of Ray Bradbury short stories, and poured me a shot of Peach Schnapps that she directed me to, "Sip slowly." Which I did.

I think her intention was to relax me and ease me into sleep. Sadly, it didn't work.

I completely covered the wall at 16
By the time I was in high school, I had a nighttime routine. I'd lay in bed for about an hour, listening to quiet music and meditating (my father's attempts to help had been guided meditation techniques). After my CD had ended, I'd lie in the dark feeling frustrated. Then I'd get up and ransack every recycling basket in the house for magazines, catalogs, and newspapers, and cut every single eye out and tape it to my wall.

Creepy? Sure. I'm not making excuses.

After that, I'd lay down again, and switch CDs. Sometimes, I managed to fall asleep. When I didn't, I'd put on my shoes and sneak out of the house. I'd wander around the neighborhood, pilfering roses from the house at Ferdon and Granger, and leaving them on my friends' doorsteps. I walked past the frat houses, through the quiet downtown, swing on the swings at Burns Park Elementary School...

And when the sky started to get that hazy, pre-dawn look to it, I'd walk home, climb into bed, and fall asleep. Just in time to be shaken awake for school the next day.

I tell you all of this because I GET IT- sleep is important. It might sound like I was having a blast, but I suffered through my insomnia. Not sleeping? That's a big deal. Not sleeping well? It's almost as bad. Sometimes, it's worse.

A few weeks ago, I was lucky to attend a Sleepy's event, with Nancy Rothstein, Sleep Ambassador and author of "My Daddy Snores."

Nancy Rothstein has written a children's book about the importance of sleep. More importantly, she's likable book about the importance of sleep. My kids LOVE this book.
written a funny, engaging,

It's a silly tale of woe- poor Mommy can't get any sleep because Daddy snores. The illustrations are
adorable. And eventually, Mommy has HAD IT and takes Daddy to the doctor- and the doctor cures Daddy of snoring.

There are three, yes three, incredibly effective takeaways for kids from this short picture book.

1. Snoring is a curable condition, and going to a doctor can make it stop. This is great- kids have no filter, and the admonition of children is a HUGE motivator for adults. I might not be able to approach my father in law and say, "You should really see a doctor about that snoring," but my kids sure can. Because kids are awesome at just saying things like they are, as they see it.


Bouncing on beds with balloons
2. Sleep, healthy sleep, is important. It's worth fighting for, it's worth working for, and it is its own reward.

3. Going to see the doctor when something isn't quite right about your body is okay. This is a big problem in our society- this machismo regarding our health. Unless we're bleeding out of our ears, we don't want to see a doctor.

My kids love this book- and they play-act around it regularly.

"Mommy! This picture is of Johnny the Spider! His daddy snores! His daddy snores SO LOUD! They need to go to a doctor so everyone can sleep!"

It's pretty cute.

So Ms. Rothstein, the Sleep Ambassador, handed out a few spectacular tips for improving your night's sleep.

1. Turn off your devices. The light emitted by televisions, computer monitors, your phone, your kindle... those are are blue spectrum lights. Those are lights that confuse your brain about the time of day and throw off your circadian rhythm. The only color light that doesn't? Red. Which is bad news if you don't particularly like sleeping in a dark room, but great news if your kids are obsessed with pink and want a pink nightlight. That pink nightlight will be less disruptive to their sleep than a white or blue light.

2. Almond milk! That old wives tale about a glass of milk? Not so great for sleeping, as it turns out. But almonds are loaded with compounds, like theanine, that aid sleep. So replacing a pre-bedtime glass of milk with almond milk? I've been doing this at home and I can tell you- it works.

3. Bedtime music. Some music keeps you awake, and some helps you sleep. So what helps you sleep? Sounds that are somewhat unfamiliar. When your brain starts falling into familiar patterns, it wants to complete them- keeping it awake. But unfamiliar sounds... I think this is why so many lullabies are written in minor keys. We tend to associate so much of music (particularly kids' music) with major keys- those minor tones can sound discordant. And that's good- that will help them sleep. So cue up the creepy lullabies- they're better for bedtime than Twinkle Twinkle!

