Dissenting Opinions

As I hope you are all aware, I have taken The Mom Pledge.  And I take it seriously.

As you may or may not be aware, but a lot of the expectations that we had for adulthood were pretty far fetched.  Adults DON'T always know what's going on.  They DON'T mysteriously have all the answers.  They DON'T have constant confidence in the place in the universe.

So, like children, adults bicker.  And they argue.  And they bully.

As much as we like to think that bullying is a problem of children and children alone, this is just not the case.  And, sadly, mothers are some of the worst offenders I know.

I believe that parenting is hard- and as a result parents take the parenting choices of other people very personally.  This is silly, one parent's choices have no bearing whatsoever on the choices of any other parent.  But if you do something differently from me, it's not hard for me to infer that you are doing it wrong.  And amazingly, it is just as easy for me to assume that if you have any success, it means that I am doing it wrong.  Which means that your parenting choices are actually an attack on my parenting choices.

This is, as I said above, just plain silly.  Your parenting choices have nothing to do with my parenting choices. The same way that your marriage has nothing to do with my marriage, and your religion has nothing to do with my religion.  Until your parenting/marriage/religious choices involve attacking me, it's just plain none of my business and we can lead our own separate lives.

That said, there will be disagreements between parents, just as there are always disagreements between people, and it doesn't take long for a disagreement between people to escalate into a full fledged, mud flinging fight.

And nowhere is that easier than online.

In the course of stating my opinions I have been called a child abuser, accused of calling people Nazis, called a criminal, had my own words taken out of context to discredit and insult me, and been generally attacked for my beliefs and my shared thoughts.

And I invite a lot of this.  I invite it by existing in an ephemeral space filled with anonymous (or even known) people who feel it is their right to punish me for disagreeing with them.  I invite it for discussing controversial topics- which I do very deliberately and (I hope) with a great deal of respect and sensitivity.

But that does not make it okay.

Part of The Mom Pledge reads, 
"I will welcome differing opinions when offered in a respectful, non-judgmental manner, and I will treat those who do so in kind."

This is, I have found, one of the easiest things in the world to do.

Unfortunately, it is rare.  I almost never experience respectful disagreements.  I almost never get a comment that says, "I hear what you're saying, and I disagree with you for this calmly explained reason."

What is much more common is differing opinions in the form of attacks.  "You are a criminal and you should be arrested."  "You are wrong, and because God tells me so you are going to Hell."  "Your culture is evil and is comparable to another culture for its brutal treatment of women/children."  "You must not love your children."  "You must not even LIKE children."

When people say things like that, be they strangers or otherwise, it hurts.  There's no getting around it.  It just plain hurts my feelings.

And of course, one impulse- and one that can be very hard to fight- is the impulse to direct my righteous anger into an attack against them.  Against the person who has attacked me.

I try never to bow to this impulse.  I sometimes fail.  I sometimes find myself using language that I know is incendiary, bringing personal matters into a completely impersonal issue.  Being a gigantic jerk, basically.

But I find that I only fail, I only rise to the attack if I am attacked by somebody that I know in the real world.  Somebody I have some manner of respect for.  Because in the course of being attacked, I lose my respect for that person, that former friend or acquaintance or whatever.  I stop thinking of them as a person I know who doesn't deserve to be hurt, and instead think of them as a failure of the potential I knew in them.  As somebody who would respond to an impersonal choice or opinion of mine with anger or even with threats, they become somebody that I want to show that I don't care about them anymore.

And that is wrong.  That is not a reasonable way to handle a disagreement.

I get some comments on my blog, or my facebook page, or through Twitter, that disagree with me.  Some of them respectfully so, and others... well, others that are basically trolling.  And I am always astounded, relieved, and incredibly grateful to be disagreed with respectfully.

I learn things.  Most importantly, I learn to communicate myself better.  Nine times out of ten, if I have offended somebody I have done it through some kind of miscommunication.

Unsurprisingly, the posts that have generated the most disagreements are my End of the Month Controversies- one of which is coming up next week.  Most particularly, my opinions regarding abortion and marijuana use.

One reader who disagreed with me wrote an entire post about my post... only with dramatic changes.  He took my words out of context, he isolated sentences (and I do tend to write in sentence fragments on occasion- one of my writerly affects) in order to give his own readers the impression that I was saying things that were, frankly, absurd and offensive.

He claimed to have left comments on my blog that I never responded to- which was untrue.  But worst of all were the comments on HIS blog.

