Advice

When I started this blog, nearly four years ago, I thought I would dispense advice about parenting. I figured, I'm a rational, even keeled lady. I knew I would never be the sort of person who had Pinterest-Perfect birthday parties or hosted tablescaped dinner parties. (I've actually surprised myself quite a bit in that respect.)

I was completely wrong.

I know nothing about parenting. And every time another thing goes wrong, I'm more and more certain that I know nothing about parenting.

I know plenty about being a parent, sure. But when it comes to advice?

I only have one thing to offer.

Purple oatmeal.

No matter how exhausted you are, how sick you are, how disrupted your routine, how much chaos in your life...

No matter what, you can make purple oatmeal. And you know what? It's a lifesaver.

Nobody tells you when you're pregnant that there will be days where you've got one kid with diarrhea and one with an ear infection, where you've probably broken your foot tripping over a tiny wooden chair while carrying a thirty pound toddler, and you've got to figure out whether or not it's worth it to get yourself to a doctor without a sitter.

Nobody tells you that there will be days when you just couldn't drag yourself out of bed early enough to make scrambled eggs and pancakes, as requested, and you've only got ten minutes for the kids to eat before you have to bring them to school.

Nobody tells you that you need a back pocket full of tricks that will only work for only one child, and only a couple of times, because sometimes that's all you need.

Instead, you get advice.

"Take help when people offer it."
"Let the floor go unswept- they're only babies for a short while."
"Enjoy every minute."
"Nap when they nap. Sleep when they sleep."
"Take time for you."
"Cherish it."
"Don't forget to laugh."
"Spare the rod, spoil the child."

It comes from every corner, from everywhere. "Parenting advice." And nine times out of ten, it's just added to the heap of clutter in your head making you feel guilty, or ineffective, or insufficient to the needs of your family.

But no matter what else happens, you can make purple oatmeal.

Boil 3.25 cups of water. Add two cups of quick oats. Stir occasionally for about six minutes. Add 1.5 tablespoons of brown sugar. Add 2.5 cups of frozen blueberries.

As the blueberries thaw (and they will in less than thirty seconds) they cool the oatmeal. The moment it's done, the kids can eat it. You don't have to wait for it to cool. You don't have to worry they won't like it. You don't have to worry about a thing. Just make purple oatmeal, put it in bowls, and give the kids their spoons.

And no matter what else is happening, at least they're all eating, and they're happy.

This is the sum total of my advice as a parent.

This is all I've got.

Next time a friend tells me with joy and fear and excitement that they're going to have a baby, I won't tell them how they'll be overwhelmed with every feeling a human can feel more often than they can possibly imagine.

I won't tell them to remember the precious moments, or to learn to take quick cold showers, I won't lecture them about a "heart outside your body," or the ever present fear that comes with the love, or how all encompassing, life changing, and life affirming that love can be.

"Make sure there's always room in the freezer for blueberries," I'll say.

"You're going to be just fine."

Let's Talk About Beds, Baby

You probably have one of these.

Nearly thirty years ago now, I was born human. And being human has some drawbacks. One of those is the required ownership of a human spine.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but these guys are seriously flawed. I mean, don't get me wrong. They're amazing. Without them, we wouldn't be able to accomplish about 99.9% of all the spectacular achievements of humanity. But they have a laundry list of problems.

At the top of that list is pain. Standard, run-of-the-mill back pain. It sucks, and nearly everybody's going to get it at some point. Why? Because you have one of these things, and you're going to use it to sit or stand for a couple of decades without taking a nice, antigravity break.

For some of us, the problems come sooner than later. I was blessed/cursed with what my favorite bra website refers to as an "ample bosom" at an early age. By the time I was fifteen, I started needing to see doctors to help me take care of this spine of mine and the incessant pain it caused me. Add to that a couple injuries, a few pregnancies, and then the perils of running around your house constantly while hunched down to about three feet high to chase and communicate with miniature people... well...

Suffice to say, my spine and I have a strained relationship.

I've done an amazing number of things to combat my back pain, which is a combination of standard lumbar pain (that's your lower back), more complex thoracic pain (thank you big boobs), and trauma-induced cervical pain (that's my neck- not my lady business). I've got two chiropractors on speed dial, a favorite acupuncturist, a long list of preferred yoga routines (depending on the area giving me trouble), an equally long list of strength building exercises for the muscles in those areas, running prescriptions for Vicodan and Flexeril (taken judiciously), a massage therapist who knows more about what's going on in my life than my parents... you get the idea.

My kids think Sleepy's is the best place ever.

And starting about four months ago, we got a new mattress.

Let's hold on a second- four months ago? I got the thing four months ago, and I'm only going to tell you all about it NOW? What's wrong with me? What kind of awful blogger am I?

A thoroughly awful one. And by that, I mean I'm thorough.

Let me tell you a little about how my lifestyle has changed in the past four months.

I am back-pain-free about 70% of the time.