Baby on the move!
4. Yoga! Doing yoga before bed relaxes your mind and body, making it easier for your mind to make the transition. There is so much literature that opposes working out before bed, and there's a lot to it, but a simple, relaxing yoga routine before hitting the hay can help make the transition to unconsciousness a lot easier.

5. Consistency! It might seem like the number on the clock isn't that important, but it is. A rigid routine has lasting effects- it's almost Pavlovian. So make sure you start your bedtime routine at the same time every night.

6. Last but not least, your mattress. Ms. Rothstein pointed out that we spend a full third of our lives sleeping. So why would you choose to spend all of that time on a mattress that didn't help you sleep? People balk at dropping a few thousand dollars on a mattress (I am still balking), but she's right- you really can't put a price on high quality sleep. I could spend $2,500 on a good mattress that would keep me sleeping better for ten years, or I could spend $100 a month on the xanax that frequently helps me get to sleep, for a total of $12,000 over the same time period. That's a pretty simple cost/ benefit analysis.


With all that said, I have definitely started bugging my husband about the quality of our mattress- which is more than ten years old, crushed on one side, and has NEVER been terribly comfortable for me. So that's definitely happening in the not too distant future.

And I am taking the bedtime routine for my kids more seriously. I know the long-term consequences of poor sleep personally, and if I can help my kids avoid them?

Awesome.

September 18, 2013

Covers

How we roll at Casa SuperMommy
Jen KehlI'm linking up with Twisted Mixtape Tuesday again! (And yes, I know it's Wednesday, sorry.)

This week's theme is a free-for-all, so I'm going with one of my all time favorite themes... covers.

I freakin' LOVE a good cover. Hearing a song I know and adore reimagined and recreated. If it's a good cover, you take away something new about a song you've always loved.

What's more, a cover is a good way to introduce somebody to TWO artists you love. Win!

Here we go...



First up on the mix tape, Ani DiFranco covering Woody Guthrie.

I love Woody Guthrie. And I love Ani Difranco. And I love her delivery, which makes the content feel... modern. The themes of the depression are completely relatable these days, but it's easy to shrug off ballads with that scratchy, ancient vinyl sound. Not so Ani, rocking the guitar.


Sarah Jarosz, covering Radiohead.

I LOVE Radiohead. I really, really, really do. And I HATE pop country music. But I love roots country- bluegrass and folk, storytelling and music making stripped down. Play me a song by some would-be cowboy, crooning about beer and trucks, and I'll roll my eyes and cover my ears. Play me some slide guitar or banjo without the bells and whistles? I'm all yours.


Next up, Richard Cheese covering The Offspring.

I know, this seems totally out of place. The Offspring is practically a joke band, and Richard Cheese is EXPLICITLY a joke band. He does lounge covers of rock songs, and it's hilarious. Except for this song. This is amazing. Come Out And Play deals with real issues, and in a haunting way. But the original presentation hides the content. This slowing down, wailing... when Richard Cheese howls, "Tie your own rope," it gives me shivers. Spectacular.


Christina Aguilera, covering John Lennon.

It's a pet peeve of mine that the only things people think of related to John Lennon's solo career are "Imagine," and Yoko Ono. Have we completely forgotten that the man, as an individual, ROCKED? Seriously, I'm guilty of putting John Lennon solo tracks on nearly every mix I hand out. I barely restrained myself from putting "Grow Old With Me" on the last list. But this cover... Christina Aguilera has a VOICE. I've always lamented that she had way too much talent to sing the bulk of the songs she does. She has to rely on excessive runs to make up for the fact that, content wise, most of the songs suck. Science fact. But this? This is a masterpiece. And the performance is masterful. While John Lennon performed it as a primal scream, Christina belts this like a freaking siren. If you're feeling lazy and don't want to hear the whole song, skip ahead to 3:45. And then get chills for the next ten minutes just thinking about it.


Let's bring it back up with Cake, covering Diana Ross.

I have a soft spot for dance music. For vapid, mindless, booty shaking dance music. And there are a few dance songs out there that you can dance and sing to all day without shame. I Will Survive is one of them. And Cake rocks it. In their understated, Indie kind of way.