There were categorically an attack on me.  And despite the fact that my opinions were not accurately portrayed, that my character was not accurately portrayed, and that he had done me the kindness of leaving me essentially anonymous... I felt incredibly hurt.

I couldn't believe what I was reading as I went through the comments.  A group of people, ranged against me, to attack me.  Being facilitated by what were essentially lies.

I responded as calmly as possible, by addressing some of the misinformation that he had portrayed.  And my respectful comment was treated respectfully.  And for that, I am incredibly grateful.

But I will never forget how much it pained me to be made into a pariah- into a caricature of myself- and to be openly berated and ridiculed.

Some people, anonymous or otherwise, will refuse to see that you are not attacking them merely by having different views.  Some people, parents or not, will assume that when you disagree with them you are attacking them, and they will attack in perceived retaliation.  Some people, perhaps even friends or family, will attack your character and send you angry messages loaded with inflammatory language and claim the moral high ground.  Friends of friends or friends of dissenters might mob together to attack you as one.  This actually happens.

You can control your environment, though.  And your blog, your facebook page, those are your environment.  You don't have to let people line up and attack another person even if it seems like it's on your behalf.  (So please, no bashing the blogger who took my words out of context.)  You don't have to publish comments by trolls.  You don't have to rise.

It can be hard.  When suddenly your inbox is flooded with the ranting of angry strangers- calling you all sorts of awful things- it can be hard to remember there isn't actually a crowd of angry people staring you down, chasing you with pitchforks and torches.  It can be hard to take a deep breath and start casually hitting that "delete" key without reading the full content of what lies within.  It can be hard to accept a comment and calmly say to the author, "I disagree with you, and this is why."

It can be particularly hard when somebody ends a rant against you by signing off, "Respectfully."  As though by adding this to the end they suddenly erase all the hurt they have caused.

I struggle with this.  I try to be better.  I can't claim that by taking The Mom Pledge I have suddenly lost all of my reactionary faults.  But I am more aware of them.  I know that I only fail when the attacks come against me in my personal life, away from my Becoming SuperMommy persona.

I have drafted more angry comments and facebook posts than I can count.  I write about controversial topics.  There should be no surprise that occasionally people will call me names or try to hurt me.

Human beings are sensitive creatures.  Particularly when it comes to sensitive topics.  And on some topics, my writing can be much less sensitive than I would hope after a day or two of hindsight.

That's why I don't publish those comments.  That's why, on this blog, you will (hopefully) never read that I am RIGHT and somebody else is WRONG because they are a BAD PERSON.

If I disagree with somebody, I try my best to do so in a reasoned manner.  I do my utmost to make sure my attacks are not personal, if I must make any attacks at all.  I try to write about controversy as it applies to me, my life, my history, my circumstances.  And the only expert that there is on me is me.

I am a growing, learning individual, as are we all.  I am an adult who is capable of making mistakes, of learning from them, and of improving.

I am not the grown-up that I hoped I would be.  I am not mysteriously confident, in control, and all knowing.  But I do hope that by the time I reach my dotage I will be the sort of adult I believed I could be.  That I will be in control of all of my actions.

The Mom Pledge is about improving.  About helping make ourselves, our space, our lives a little better through kindness.

We don't have to agree.  We don't even have to be respectful.  But we do have to coexist.  And sharing a space, even a space as vast as the internet, is always made better by kindness.

Please, if you haven't already, take the time to sign The Mom Pledge.  It's not just for moms, it's not just for bloggers, it's for everyone who exists in a digitally enhanced social world.  And take the time to think before you react to the unkindness of others.

If we all behaved in such a manner, the world would be a very different place.  But through conscious action we can improve it.  We can make it better.  At the very least, we can make OUR space a place where the overriding tone is of kindness and welcome.  Even the welcome of differening opinions.

11 Things About Me

Bonus picture!  Snow fun!

Lisa from the O'Gs has tagged me!

While I won't follow all the rules (that's just the way I roll), I'm still going to answer all the questions.  Because it's more fun than researching the board members of CSX.  (Yes, that is what I'm supposed to be doing right now.  My life is so glamorous.)

So here are my answers to eleven questions.

With thanks to the ixesn for the picture

1. If you had to leave the U.S. and move to another country, where would you move to and why?
My first thought is Canada, because I speak the language, it's near to our friends and family, and it has universal healthcare.  But, if I COULD move to any other country, versus HAD to, it would probably be the Czech Republic.  I don't know why it draws me so strongly, but shortly before M and I started dating I actually nearly picked up my little life and just hopped a plane to Prague.  For good.  It still has its appeal!