That might not sound like a lot to you, but let me tell you, it is HUGE. I've gone from seeing a chiropractor 1-2 times a week to seeing a chiropractor once every other month. (I'll just let you imagine how those savings add up- don't forget to factor in childcare for chiro appointments.) I've refilled my Flexeril prescription once in that time span. Only once. I haven't had any acupuncture. I've (sadly) only had two massages.

In the last third of a year, I've probably saved in pain management about a third of the cost of my brand new mattress.

It kind of blows my mind that we can't use our HSA to pay for the mattress, it's been such a health boon to me.

But not just to me. And not just the mattress.

The Sleepy's guy who sold us our mattress didn't just sell us a mattress. And at no point did he try to up-sell us a mattress. He walked us through the store, helping M and I test the various elements of each model- learning about the different parts of a newfangled mattress (ours is a coil based system, but has a band of memory foam type material running through in a band to provide a little additional lumbar support). He helped us find something that helped me and my bazillion times larger husband sleep more comfortably.

He did more than THAT though, too. He helped us pick out new pillows. Pillows that actually fit our necks, and our sleeping styles. Who knew that could actually make such a big difference?

And I was going to write about it then, but I couldn't. Because I really didn't know how I felt about it yet. I didn't know how I felt about a bed that was a full foot higher than the one I was used to. M didn't know how he felt about a bed that was tall enough that the edges actually needed to support his weight when he sat down. And it's hard to tell after just a few weeks whether or not you're really feeling any better about it.

I actually need a step stool to get into bed.

Sleepy's gave us a money back, no questions asked guarantee, and we almost took them up on it.
Almost. Because you really do have to LEARN how to sleep on a different bed every night. It's weird- you'd think it's as simple as just laying down and sleeping, but it's not.

Now, most mornings when I wake up, my hands ache and cramp, but my back? Feels just fine. I wake up without back pain. That's totally new to me.

M sleeps through the whole night most nights, whereas he used to toss and turn. And we've gotten used to it. Even after I got us a new bed frame, one that was EVEN TALLER, we're still happy with the bed. Because we're less tired, less achey, and less reluctant to get started in the morning. You know, because we're better rested. It's a magical thing.

Really, the whole experience was kind of spectacular. The prices were good, when there was trouble processing our payment (on their end, not ours) and they had to miss our delivery, they made up for it by delivering for free.

And, of course, they took away the old mattress and box spring so we never had to worry about them again.

I can't recommend Sleepy's enough. (Particularly the Sleepy's at 605 W. Roosevelt Rd. in Chicago.) But I can tell you that investing in a good mattress was, in hindsight, just common sense.

I'm pretty optimistic that by the anniversary of getting our new mattress, it will have saved us as much in medical costs (and attached childcare costs) as the thing cost in the first place. I wish we'd bought a new mattress when I was pregnant with the twins, five years ago. Who knows how much we might have saved by now?

I'm not saying a good mattress will fix your broken back. I'm saying that for once, I'm sleeping in a bed that isn't actually making things worse. That supports my spine and lets it rest and recover from the previous day without causing any additional damage.

It took me a few months to be certain about how I feel, but now I'm sure. I feel great. I feel better than I've felt in years.

And I can offer my bed no higher praise than that.

...thanks, Sleepy's.


Sleepy's did provide me with $100 in gift cards, but all the opinions and choices represented here are my own.

Best Worst Weekend Ever

I'm a huge fan of Valentine's Day.

Wait- let me rephrase. I'm a huge fan of the day after Valentine's Day, when all the chocolates go on sale. As for the holiday itself?

Let's put it this way. I collect stuffed gorillas, and I love chocolate. So when I have an excuse to sort of make a thing out of it, I do.

I have a tendency to go really overboard with presents for M. Ever since our very first Valentine's Day, when I screen printed a hoodie for him with the phrase "Grover Hungry" on the front, and "Will Defenestrate Bohemians On Sight" on the back.

Shut up. It's funny.

At any rate, this year, I decided to go big. I don't mean just expensive, although frankly it was that too. I mean BIG. I bought my husband a new bed frame.

You're going to get a whole post this week on the details of this bed, I promise you that (and it has been a LONG time coming), but let's say I may have had a bit of an ulterior motive. You know, I get him a bed, and then spend the majority of the weekend... shall we say... in it.

M was also feeling romantic, I guess. Because he got me a collection of my favorite things. He sponsored me my own very real pet gorilla through the African Wildlife Fund (his name is Charles, and he's a Rwandan mountain gorilla!), gave me a big box of chocolates, and took me out for Ethiopian food.

Now, I love Ethiopian food. This seemed like the best Valentine's Day ever. But things went wrong starting the moment we opened the door.

Standing there, performing at about 80 decibels, was a trio of Rastas performing what I can only describe as "Lounge Reggae." They had a microphone, a Casio keyboard, and a tambourine. They sang (and I'm being generous with that description) about Jesus a lot, which was, you know, fine I guess, while M and I waited for our food. And waited. And waited. And waited. Every few minute a horrific screech of feedback would blare into the room, and I would scream and jump.

No, really.