While we're keeping it upbeat, Stevie Nicks covering Etta James.

This song was part of a live benefit for the Thoreau Foundation. All amazing female artists, performing jazz and blues standards. Sheryl Crow singing Billie Holiday, Joni Mitchell doing Dinah Washington... but the best of all is Stevie singing this song. A.maze.ing.


Bringing it down again with Johnny Cash, covering Nine Inch Nails.

There are a few occasions where a cover completely eclipses the original. Jimi Hendrix's cover of All Along The Watchtower (yeah, that was a Bob Dylan song!). The Animal's cover of House of the Rising Sun (it's a Nina Simone song- ever wonder why a whore house would claim a poor boy's soul? No- poor girl. Makes more sense now, doesn't it?). This is another one of those masterful reimaginings.


Next up, Rasputina covering Led Zeppelin.

Rasputina is a rock trio of cellists. Yes, cellists. So what happens when you put what might be THE most iconic rock song of all time? Magic.


While we're talking magic, this is the Blue Man Group featuring Esthero, covering Jefferson Airplane.

Esthero? Is incredible. Take a listen, and then to look up her song "Nearly Civilized." She's amazing. And Grace Slick is a tough act to live up to. This performance is absolutely spectacular.


And let's finish up on a high note. Chris Cornell covering Michael Jackson.

For all the reason.

September 15, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 9.15.13

Hello, and welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!


I'm so sorry for the last few weeks of hiatus. I've been ill, and I know that's no excuse. So I'll make it up to you with one of the most epic Blogarounds ever.

Seriously- this week was amazing. I don't mean for me personally, I mean in terms of exceptional writing around the blogosphere. I hope you've got a free hour or two and a box of kleenex handy.

Enjoy!




"Doing Grief" - The Spin Cycle
The Spin Cyclist, aka the Desperate Housemommy, aka Sue, is an amazing writer. I've been a huge fan for a long time, since before her last blogging break. And I completely understand her need to take a break now. Please read this piece about grief, and survival, and compassion, and take a moment to remember the joy of having the people you love in your life.


"The Day I Hit Publish" - The Caffeinated Chronicles of a Supermom
I include this post especially because this week was Global Suicide Prevention Week. I think it's desperately important for those who suffer from depression, even occasionally, to know it's okay to ask for help. To know there are people out there who care, and to know that there is always another way to live.


"Monsoon Season" - Three By Thirty
What starts as an apology for a blogging absence grows into something much more profound- a confession about depression. It can be so difficult as a mom to acknowledge depression. You're supposed to be happy with all your life choices, all your children, your husband, your role either at home or at work. If you suffer from mental illness, suddenly it's "your fault," as though you have any sort of control over your brain's chemical structures. This is not just an insight into depression. Read it carefully, it's an insight into an unwarranted shame shared by everyone who has ever suffered through it.


Fine and Fair"Dear Judgey McJudgerson" - Fine and Fair
I've been reading Joella's blog for a long time as well. She's always honest, and I love that about her. She writes about a kind of lifestyle I understand, I totally get her priorities and passions. She's great. And this post knocks it out of the park. Screw judgement. Take a strong dose of Joella's snark and check your judgmental baggage at the door. Bravo.


"Untitled" - Urban Moo Cow
Another blogger I simply adore. Urban Moo Cow's recollections of September 11th, 2001, paralleled with her experience today- still a New Yorker, with a son too young to understand, with no comprehension of the day that permanently changed not only the skyline but something profound about the nature of New York City and New Yorkers. A wonderful piece.


"Moms shouldn't let other Moms Slut-Shame" - Agony of the Untold Story
A couple weeks ago a letter made its rounds online. From the mom of a bunch of boys to anonymous teenage girls, telling them they were banned from interacting with her sons online unless they stopped dressing in such a way as to distract her sons from their purity. (I'm sorry, just writing that had me rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth.) There have been lots of great responses. This is a fairly comprehensive one. Let's abandon the slut double standard.