2. Are you an adventurous eater? I.e. do you like trying new foods?
Oh yes.  So long as it's vegetarian and I'm not allergic to it (no Swiss type cheeses), I'll give it a try.  I LOVE trying new foods!

3. What’s your favorite animal?
Ask anyone who ever saw my bedroom when I was a teenager.  Gorillas.  When I was pregnant with the girls, I finally decided it was time to go through my stuffed gorilla collection and let it go.  I kept the best ones for the kids, a few with serious sentimental value for myself, and donated the rest.  I had well over 100 stuffed gorillas.

That's a fully boned Tudor style corset for my
Countess Bathory costume.

4. What was your first job?
I started babysitting as a pre-teen, but I'm not sure that counts.  The first non-family-friend, non-childcare job I ever had was sewing historically accurate cloaks for Maison Rive, a clothier who specialized in the Society for Creative Anachronism crew.  I made almost nothing, and I was paid in coin.  Seriously.  Because that's historically accurate.  My boss, Lady Alizonde de Breguerf, was a known "authenticity nazi," which meant that a lot of my wages went into my own historically accurate clothing, but I learned a TON about Renaissance clothing construction, among other things, and I got to go to a lot of really fun events.  Despite the lousy pay and the absurd conditions (really- hand sewing wool cloaks in a tiny, airless apartment in the middle of August), I loved it.

5. Would you renew your vows complete with another wedding?

I would do this again in a heartbeat.

Absolutely.  M and I have discussed it quite a bit.  You see, our anniversary is sort of also the anniversary of M beating brain cancer, so it feels like a big deal.  Lucky M, he gets three brain-cancer-ass-kicking-aversaries: his birthday, our anniversary, and the Fourth of July (the day we got engaged and the day before his seizure and diagnosis).  We've considered having a vow renewal and complete gigantic party- or maybe even a destination kind of wedding thing- for either our fifth or our tenth.  It doesn't look like our fifth will be very realistic, what with having two three year olds and an almost one year old at that point, but the tenth might be the way to go.  Ten years of marriage is nothing to sneeze at.  And neither is ten years of astrocytoma survival!

6. What one talent do you wish you had?
I wish I was better at the piano.  I've always loved it, but it isn't something I'm just naturally awesome at.  Not to toot my own horn, but I'm awesome at an awful lot of things.

Caught in the act at a B&B

7. Do you let your kids jump on the bed?
Nope.  Their beds are just plain not up to it.  DD's bed is actually held together with duct tape at this point (really).  Our bed I let them "dance" on, which is basically jumping, and if I'm tired or I'm okay with them goofing off when they should be sleeping, I let them get away with it in their rooms.  But officially?  Not allowed.

8. What’s your favorite salad dressing?
Annie's Goddess Dressing, Annie's Artichoke Parmesan, and Annie's Shitake Miso.  Unfortunately, I can't eat salad dressing right now.  Fortunately for me, I don't have to.  We have a local shop that is AMAZING- Old Town Oil.  I've picked up bottles of their Fig Balsamic and their Black Currant Balsamic, and that vinegar alone is ALL YOU NEED.  Seriously.  So freakin' awesome.  Pricey for salad dressing, but then... you don't need a lot.  And it is the best. vinegar. ever.

9. Do you recycle?
Yes, I try.  Unfortunately, the recycling system in Chicago is incredibly corrupt.  How do I know?  I used to work as a VISTA in the CHA Recycling Buyback program.  Sadly, the program is no more.  However the recycling system in the city hasn't changed much.  What happens when the corner of the dump designated for "blue bags" and other assorted recycling is full?  The trucks just dump the rest.  Seriously.  Most of the stuff that you think is "recycled" in Chicago is just landfilled.  It sucks.

From Nicholas C. of Yelp

10. What do you like on your ice cream?
Margie's hot fudge.  If you are ever in Chicago, go to Margie's.  You can thank me when you come out of the raspberry hot fudge induced coma.

11. Are you left or right handed?
I'm vaguely ambidextrous.  I write with my right hand, I eat with my left, I can sort of swap for a lot of things. I would like for my kids to be ambidextrous as well, but so far... I think they might actually just be lefties.



...and now, back to my research!  Happy afternoon, all!

Soundtrack of our Love

Our friends, toasting our happiness

Everyone danced their butts off

When M and I got married, we tried really hard to keep things in our budget while still keeping it personal and meaningful.  It seems that a lot of the time, the more meaningful your little touches, the more the price goes up.  Or, possibly worse, the more time you have to put into every single detail.