The Lounge Reggae grew steadily louder, with increasingly more feedback, and finally our appetizers arrived. Only when I took a bite of my second sambusa, I discovered it was filled with beef, rather than lentils.

I sent the food back, and we prepared to leave and find another place to eat, when the Lounge Reggae suddenly stopped. "We were supposed to have a storyteller come tonight, but he didn't show up," the frontman declared. "But I know a story, I guess. It's called Plato's Cave."

I raised my eyebrows at M. Having been (briefly) a philosophy major, I can tell you with absolute certainty that the story the frontman Lounge Reggae Rasta related was not what Plato had intended, as I'm abut 99% positive the story doesn't end with the residents of the cave killing people for trying to tell them about Jesus. But by the time the story ended we were laughing our asses off, quietly I hope,

Artist Facsimile

Our food arrived and we thought we might finally enjoy a totally normal, albeit fast, dinner. When the frontman suddenly shouted, "Oh wait! I do know another story! It's about the time my car broke down on 394!"

And he proceeded to tell us about how his car broke down, and he had to walk down the freeway.

You'd be amazed how long somebody can tell a story about that to a slow, smooth, Reggae beat.

"And then I was chased by bats! And wild dogs! And bees! And then came the spaceships."

Mike and I stared at each other. Surely, this must be a joke.

But no, the story went on. All about the spaceships saving him from the bats. And the wild dogs. And the bees.

And then the Rastas finished the night by singing us a song about the return of the mothership.

At this point our parking had long expired, so Mike and I paid and made a dash for it. But our car hadn't even reached Lake Shore Drive when I started feel queasy. And before we were halfway home, I had begged off our favorite ice cream parlor, so we could just go to bed early.

And not in a fun way.

I crawled into bed and went straight to sleep, at quarter to ten. Which is kind of awesome when you've got three small children, but...

Then I woke up in the morning, nibbled on a piece of toast, and hopped into the car to go to my audition.

Yeah, you heard me right. Audition.

As I belched up increasingly more horrific flavor combinations, I quietly prayed that I would make it through my piece before feeling the full wrath of whatever was happening in my gut. I gritted my teeth and put on a smile, and I performed my piece as best I could, before zipping home and straight back into bed, where I passed out again the moment my head hit the pillow.

I was awoken an hour later by the overwhelming need to spend forty five minutes being sick in the bathroom.

And that was how I spent the rest of the weekend. A few minutes in bed, resting, half an hour in the bathroom, crying.

I still haven't touched my box of chocolates. But I guess I got my wish. I spent basically my whole Valentine's Day weekend in bed.

However, today I can tell you that I KILLED IT in the audition! I'm happy to announce I will be performing in Listen To Your Mother!!!!!!

That's right- if you enjoy the blog but you're fed up with all that pesky reading, THIS is the show for you!

May 4th, here in Chicago at the Athenium Theater! I'll be sure to post a link to buy tickets as soon as it's available. But for now- mark your calendars!!!!

To celebrate, I'm going to bust open some of that chocolate.

See you in May!

I Can't Be New

This will always be hilarious to me.

It's time for another Twisted Mix Tape, and this week, it's a dealer's choice.

That means I get to pick my own theme. And what a theme it is.

Have you noticed how many songs from your teen years just DEFINED them? But what about other times in your life? Are there any good songs that sort of say, "Hey, I'm an adult! How the hell did THAT happen?"

Yes, actually there are.

So I present to you, a mix of songs that represent an awareness of adulthood. Maybe not exactly anthems, but still... songs that I relate to more and more as I realize that yes, I'm actually an adult.

Enjoy!



I think that having children changes you. Not in the big, scary ways you worry about in the beginning. In lots of smaller, subtler ways. There's something in the lyrics that aren't so much sad, as wistful. When I was a kid I thought this song was sad. Now, I don't. Now I see it as observational, bittersweet. "I've been afraid of changing..." It's not the same thing as "I am afraid of changing." Not I associate much more with the next words. "But time makes you bolder."

That it does.



I'm afraid I can't actually find decent video of Susan Werner singing this song, so we'll have to make do with this lovely (and very true to the original) cover. M and I have been together about eight years now. I know, that doesn't seem like very long to a lot of people. But it's a pretty darn long time. We've been together for more than a quarter of our lives. And that's a significant chunk of change. This is a love song for somebody who you've gotten a little older with. A lovely one, at that.



Yes, for Valentine's Day I got my husband furniture. And we nag each other to eat healthy and get exercise. Because these are important things. And because when you're not a kid anymore, you aren't just magically always at the peak of your health. And life is still wonderful.



Yeah, there's a lot of sadness in being the responsible adult in your child's life. And you do it because there is also so much joy. I can't tell you how many times I've looked at my children, loving them so hard that I could feel for a few minutes was a wracking guilt that life would someday be unkind to them.



The line that gets me the most about this song is, "...on what looks like to me, my mother's hand." About her own hand, of course. It's about finding peace and happiness in life that you didn't expect, in things that seemed too simple and too mundane to be important ten years ago. I love - love - this song.