"I Don't Know Who I'm Crying For" - Finding Ninee
This week, Kelli Stapleton, a Michigan mom blogger and autism mom blogger, attempted to kill herself and her fourteen year old autistic daughter. Kelli survived and is being held in jail, but her daughter is still in the hospital, and will likely suffer permanent brain damage. Kristi writes here about her haze of conflicting emotions in the wake of this tragedy, as a mom, as someone who sort of knew Kelli, and as the mother of a child with autism.


"Father/Daughter 1994" - Julie's Odyssey
During Suicide Prevention Week, Julie Farley writes about her father's battle with suicidal depression. This brief post packs an enormous punch. Not just in the brief, haunting entries from her father's journal, but also with her observations about her own total lack of awareness of his condition. It's so true that often the people closest to a victim of depression are completely unaware. Definitely worth a few minutes of your time.


"The Ebb and Flow of Friendship" - Eubanks Eutopia
Jeanine's neighbors are moving away. I love this piece about it, about the nature of friendship and the importance of embracing it. My best friends have nearly always lived far away, I was a letter writer. I still have stacks and stacks of letters from my best friends, and now a facebook newsfeed full of people who I both love and never, ever see. And these are difficult lessons for children, who so often cannot comprehend the importance of the unseen. Beautifully put.


PenPaperPad"Lost Inside A Paper Bag" - Pen Paper Pad
A poem about alcoholism and addiction, and dreams. Addiction and recovery seemed to be a bit of a theme this week around the blogosphere, and that it coincides with Suicide Prevention Week speaks volumes of the connection between the self destructive urges of addiction and those of suicidal depression.


"I Could Tell You My Story" - Renegade Mothering
Jannelle is an alcoholic. I've seen her read her work live, and it's incredible, so I feel sorry that I had to miss her reading it live for the Listen To Your Mother addiction event. But this story is worth reading. It's moving and tragic and so real. I've never struggled with addiction, but I've watched those I love share a story that could almost be this story. Almost, but not quite.


"A New Year & I'm Already Screwing Up" - Kveller
I didn't have the best Yom Kippur. I didn't dip a single apple in honey. I didn't hear the shofar. Actually, typing that out made me tear up. Instead, I lay in bed, went back and forth from my house to the hospital, and my Lutheran mother-in-law drove to town to take care of my family. I am also already screwing up 5774. And I also want to do better.


Scary Mommy
"Magic" - Scary Mommy
Yes, I wrote this piece. And yes, it originally appeared in this very blog. But you should still go and read it and enjoy it. Because it's the sort of thing that you might need after reading a lot of heaviness. I'm pretty sure that's whey the Scary Mommy wanted to post it on 9/11.


"Captain America in a Turban" - Salon.com
On September eleventh, every year, Americans both lower their flags to half mast and wave them around. We take pride in our American-ness, and somberly reflect on our human vulnerability. And invariably, the image of an iconic "American Patriot" pops up over and over again. White. Christian. Usually rural. This American patriot moved me more than I can say. America is the land of the melting pot, but more. It's the land of Stone Soup, where the whole is made through the contributions of the many, whoever they are and whatever their backgrounds.


"Aspiring Voices: Lea Grover" - Iron Soap
I know, it's me again. But I LOVED doing this interview. It's not about my children (although yes, they're in there). It's about writing, and how I write, and why I write. So if you have any interest in that, please do stop over and check it out.


...and while we're on the subject of me, please go to the Blogger Idol Facebook Page and let them know you want me to be in this year's top twelve! Tweet them that you love me and want me to knock their socks off! Basically, harass them until the judges all throw their hands in the air and surrender to pure Becoming SuperMommy awesomeness. I believe in you- now all you have to do is believe in me! It's like we're all fairies! Thank you so much.