A perfect example of that is our solution for place cards.

We only did a small amount of arrangement when it came to seating charts.  We designated tables, but let everyone choose their own seats at their table.  To tell them what their tables were, we made them CDs with personalized labels.  The labels had their name, their table name (our tables were named after our favorite local restaurants), and of course the track list.

A portrait of us I made for the reception

It was a CD of "our" songs.  And a pretty awesome one at that.

We included songs that reminded us of each other...
"The Man I Love," as sung by Sarah Vaughan and "The Girl I Love (She Got Long Black Wavy Hair)" by Led Zeppelin

At Cape Reinga in New Zealand

Songs that played a role throughout the history of our romance...
"Can't Keep My Eyes Off Of You" by Frankie Valli, "Beautiful Freak" by Eels



Songs that were about the wedding and the honeymoon itself .
"My Kind of Town" by Frank Sinatra, "Island in the Sun" by Weezer

Kissing on the rooftop

Songs that described our plans for the future...
"Come Rain or Come Shine" by Billie Holiday, "In My Life" by The Beatles



Songs that described our love...
"Can't Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe" by Barry White, "Asleep and Dreaming" by The Magnetic Fields




Songs we loved to sing to each other...
"Such Great Heights" by Iron and Wine, "God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys



And songs that played a role in the wedding itself...
"When A Man Loves A Woman" by Percy Sledge, "Wild Horses" by The Rolling Stones

There will never be enough ways to say "I love you."

I love my husband.

He is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.

And each time I hear a track of the twenty or so songs we gave to each and every one of our wedding guests, I am reminded of the happiest day of my life.



...and I hope they all hear those songs, and think of the day with even a fraction of the love and joy that went into it.

Happy Valentine's Day.  May your lives be filled with love.

...and may you dance until you're pretty sure your legs are going to fall off.

Solitude

postsecret.com

Once again, I'm linking up with Mad Jackie for Secret Sunday.

Most days, it takes my children over an hour to actually settle in and nap.  Many, many times I've been advised to let them off the hook- to let them play alone in their room, or to make it "quiet time" instead of "nap time," but I can't.

You see, I treasure my children's nap time.

It's the only time during the day that I get to be almost alone.

I used to be alone a lot of the time.  Through pretty much all of my teenage years, I didn't sleep.  I would spend each night, alone, wandering the town on foot or entertaining myself in my bedroom.

I really treasured my alone time.  I loved how my parents' old neighborhood seemed to just belong to me in the wee hours of the morning.  I would pilfer flowers from neighbors gardens, and leave mystery roses in front of strangers doorways.  I figured everyone could use a little romance and mystery in their lives.

Or I would write.  Or I would paint.  Or I would read, endlessly.

When I moved to Chicago, I gave up my nighttime wandering after one or two excursions.  It seemed like a remarkably foolish thing to do, blind alleys everywhere, threatening strangers... You aren't actually alone when you walk in the city at night.  Even after leaving downtown, heading to the far north of the city, I still wasn't alone at night.  I learned the hard way that there is a special kind of night life in places that are, literally, full of people.  And no matter how appealing it might sound to wander off to the beach at two in the morning, there are a whole host of reasons why it shouldn't be done.

When I lived in the dorms for my art school, I was lucky enough to have a roommate who had a boyfriend in town.  I almost always had the place to myself.  One summer with a roommate (who had a VERY active social life and was never home) and then I moved into my studio apartment.

Alone.

It's odd- I have always been a profoundly social person.  I have always loved the company of other people, I have always tried to make my home, my space, a place where all of my friends felt welcome.  A place of gathering.  Dinner parties, couch crashers, lunch dates, art nights...  My home has always been a hub.

When M and I moved in together, we picked an apartment where I could still have *my* space.  My studio, but more than that.  A place where I did my private things.  Personal things.  A place that was just mine, and that I didn't have to share.  A place where I could still be alone.

And that didn't work out so well.  With M's diagnosis, our home was always full of family- it was a huge perk of having chosen the apartment we did- the extra space could house more guests.

And then we had babies.

And I haven't actually been alone since we had babies.

I used to relish my drives to school in the morning.  It was the closest to solitude that I could get.

I love my children.  I am constantly awed by them, always proud of them, and my sense of blind luck in having two such incredible little people as my children humbles me every day.  As much as I never doubted that I would love my children, I never expected it to be quite like what it is.  How I can wipe their noses and their butts day after day and be truly ambivalent to the ickiness 90% of the time, and still find so much profound joy in the smiles they give me while I do it.  I just also wish that for even a few hours a month, I could just... be alone.