I know, Freddie Mercury doesn't exactly scream "responsible adult." But this song kind of does. Realizing that you have to work for things to get them, and that you've done a lot of that, and that you've earned whatever success you have. That's a pretty grown-up kind of self awareness.

Can't Get Enough

Six years ago this month, my amazing husband-to-be completed a Herculean task.

He burned hundreds of CDs, and labeled them all with individualized labels. Those labels had the names and tables (named for our favorite restaurants) of every guest at our wedding.

Very few of these songs were explicitly "mine" or "his." They are really, fundamentally, all "our songs." When you're as obsessed with mix tapes as I am (and I'm very surprised if you haven't noticed by now how seriously I take them), you don't marry somebody who doesn't take their music just as seriously. You marry somebody who's just as dedicated to the perfect song choices, the perfect order, the perfect MIX.

So what was on the CD?

For this week's Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday I present to you, without further comment, our wedding CD.

Enjoy!

Becoming Vegetarians

SI and DD

When M and I started dating, he made a huge effort not to eat meat in front of me. I thought this was adorable but misguided- my objection has never been to seeing meat.

As things got more serious he got more comfortable ordering a steak on our dates, or eating a burger in the car on long trips. We never teased each other about it. He never waved bacon in front of me, joking about delicious delicious dead pig. I never squealed, "Mother! Where are you mother?" when he bit into venison jerky.

We respected each others' choices when it came to our diets. I had been raised since birth as a vegetarian, and he had been raised in a very American meat-and-potatoes environment. And we were both comfortable with our own choices.

For our last dating anniversary before our wedding, I made him lamb. I'd never cooked any kind of meat before, and I wanted to make some sort of grand gesture. I did a lot of research, too. I chose the kind of meat, not for ethical reasons, but because I was confident I would be able to prepare it without killing him.

And now here we are. I cook meat regularly, for him, and never taste it. And no, I never have the impulse to taste it.

Sometimes, at our dinner table, the children eye daddy's food curiously. They rarely ask about it. But that is starting to change.

I remember how old I was when my classmates started making fun of my diet. I was about five years old. I always assumed it would be around that age, for similar reasons, that my children would question their diets as well.

Turns out, I was wrong.

The other day we sat down to dinner. It was a rough day, so we ordered in Thai food. M had chicken pad thai, the girls had tofu pad thai. Everyone was eating happily until SI, the never-ending fount of questions with no answer, asked why daddy was eating from a different container.

"Daddy's pad thai noodles have chicken in them. Yours have tofu."

I watched her try to wrap her head around this. She's long known that daddy eats animals. But recently she's been very interested in the nutritional content of things. She knows she can't have ice cream every day, because it's made of fat and sugar. She knows that fruits and vegetables are nutritious, she knows that protein is important.

"Is chicken nutritious?"
"Well," I answered, "it's got lots of protein."
"But does it have fat and sugar?"
"It has some fat, not as much as red meat."
M piped in here, cautiously. "Like steak or burgers. Those are red meat, and they have much more fat."
"Why don't you eat meat, mommy?"
"I'm a vegetarian."
"What's a vegetan... why?

I hesitated for moment, and threw a quick apologetic glance to M. "I don't eat meat because I think it's wasteful."

SI nearly dropped her fork at this. "Wasteful" is a word she believed she understood, completely. She and DD love to play the "wasteful" game in the car, where they come up with examples of things that are "wasteful," and generally these things involve throwing food into the mud. Eating food is wasteful? This made no sense at all.

"You see, sweetheart, a long time ago, people had a hard time finding all the food they needed to have nutritious meals. It was hard to find sugar, and fat, and also protein. But if you killed an animal and ate it, you could have protein for a long long time.

"Do you remember the Buffalo Woman book? People used to eat meat like the Native Americans in that book- they would kill one buffalo and use every single part of the meat to feed their family for a long time. They didn't have to kill very many. Each buffalo had enough meat to feed the family for months.

And they used every part! They used its bones, and its eyes, and its skin, and its teeth, and its horns, and even its bladder! They didn't waste any of it. They were very respectful of the buffalo they killed to get protein in their food.

But now that's not how people get their meat. Instead of killing one animal and using all the parts, they kill lots and lots and lots of them, and only use a few parts. And a lot of the other parts just get thrown away. Sometimes the whole animal just gets thrown away. And that's not respectful at all."

She frowned at M's plate. "So why do you still eat it, daddy?"

And there it was. The question I never asked him. Because his diet is his choice, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was guilt trip him over it. His eyes widened in a guilty panic. I started talking again.

"Daddy eats meat because protein is an important part of his diet, and meat is one of the easiest ways to get lots of protein."

"Even though it's wasteful?"

M sighed. "Even though it's wasteful."

"Everyone has to make a choice about their food," I added. "Daddy chooses to eat meat because the protein is important to him. I choose not to, because I don't want to kill animals unless we need to. But it's up to you to choose whether you want to eat meat or not."