September 13, 2013

Kiss

My littlest little
I'm sorry about how little I've been blogging lately. I've been very ill. I've been spending a lot of time laying down, in and out of doctor's offices and the ER, I had a CAT scan and a super awesome allergic reaction to the IV contrast. I've kind of been a wreck. And everywhere I go I try to be cheerful, share stories with people. A woman in the ER a few weeks ago was there with her best friend of thirty years. They became alcoholics together and then got clean together, and her friend had attempted suicide. I met an amazing nurse who took my blood, she had started in end of life care. She built a bond so strong with one woman that her daughter asked her to quit her job and work full time for them, taking care of her mom until she passed on, and she did. This nurse worked for that woman for two years, and when the woman finally died, she had to quit elder care completely. She cried while she told me the story.

But this isn't a blog post about what's been going on with me. This is a blog post about my youngest and HER health issues.

I have, since my first months of motherhood, been blessed with easy children. DD and SI were a breeze, all things considered. There might have been two of them, but they slept through the night, ate well, grew quickly, and then became incredibly well behaved toddlers. And now, children.

RH was also an easy baby. She slept through the night early. Putting her down for a nap is a breeze. You put her in her crib, hand her frog to her, and leave her there. Done.

But she has this developmental delay. She doesn't walk.

I know, I know, a fifteen month old who doesn't walk, what's the big deal?

The big deal is something known as soft indicators. RH had half a dozen soft indicators that there was something wrong, perhaps very wrong, but that by themselves probably meant nothing at all.

At three months old, she stopped putting weight on her legs. In fact, she would scream and cry if you tried to force her to use her legs pretty much at all.
She got constipated frequently.
She started showing a distinct preference for one hand over the other.
She wouldn't crawl.
She developed fine motor and verbal skills extremely early.
And her father is a survivor of a pediatric neurological cancer.

So, six indicators. Each one all by itself meant nothing. All together, they could mean... something.

But RH is an incredibly delightful child. She's social, she's outgoing, adventurous even. She loves people, she has no fear of strangers. A little suspicion, perhaps, but despite her age she's still happy to play "pass the baby" any time or place.

Chilling with the bride at That Redhead's wedding
It's hard to imagine there might be something wrong when she's so obviously thriving in nearly every way, but her doctor eventually referred her to neurologist.

The weekend before her appointment she finally started crawling. I was relieved beyond description. I was ecstatic.

And then I met her neurologist, who instantly calmed all my fears regarding M's brain cancer and heredity, but suggested another probably cause. A tethered spinal cord.

You may not have heard of this, but I actually had. I've been following the blog of a woman with a daughter DD and SI's age since... almost since they were born. And her daughter has a tethered cord. I've read along through her surgery to correct it, through her battles with catheterization and potty training and simply trying to lead a normal life. And it's rough.

So of course I freaked out. Just a little bit. And the neurologist scheduled my then ten month old baby for an MRI. While she was unconscious, they also did an elaborate study of her blood, and her urine. The silver lining there was that she was asleep for the blood draw.

It was awful. Poor little RH woke up from her sedation more upset than I had ever seen a child of mine. Not when DD sliced her hands open, not when she nearly knocked her eye out on a coffee table. And as she had weaned herself three days earlier, there was pretty much nothing I could do. Her face was red and irritated from where they'd taped her oxygen mask. Her tiny arms were covered in bruises from her IV and blood draws. Her legs were raw from the adhesive that attached the bag to collect her urine. She was naked and in pain and confused, and I held her and rocked her and wept, wishing that she had waited only three more days to wean, so that at the very least I could soothe her with food. Eventually, she accepted a bottle of formula, and calmed down enough for me to dress her and take her home.

When the neurologist called back she told me they hadn't found anything on the MRI. That was good, on the one hand. But on the other hand, she said, some things just weren't clear enough to see anyway. The bad news was that her bloodwork and urine didn't come back exactly normal, which also might not mean anything. The neurologist decided that RH needed physical therapy twice a week, and to go back in three months. And if she still wasn't walking, we'd have to repeat the MRI.

I did not want to repeat the MRI.

It took two months to get RH into twice weekly physical therapy. But she responded well, and
immediately. Her therapist adores her.

The third month came, and I postponed our return visit to the neurologist for as long as I could. Because she still wasn't walking, and I was terrified of what would happen if I had to get her another MRI.

One cool kid.
But the visit back to the neurologist was important. It's better to know than not know, I told myself. And again, RH threw me a bone. Three days before her return visit, she started cruising.