The things I wish I could still do are very simple.  I wish I could wander around my house singing Les Mis in full character.  I wish I could take long baths.  I wish I could nap in the sunny spots on the carpet.  I wish I could read every book I've picked up with the intention of reading in the last four years.

But I don't get to be alone.  Not really.

My children are very good about keeping to themselves when I want them to.  They're very cooperative about playing together so I can get things done.

But they decided ages ago that whenever I sing, I must be trying to put them to sleep.  I can't sing showtunes in my pajamas without two tiny critics shouting me down.

I can't soak in the tub with a glass of wine and a book of esoteric philosophy.  I can't spend hours poring over my OED.

Yes- I used to do that.

I do miss being alone, but more than that I miss feeling alone.  There is something remarkably comforting about solitude.  Something soothing in knowing that the only person who gives a damn what you're doing at that moment is yourself.  I think that solitude is healthy.

I am actually looking forward to the fall so much I can hardly believe it.

This fall, SI and DD will *hopefully* be starting pre-school.  And I'll be left for three hours each day alone with Baby X.

Baby X, who will be three months old, and probably still be sleeping a lot.

Baby X, who *hopefully* will not object to my singing.  Who will *hopefully* be the sort of easygoing child that SI and DD were as infants.

And- incredibly- for the first time I will find myself at home with only one baby.

It sounds so easy right now I almost can't believe it.

Only one baby...

It will almost be like being alone.

Marijuana as Medicine and Illegal Parenting

I'm linking up again with Secret Sunday- this time for my End of the Month Controversy!

What feels like an extremely long time ago, I wrote a post about women's health issues and marijuana.

I didn't write that post because I'm some sort of enormous pot head.  I didn't write it because I had been looking for an excuse to be stoned my whole pregnancy with the girls.  I wrote it because the information I found about cannabis as medicine was utterly fascinating.  And learning all about something that could have REALLY helped me get through a very difficult pregnancy made me very, very angry.
 
Every time a major study has been done to look for all the bad things that marijuana is supposed to do to people, it finds the opposite results.  Yet it is still illegal in most of the United States, and in states where it IS legal the judicial branch of the government is doing everything in their power to keep people from having access to it.

I think about hyperemesis gravidarum, which can kill the women suffering through it, and knowing that something as simple as a gram of marijuana a week can practically cure their symptoms makes me so angry.

I think about women at risk for pre-term labor, and the fact that maternal use of marijuana helps a fetus develop its lungs- the last organs to completely form before birth- seems incredibly important and helpful.  How many preemies might get out of the NICU sooner, or avoid it all together, is they had properly developed lungs?

And then I think about myself, and all the pregnant women I know.

Women who are unable to keep food down, or who can't maintain their appetites.
Women in constant pain, who are unwilling to take narcotics that have been proven time and time again to be dangerous to a fetus.
Women who are trying to deal with depression and fear, and who can't use traditional anti-depressants or anxiety medications.

And I would like very much for all of us to be able to smoke a bowl and feel better.

Sadly, that isn't going to happen.

Despite the fact that pregnancy lasts for nearly a year, it's just not considered a "chronic condition" like cancer, or MS.  So even in states where medical marijuana is legal (and more importantly- SAFE), no doctors will prescribe it to a pregnant woman.

Despite the fact that studies done of childbirth in pro-cannabis cultures show that infants have a higher survival rate when the nursing mother uses cannabis (which stimulates the infant's suck reflex and as a result causes them to nurse more effectively), doctors in medical marijuana states will not prescribe nursing mothers cannabis either.

Still, doctors prescribe drugs to pregnant women that are NOT safe.  Antibiotics that can build up immunities in the fetus, pain killers that can cause addiction, and even Tylenol has been proven less that harmless.  (For those of you unaware, several years ago research concluded that showed Tylenol use in pregnancy can cause infertility in male fetuses.  While that might not be directly dangerous, I would certainly say that being infertile as an adult may have a serious impact on happiness and quality of life- so no thank you, I'd rather not risk it.)

I'm pregnant, and the fact of the matter is that I am just plain dreadful at pregnancy.  Between the constant pain of my symphasis pubis dysfunction, the appetite and nausea problems caused by my pregnancy-induced gall bladder disease, and the incredible stress of simply being pregnant while taking care of two toddlers and going to school- not to mention the continual melanoma related anxiety- is enough to make anybody truly miserable.