"I don't want to waste animals," she said. "I'm a vegetarian too."

"Me too!" said DD.

"Me doo!" said RH, with a mouth full of noodles. And like that, the conversation was over.

As soon as the kids went to bed, M and I apologized to each other a dozen times. Him, for not having any answers for the kids. Me, for possibly shaming him about his food. Something I never wanted to do.

I expect our family will talk about this again. Probably lots of times. And in the meantime, M can figure out what he's going to tell the kids about his dietary choices, and his reasoning for them.

And I can keep figuring out ways around conversations about our food industrial complex and the ethical treatment of animals. I'm not eager to talk to my kids about the unpleasant things we do to animals in captivity. And I'm fairly confident that my children will continue to choose not to eat food that is wasteful, and inhumane.

If we lived somewhere where it was feasible for us to buy meat from a family farm, where we could visit the animals, maybe even pick out our own cow before slaughter, things would be a little different. If we bought a whole cow, bones and organs and all, rather than just the bits and pieces that make the act of killing seem sanitary and mundane, it would be a different story. And the girls and I can have that conversation whenever they want.

But the most important thing is that our children know what their food is, and where it comes from.

They know that ice cream is fat and sugar, with no nutritional value. And they know sometimes it's okay to eat that.

And they also know that meat is a dead animal, that people eat. And that can be okay too.

They know what waste is, and that it's a bad thing.

I'm pretty confident they'll make good food choices so long as they remember those guidelines. And really, giving them guidelines and sending them into the world to make their own choices?

That's pretty much my job, isn't it?

Presumption of Innocence

On Monday, I had jury duty.

Jury duty is a pain the ass. It's a hassle, it takes all freakin' day, and if you're unlucky a lot longer.

Also, if you're really unlucky, it will give you a lifetime of nightmares.

I've never served on a jury. Every time I get called for jury duty, I spend all day in silence as judges and lawyers question potential jurors about their ability to rule on the case.

The cases are always horrific when I get summonsed. Last time, it was a death penalty murder trial. I wasn't anxious to go back on Monday and find out what new horrors were in store.

I sat in the courtroom as the judge announced what the charges were, and told us we'd all be sworn in to answer about being on the jury.

The charges?

"The defendant is charged with sexual assault by a legal adult (my stomach lurched as I glanced at the defendant, who was probably pushing forty) of a minor child."

The floor fell out from under me.

I looked at him, and tried to feel nothing. After all, it might be my job to presume he was innocent until proven guilty. I couldn't let myself think he'd actually done it.

The judge went on to explain the crime, which was committed four years ago. The victim was now ten or eleven years old.

When this man allegedly raped her (which the judge clarified as penetration of the vagina by the penis), she was barely older than my daughters.

I shook that thought off, too. Because I had to be impartial, right?

Out of the sixty some potential jurors there, thirty were called up to answer questions. I was second to last.

Being second to last, I got to listen to all the potential jurors before me answer their questions.

Before entering the courtroom, we'd all had to fill out a form. Included on this form was the question, "Have you ever been the victim of a crime?"

I had checked yes.

When the judge asked each individual juror about their "yes" answers, most declined. Approximately a third of the women, and two of the men, requested to speak about the matter privately. My mouth dried out. There are only a handful of crimes that, if committed against you, fill you with the kind of shame and guilt that makes it impossible to speak publicly. Not at all like the answers, "I was carjacked," or "I was mugged," or "It was a home invasion and burglary."

No, when you've been the victim of a crime, and you don't want anybody to know about it, that means that being a victim of that particular crime is shameful.

As person after person requested to answer the question privately, I got angrier, and more determined.

Finally, it was my turn. I smiled at the judge, wiping my sweaty palms on my knees and trying to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest.

"Mrs. Grover, it says here you've been the victim of a crime?"
"That's correct."
"What was that crime?"

I looked her in the eyes and kept smiling, trying to keep my voice even. "I was sexually assaulted, and stalked."

The defendants lawyers started scribbling rapidly on their notebooks.
"Did you ever go to court?"
"No."
"Were charges ever filed?"
"No."
"Did you report the incident to the police?"
"Yes."
"And why weren't charges filed?"
"Lack of evidence, I guess."
"What do you mean?"
"I waited too long to report the assault."
"I see. Mrs. Grover, will you be able to follow the law, and treat both sides fairly in this case?"
I looked at the defendant's lawyer. I didn't look at him. I couldn't.
"I believe so."

Behind me, I heard people shuffling in their seats. Another four hands raised. "I actually have something I'd like to speak to you about in private as well, your honor."

A few moments later, it was the lawyers' turn to ask questions. The defense attorney called my name.

"Ms. Grover, did you interact with the police?"
"Yes."
"Did they leave you with a positive of negative impression?"
"Definitely negative."
"Why?"
I took a moment before answering. "They didn't believe me."

The judge and lawyers left the chambers, calling people in one at a time to discuss their private matters. During that time the rest of us fidgeted, talked a little amongst ourselves. A few of the other jurors came up to me to talk, but didn't make eye contact, didn't say anything that was obviously on their minds.