And cruising, as it turns out, was enough to rule out a spinal cord tether.

...but not everything. Her neurologist wanted her to repeat her blood and urine labs.

And so, I took my baby to the hospital to have her labs repeated.

I woke up the kids for school. I made them all breakfast, and all three ate happily. Then RH and I dropped off her big sisters for their third whole day of preschool, and I took her to get her blood drawn.

First there was the wait, nearly an hour. Waiting in the hospital always makes me miserable, so I talked to my mother. My mother told me they would probably take the baby away from me and do the blood test without me in the room, so that was good, because I was going to be the more traumatized party.

What I didn't tell her was how whole heartedly I disagree.

You see, my earliest memory is of a blood draw. Until I shared this memory with my mother as an adult, I had believed it was an eye exam. It is my very earliest memory, and in it I am RH's age. About fifteen months old. I am strapped to a blue, baby shaped board, and screaming as the door closes.

I can see my mother's face before the door closes. It's young, thin. Her glasses are huge, and seem dark. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She's smiling at me.

And I'm screaming.

It's my earliest memory. I know precisely how traumatizing it can be to be taken away from your mother for something terrifying, like a blood draw.

But lucky me, the phlebotomist wanted me to come in and hold onto her. He looked about twenty two, and had obviously never drawn blood from a child before, let alone one less than two years old.

I held onto her, and as he puts on the tourniquet she began to scream.

She screamed and cried and I held her tight, singing softly into her ear as he prepared to insert the needle.

And he poked it through the skin on her tiny, unnaturally strong arm, and she wailed and sobbed. And I kept cooing to her, and the nurse muttered under his breath and he tried to gently poke the needle into her vein. But he couldn't find it. So he kept poking, and poking, and I kept cooing. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. It's okay. It's okay..." For two solid minutes.

And then the door opened and two new faces appeared- two older nurses. And he gratefully withdrew the needle and left the room. I reached up and found my whole face covered in tears. I didn't even know I'd been crying.

The second of those new faces was the woman who took my blood a week ago, the former hospice nurse. She smiled at me and apologized for not getting there sooner. She'd seen me in the waiting room and had tried to step in to help with the baby, but the young guy was a newbie- a go-getter. She didn't want to discourage him, and she felt awful about it.

RH says "Cheese!" for the camera
I held RH and wept into her hair, again telling her it would all be okay, while another nurse held RH's arm steady, and my friend the former hospice nurse inserted the needle. She got a vein on the first go, but still it takes a while to fill three vials of blood from somebody so tiny. I held her on my lap as tightly as I could, but sitting behind her she couldn't see me. She whipped her head around, screaming, "Mama! Mama! Mama!"

When she finished I clung to RH and rocked her, pacing around the tiny room. The first nurse came in, looking mortified. He wasn't sure he'd gotten the order right, and they might have missed a vial. I waited, pacing with RH as she cried. My friend the former hospice nurse brought RH some apple juice, and she chugged it down, calming at each gulp. She learned a new word at that moment, and began repeating it over and over again. "Kiss," she'd say, and lean towards my face. I kissed her each time, and she dropped her weary head on my shoulder, her breath heaving. Then she'd look up at me and say it again, "Kiss."

Another twenty minutes later they finally confirmed the order, and we were allowed to go without another blood draw. I was already running late to collect the girls from preschool again.

Watching your children in pain is a nightmare.

Believe, me, I know how relatively minor all of this was. I know that there is a real difference between a terrible phlebotomist and a broken limb, or surgery recovery, or gunshot wounds. I know that RH wasn't really hurt, that she will carry no physical scars. That she probably won't even remember it. Probably.

But there's nothing that can make the hurt better as a parent. Nothing that can ease the agony of seeing your child hurting, seeing them terrified, and being helpless to rescue them from it. Or knowing that you are complicit in it.

I think about parents who have children with severe health concerns. Children with cancer, children who suffer through car accidents, children in war zones.

I am grateful that RH's pain was so small a burden to bear.

I can't help but know that, someday, a greater pain will inevitably come.

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