And having read those studies, all those carefully monitored and vetted and peer reviewed articles, after spending years seeing the news of new things they've learned that THC can do to heal human bodies...

It makes me angry that there is SAFE* medicine that I can't access.

That even if I lived in a state where medical marijuana was available, nobody would give it to me.  Although it's probably the safest and healthiest medicine I could possibly use during a pregnancy.

...

I have always believed that people are generally best at governing themselves.  That there are some good laws, but that the majority of them are simply in place because groups of people- not people on an individual level- are idiots.  Speed limits are set because people feel the need to compete on some absurd level on the highway.  Most people by themselves are responsible drivers who know when a car is going as fast as it safely can or should go.  In fact, almost every public safety law pretty much conforms to that idea.

But drug use is sort of different.  There ARE drugs that people can't self-regulate.  And, sadly, some of those are the legal ones.  Alcohol is deadly in large doses, tobacco is deadly in much smaller doses, and caffeine has hosts of health problems it can cause or exacerbate.  Prescription drugs, so easy to legally obtain, can be even worse.  And frequently are.

Among the illegal drugs in this country, there are some that are indisputably bad.  There is no single person on this planet that can responsibly use crack cocaine.  And the likelihood that somebody can actually self regulate the use of powder cocaine or heroin is borderline laughable.

But marijuana?  Marijuana can kill people, yes, if you bludgeon them over the head with a bong or choke them on a plastic baggie.  But the plant itself literally cannot.  The human body only has THC receptors in places that do not effect critical function- you can only react to THC with parts of your brain that have no relation to your autonomic nervous system, and your uterus.

Seriously, if you haven't you should read my review of Women and Cannabis.

So we continue to lock people away for years and years for using a substance that is, in fact, harmless.

Not just less harmful than alcohol, HARMLESS.

Yes, I would very much like to be stoned through much of my pregnancy.  I would like that.  I would like to be using a medicine that allowed me to function pain free and relieved my anxiety and restored my appetite.

But if I deliver a baby, and I or the baby test positive for marijuana?

Then I go to jail, not just for having used it, but for child endangerment.  And that, as absurd as it is, is something I am simply not going to risk.

I have always said, the things that you do to make yourself a good parent are GOOD PARENTING.  But what if those things are illegal?  What if in order to get through my day, to take care of my children while M is at work and then at school, I must break the law?

Is it better for me to be a good parent, or to make sure that I am with them rather than in jail?

And what kind of example am I setting, obeying a wrong and arbitrary rule when all fact and evidence and necessity prove that the rule is wrong?

I don't know.  I don't know if it's better to be hungry and in pain and angry when my potty training children are peeing on the floor, or to smoke two hits of pot and get down on the floor to clean up those puddles without crying or swearing when the consequences are that severe.

But the laws against marijuana as medicine are bad laws.  And the ideas we have about using marijuana as treatment for chronic conditions need to include conditions, like SPD, that last 8-10 months.  Or like hyperemesis gravidarum, that lasts the entire duration of a pregnancy.

When studies show that day old mice with their THC receptors blocked die 100% of the time, it's time to consider that maybe we have those THC receptors for a reason.

And when studies show that THC can not only alleviate the symptoms associated with cancer, but can actually CURE cancer, we have to start thinking differently about marijuana as a "drug" versus marijuana as a "medicine."

I would like to treat my medical condition, pregnancy, and the very unpleasant conditions associated with it with this kind of medicine.  But I can't.

And that is simply ridiculous.




*The only negative effects found in children of women who smoke during pregnancy were that with VERY heavy users- approximately 30 grams (an ounce) each day- the children of those pregnancies were approx. 30% more likely to develop ADHD.

Whole People

One thing they do have in common is how much I love them.

I really wanted to do this last night, but I was far too busy helping M put together our massive new collection of bookshelves and editing a new header for this blog (my babies are big girls now!).

I've been following PostSecret since I discovered the concept in Found Magazine.  I think that was probably nine or ten years ago now.  I anxiously waited until Sunday to check the livejournal feed every week, and there are secrets from the beginning that still haunt me.  I remember one, written on an unfilled prescription slip, by a person who couldn't find a way to tell his wife she was going to die.

PostSecret, 2005

And then there are some, like this Hitler secret, that still crack me up.

Living in the Central time zone is great, because it means that a lot of weeks, I actually get to read the secrets on Saturday night.  It feels like cheating, but it's something I still look forward to constantly.  I can't tell you how close I've been to sending in dozens of secrets, but each time I realize that my secret is something that shouldn't be a secret.  That I have people I care about that I can confide in, and that it's a healthy thing to do for me to take advantage of that.  I know how lucky I am.  I know how isolated and alone I felt back when I did lead a life full of secrets, and mostly secret pain.