After the last juror returned, we continued to wait. For over an hour, the judge and lawyers discussed which of us they wanted on the trial, which they didn't.

When the judge returned, one by one she dismissed jurors who had spoken with her privately. Then the man who had announced he worked with the Chicago Children's Advocacy Center, working with victims of childhood sexual abuse. Then, at last, me.

And the remainder of the jurors were told to come back in the morning for the trial.

Part of me was relieved. As I exited the courtroom, I finally allowed myself to believe he was guilty. An instant, overwhelming surety, now that I didn't have the obligation to give him the benefit of the doubt.

At the same time I felt a wave of guilt, that I could damn him so easily before his trial.

And then a wave of fury.

Fury, because statistically, one third of every woman in a randomly selected group will have been victims of sexual abuse. And that's what I had just seen in person, in that courtroom. And fury that when a problem is that embedded into our culture, that deeply rooted into what it means to be female, that dangerously ubiquitous, there is no such thing as a fair trial.

Not for the accused, and not for the victim.

When a crime is as common as rape, as horrifically and overwhelmingly common, maybe you shouldn't be able to dismiss all victims of that crime from the ability to be objective. To be reasonable.

Maybe when a crime is that universal, by eliminating everyone who has ever been sexually assaulted or who knows somebody who's been sexually assaulted, all you have left are deniers and apologists.

Maybe that's why so many rapists win at their trials.

Maybe it's not really a jury of your peers when nearly half of them are dismissed right off the bat because somebody did something to them against their will, and they were just the statistical one in that two minute window.

I was furious. I wanted to be on that jury. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be objective, that I could listen to the evidence and see what had really happened.

I wanted to prove to myself that I could maintain a presumption of innocence. That I could hold onto my own emotions and my own experiences and set them aside. That I could look at facts and accept that, according to the law, the words of a victim and the words of an accused man carry absolutely equal weight. That I could say the words, "not guilty," if the prosecutors didn't prove beyond any reasonable doubt that a grown man forced himself on a child.

But the fact is, the way the law is written it's almost impossible to prove guilt. Not unless there's video, practically, because unless the victim can prove a lack of consent, it's assumed that consent was there.

And that? That's bullshit. Top grade, refined, mass produced bullshit.

It was going to be an ugly trial, I have no doubt. Based on the barbs between lawyers, it looked like the defense was planning to attack the girl's mom- to point out that she was an illegal immigrant. And if she would commit a crime to stay in the country, who's to say she wouldn't lie about her daughter being raped?

Her six or seven year old daughter.

Now, I wasn't going to write about this. I wasn't going to write about it at all, because no matter how I scour the news I can't find even a note about this case. Maybe because Cook County has so many of them. Maybe because the news just doesn't care about a four year old case of non-English speaking brown people hurting other non-English speaking brown people. Maybe because the media is too wrapped up in the revelations about the Chicago Arch Diocese papers that document the decades of systematic protection of pedophiles in the church. Maybe the sexual abuse of boys is dominating our news, and there isn't a minute to spare for talking about yet another little girl.

But this case is too common. And too much like the one case in the news where nearly all the details are the same.

A seven year old girl, accusing a man old enough to be her father of sexually assaulting her, and him denying it. His defenders accusing the girl's mother of lying and manipulating her child for some twisted gain.

Does that sound familiar to you?

Dylan Farrow, after more than two decades, came forward to talk, somewhat obliquely but with boldness, about being sexually abused by her adopted father- Woody Allen.

And now Allen is talking with the New York Times, and they've said they may run his letter- chronicling his own defense.

And I can't be unbiased. I can't. I have to be honest- I would have been a terrible juror. Because even if the law failed to prove he was guilty, I would be just as sure that the law was wrong.

'Innocent until proven guilty' is important, it is the foundation of our justice system. But we don't afford victims the same pleasures.

We have already decided, as a culture, that women lie about being raped. That women manipulate men in order to hurt them. That they use their children as weapons. That children are liars, incapable of telling truth from fiction.

None of that is true.

But it's impossible to prove.

You see, one thing we know about rapists, as opposed to victims, is that they honestly don't think they're rapists. They don't believe they are. They just don't. They think rape only happens when you beat somebody up and tie them down leave them half dead in an alley.

They don't think that just waiting until somebody is asleep, or drunk, is rape. They don't think you can rape a wife, or a live in girlfriend. They think that if they coerce somebody into saying "yes," or trick them into saying "yes," or threaten them into saying "yes," it's not rape. Because they said yes.

Some of them think that sex is when a girl lays below them, unmoving and frightened while they get off. Some of them think that sex is when you've finally "worn them down" until they just can't say "no" one more time.

Some of them think that children are sexual beings, teasing them, taunting them, and their lack of a language for what is happening is the same thing as an agreement. That when they say, "This is our secret, okay?" and the child in front of them nods, it is an agreement.

They don't think they're rapists. They think this is what everybody does.