I think that PostSecret isn't just an incredible art project, it's a public service.

At any rate, yesterday I discovered Mad Jackie's weekly event, Secret Sunday.  It's a weekly link-up and writing exercise.  You go through the week's secrets, pick one, and use it as a writing prompt.

I also freakin' love a good writing prompt.

Unfortunately, this week yielded a surprisingly small collection of secrets.  I think that's because Frank Warren, the creator/administrator/curator of PostSecret is still posting secrets from the short-lived iPhone app. So I went back a bit, I'm not sure how far, and picked out this one.  As it sort of speaks to something that I frequently find myself internally drafting diatribes about.

People feeling the need to label my twins.

www.postsecret.com

I don't feel like in my family we split up "pretty" and "smart" genes.  We split up "crazy," "smart," "funny," and "creative."

Lucky us, there are more "crazy" genes than anything else.

But people really are determined to label children as soon as possible.


When they were newborns, and M and I would take them somewhere- say, to a restaurant or a hospital waiting room- bystanders would ask me, "Which one is the quiet one?"  "Which one is the social one?"

It's constant, and it has never stopped.

Because there are two of them, they must represent different traits.  One must be smart, one must be pretty.  One must be quiet, one must be troublesome.  One must be a good sleeper, while one must be a good eater.

I don't see people do this as much with singletons, but it still happens.  And the fact is, it's so pervasive that children do it to themselves.

My children aren't simply aspects of a person that opposes a different aspect.  My children are people.  That means that they have moods, they have funks, they have passing whims.  Yes, right now SI constantly asks for help.  That doesn't make her "the needy one," that means that she's figured out that when she says, "Help, mommy!" I might do something for her that she thinks is a little too much trouble.

DD is picking up whole phrases and using them in context right now, that doesn't make her "the verbal one."

They're both people.

They're people with preferences and quirks.

Just like anyone else.

Aunt Something Funny, me, and Aunt Genocide

I think they get it worse as twins, but this was the case with my sisters and I.  I always considered Aunt Something Funny to be "the smart one."  I always considered Aunt Genocide to be "the funny one."  At different times in my life, I was intensely jealous of them for that.  I tried very hard to present myself as "the creative one."

But Aunt Something Funny isn't "the smart one."  She's one of three girls, born within about three years, who are all very, very smart.  She was the best at telling adults when they were wrong, she did have the best ability to recall impressive vocabulary, or identify specific dinosaurs.  She got good at Scrabble first.  She was also the oldest.

Aunt Genocide isn't "the funny one."  She's one of three girls, very close in age, who are all very, very funny.  She was the best at clowning around for a crowd, she was the best with a biting comeback, or a hilarious one-liner.  She also felt from a very early age that there was no way she would ever be "as smart" as her older sisters.  Which is a belief that, I'm sorry to say, Aunt Something Funny and I encouraged.

I wasn't "the creative one."  I was one of three sisters right behind each other in school who had a variety of talents.  I might have had the most drive to perform, I might have had the most art supplies in my rooms, I might have listened to the most progressive music, but I certainly didn't monopolize creativity.  Aunt Something Funny is a brilliant writer.  Truly brilliant.  I've reread one issue of her zine, published about a decade ago, more than almost any other book I own.  Aunt Genocide is an amazing photographer.  Really.  Even if she's decided that her passion lies more with her "smart" pursuits in academia.

Not "the boisterous one."

And we're all crazy.  And yeah, we all have our opinions on who is the craziest.  But frankly, there are enough kinds of crazy going around that we can all have our own.

The idea of teaching my children that they are whole people, not defined by their similarities or differences to each other, has been important to me since I first learned I was having twins.  I see so many other multiples- and their parents insist on dressing them identically.  What does that say about them?  That they exist only as reflections of each other?  That in fact, they are only one social entity?

How would I have felt if I constantly matched my sisters?

I would have felt even more that I needed to identify myself- to be "the creative one."  Because aside from that, I would have had no other distinctions.  I would have been simply part in a collective person.

I wouldn't be Lea the individual, I would be Lea of "The Borenstein Girls."

Just as DD and SI wouldn't be DD and SI, they would be, "The Twins."

They'll probably never get away from being, "The Twins."  No matter what I do, it's going to happen.  Just as I was lumped into the unit of my sisters, they'll be lumped into the unit of their twindom.