And just as most rapists don't believe they're rapists, most victims don't let themselves believe they're victims. Not at first. anyway. And how do your prosecute a crime like that? Where the victim doesn't want to admit they're a victim and the perpetrator doesn't believe they did anything wrong?

Do I know what the defendant did? No, I don't. But I believe the victim. Because she has nothing to gain from this. No victim has anything to gain, contrary to popular belief.

Have you seen what happens to victims? They're stalked and assaulted. They're pilloried in the public square, while the media bemoans the tragic loss to the life of the perpetrator. They have their houses burned to the ground. They get called sluts, liars, bitches, monsters.

For the rest of their lives they are burdened not only with the weight of what somebody did to them physically, but the emotional scars of the attacks of strangers, just for having been a victim.

Comments like, "Some girls rape easy," might be easy to shrug off because they're so common, but they shouldn't be. "Some girls rape easy," means "after you coerce somebody to have sex with you through alcohol, influence, threats, or constant nagging, some of them are willing to call that what it was in the morning- a lack of consent."

And that's good. It's good that more and more women are willing to "rape easy," which is to actually say the word RAPE.

And that is a fucking hard word to say. I know, I avoid saying it constantly.

Constantly.

And writing about rape? Talking about rape? That's kind of what I do. You'd be amazed how many months go by of organizing events, writing blog posts and letters, public speaking even, where I never use that word.

Typing the letters r-a-p-e makes my palms sweat and my heart race and my head swim. And I'm an advocate.

So no, I don't think I could have given that man a fair trial, by the rule of law. And no, I don't think Woody Allen is getting one now in the court of public opinion.

But that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if a trial is fair if the court is completely biased from the start.

So I'll keep my fingers crossed the Times comes to its senses and keeps a lid on Woody's apologies to nobody. A confession would be news. A letter attacking a victim and her mother for just being another couple of crazy, malicious bitches?

That's just more of what we see every day.

I have no doubt that Woody Allen believes he's innocent. Just as most sexual predators do. They believe they're innocent because they don't understand what "consent" really is, they don't understand or believe that women or children who don't scream or cry or beat them with their fists during an assault really think they were raped.  They don't understand that their actions are predatory.

They think whatever they're doing is totally normal.

And the worst part is, they're right. It is normal.

That still doesn't make it okay.

My heart is with Dylan Farrow, with a little girl finally getting her day in court after four years, with every victim who's been accused of lying by somebody who thinks they're right.

Until we do something to change the way our culture treats victims of sexual violence, I expect that number to keep growing.

By about one, every two minutes.

A Lifetime of Coping #DayofLight

Your truly, at fifteen or sixteen.

I write, and have written, a lot about depression. About living with it, about overcoming it...

There are a lot of things to say on the subject. But it can be hard.

I struggled with depression as a kid, which led to my self harm and eventual suicide attempt.

After my second pregnancy, I had crippling DMER and PPD.

I've coped with depression my entire adult life.

I coped with it, and I know how it feels. How it feels impossible to just answer passing questions like, "How are you?" or "What's up?" I know how hard it can be to accept your feelings, as you're feeling them, instead of ignoring them and pretending they don't exist. I know how hard it can be to feel completely alone, consumed by your own grief at absolutely nothing.

I also know there is help out there. And I urge anyone going through anything like this, depression or PPD or PTSD or a bipolar episode or anything, to reach out to the people who want to help you. To the Helpline. To your friends, your family. To anyone and everyone.

Sometimes coping is eating a whole bag of marshmallows.
Really.

Even if all you do is tell them you need help, that's a huge step. It's an important step. It is a step that heals all by itself.

Not completely, but a little.

The first time I realized I was depressed I was eight years old- I've been coping ever since. And some days it's as easy as listening to some Pink Floyd and sweeping the floor. Some days, it's sitting in a heap of dust bunnies and crying while my children watch Super Why.

Coping happens every day, but it happens. And that's what counts.

Get help. Reach out. And then it doesn't feel so much like coping. Then it feels like real life. And when that happens?

You're know you're going to be okay.

Things You Never Knew

Me and M in 2007

Today is yet another in a long list of days I don't know how to feel about.

I've been thinking about cancer a lot. Not just because I'm editing the hell out of my book. Not just because I'm due for another skin check. Not just because of M's last MRI and the frank shock of the new neuro-oncology interns. Not just because friends and loved ones keep getting that diagnosis, keep hearing expiration dates and time tables and the sort of heart wrenching news you can never un-hear.

Although it's also that.

The thing that's had me thinking the most about cancer is what happens to my family next month.

Next month marks five years, five whole years, since M ended all of his treatment for his stage four brain cancer.

Not that it matters what stage it was. Not that it matters where it was. No, as soon as the word "cancer" appears in your medical files, things change. Things change in ways you would never expect, and ways that never would have mattered.

Next month, for the first time since we got engaged, my husband will be eligible to buy life insurance again.

Just think about that. Think about knowing every day that you're on borrowed time, that you are supposed to die. That you're supposed to be living each day like it was your last, fast and hard and with dignity and beauty.

And then imagine that instead of bungee jumping and traveling to Prague, the things that make you happiest, give your life the most meaning, are building a family.

For five years he's been living without a net.

I'm going to be honest, I haven't missed life insurance. I was so happy to have M alive and well that I didn't
give a damn about cashing in on his corpse. But that's not really what it's about. Life insurance is about dignity for the bereaved.

If he had died during these last five years, the girls and I would have been left with nothing. Scrambling to pay his final bills, to afford somewhere for his remains to rest. I would have had to hold off mourning, to start scouting apartment listings and "Help Wanted" ads, to put our home on the market and prepare to move my children away from everything they'd ever known.

I thought about it once in a while, and it scared the crap out of me. But next month, my husband can get life insurance again.

He'll no doubt have to pay through the nose for it, but he can get it.

And yes, I understand why a life insurance company wouldn't want to touch him, to bet on his life.

But each time I thought about it, my skin would crawl. As though it weren't bad enough to worry. As though it weren't bad enough to wonder.

Cancer takes things you never knew you had. Cancer takes things you never knew you cared about.

Today is World Cancer Day, and I'm grateful that next month my husband goes from being a risk to being a survivor in somebody else's eyes.

Today is World Cancer Day, and he is one of the lucky ones. Unfathomably lucky. But there are so many more people in the world, and there are so many days in the year, and there are so many kinds of cancer.

There are so many kinds of fear.

I don't know how you're celebrating this day, but I know how I am. I'm making my husband a banana pudding pie with graham cracker crust- the same dessert I made him every week of chemo for over a year. We haven't eaten it since, but today it seems appropriate. Maybe, almost five years later, it can just be a dessert again.

Maybe being able to just enjoy some pudding is another thing cancer took away from us.

But like life insurance, I'd like to think it's something we can take back again.

So in honor a World Cancer Day, a few hopes for things we can reclaim:

Our peace of mind.
Our financial security.
Our love of pudding for the sake of pudding.
Our ability to say "forever" without doubting ourselves.
Our life stories.
Five years of uncertainty.


Happy World Cancer Day, everyone. And here's to many, many, many more.

Gotta Get Up

Twins were as fine an excuse as any, but this is me every morning.

I'm the sort of lady who can really use a push to get going in the morning. That's why I have a FIVE HOUR play list on my computer of songs that help me do just that.

Yeah, that's not a joke. I don't function without the right tunes.

Of course a lot of them are show tunes. And of course a lot of them are Flogging Molly. But I've pulled out the creme de la creme of the five hours of motivational music that keeps me going to give you this little list.

Yeah, show tune and Flogging Molly free.

I hope you're not too disappointed.

On to the music!!!




First and foremost, nobody seems to get me like Jill Scott when it comes to a lack of motivation. She understands. I just want to stay in and play video games. I don't want to do anything. But...

And, thanks to her most excellent music, it's a little easier to deal. And to come up with the energy.



Waking up isn't the only thing I need to be motivated to do. Sometimes, working hard at being BETTER at something seems like an impossible task. That's when I sit around and stare into space and listen to Rahzel beatbox and sing at the same time. Seriously, if you have never heard him accomplish this feat, start the video at 2:40 and place a cushion underneath you for when your jaw hits the floor.

Watching (or listening to) people being absolutely amazing at something kind of wondrous makes me want to be kind of amazing at absolutely anything. And that's a pretty good motivator.



This is a song for those middle of the day doldrums. When you need a pick-me-up because all your motivation has dwindled down to a little below nothing. When you, ahem, stutter out. Plus it's a totally pleasant earworm.



But if I just need a sort of adrenaline shot to the brain, I put on this song. Why? Because I can't hear it and not sing it. And I can't sing it and not perform it. So that stuff you see Freddie Mercury doing? That's me, in the car, every time the classic rock station decides to throw me a bone. Or whenever M wants to make me super happy on long car drives. Or when I've got five baskets of clean laundry to fold.



Sometimes it's hard to be motivated about doing the same thing you do every single day, over and over again. For me, this song helps me out. Sort of a happy mantra and a little reminder- I do really want to do pretty much everything I do. I'm incredibly lucky. It's just easy to forget that when you're tired and/or under-motivated.



Last but not least, general life motivation. I know, I know, this is hokey and dated and cheesy and everybody who graduated from high school in the latter half of the nineties put this on a mix tape for all their friends to take to college blah blah blah shuddup. This song is awesome. It makes me feel good about absolutely everything in my life, and reminds me that this is just a tiny piece of the whole. So who cares how hokey it is? Not me. Even if now I'm nodding along and smiling with totally different parts than I was fifteen years ago.

Maybe in another fifteen years it will be a different collection of pearls of wisdom from this gem that will make me feel motivated and happy on bad days.



Okay, you got me. One more.

I sing this as a lullaby to my kids. And I sing it to myself when I'm down in the dumps. Because of all of it.

Hang on, little tomato. Hang on.