And yes, I've been guilty of dressing them alike.  Or as complements to each other.  But only as a special occasion thing- only for a picture, or for a big family event.  For something that they will understand as "not the way things normally are."  But each time I do it I feel ashamed.  Because being a twin isn't just a cool trick they can do.  It's a facet of who they are.  And I have no right to make a spectacle of that without their consent.

No, she's not "the sweet one."

I'm sure that it will be easier for them to actualize as individuals being as visually different than each other than it would be if they were identical twins. But they're not- no more than I am identical to MY sisters.  They just happened to be born at the same time.  And that means that they are automatically perceived as being part of a set- incomplete without each other.

I just wish that the rest of the world would stop treating it as some sort of novelty act.  One person, with traits divided between two bodies.

They are TWO people.  In some ways similar, in others, not at all alike.

Just as any two people in the world might be.









...and for those of you reading through a platform that doesn't actually show you my blog- the new header:

"Becoming SuperMommy!"

 

A Glimpse Of SuperMommy's Journalling (NaBloPoMo)

Truth be told, I don't treat this blog like creative writing.

Which is odd, because I've always treated my journaling like creative writing.  Which is to say, like a sacrament.  Like an art form.  My paper journals are stunning.

I don't necessarily mean stunning in that they're pretty.  I can't claim that- my handwriting is utterly atrocious.  I mean stunning as in looking at or through them can actually sort of stun you.  It's jarring.  Occasionally beautiful.  Sometimes chaotic.  Some journals can't close for all the stuff taped in.  Some had to be rebuilt as I wrote them.  Some have completely fallen apart.

I tend to rotate my paper surfaces.  To experiment with colors and media even in such simple things as describing a weird guy on the bus.  Writing and sketches and pasted in random stuff all mix together without much of a sense of reason.

And then there's the code.

I made up a secret code in which I write, sometimes.  Developed, modified, and pretty much perfected over seven years- even once transcribed into a separate written language.  It's even got its own integrated forms of punctuation.  It has a 40 character alphabet.  When I'm somewhere public and I don't want anyone to know what I'm saying.  Or when I don't want anyone leafing through my journal (not that anyone does) to know what it says.  So whole stretches are utterly incomprehensible.

I don't treat this blog that way.  I treat it like an organized space, almost like a public space.  Because it is very much a public space, and my paper journals never were.

Is this a creative outlet?  I think so.  but my emotional connection to it is completely different.

My children have seen me write here more times than I can possibly count.

They have almost never seen me write in my paper journals.  My paper journals are truly private, even from them.

I like the idea that someday, they'll discover that I have all of them.  Yes, ALL of them.  That they have a personal history of their mother, straight from her own mind, stored in shelves, every book dated.  And they will discover the rich emotional and intellectual life I have always lived privately, and they will marvel at the depth of the character of their marvel.

Depth in that they will discover that I am not actually so easily described as, "Mom."  Depth in that I had a youth filled with emotional angst, that I went through my battles with depression, with self loathing, with hormonal rages.  That I suffered the unfathomable optimism of youth, and that I grew, slowly, from a child with illegible scrawl to an adult with equally illegible scrawl, and that the entire journey is there.  From 1993 (the year I turned 9) until the present.  On stunning page after stunning page.

Complete with set lists and ticket stubs, candy wrappers and love letters, wrist bands and locks of hair.  Poetry, words of the week, phone numbers, the mundane details of my days...

All about the mysteries and inanities of my life.  In every humiliating detail.  Because those journals are for me.

And this blog is also for me, but it is not the same.  This is for me as a public entity- as a mother and a wife and a writer.

And this blog is for them, for my children who I adore and who will love reading the stories of their own childhood.

And this blog is for my readers, who enjoy my rants and my jokes and my stories and my effervescent style.

But my catalog of journals... those are for me.  And they are always written by hand.

The House is Alive (With The Sound of Music)

Listening and dancing to (and making) music is awesome!

Today's NaBloPoMo prompt is... "Can you listen to music and write?"

Oh, NaBloPoMo... you ask nothing but silly questions.

I pretty much can't not listen to music.  Music is always playing.  It's one of the things that M and I have held in common since the day we met.  We are obsessed with music.

That isn't to say that I can listen to just anything while I write.  I have to listen to the write things for the writing that I need to do.

For example, when writing for school, or work... when writing evaluations of economic calculations, or details about the policies regarding food insecurity in the Greater Chicago Region, I listen to classical music.

I know, I know, "classical" is a gigantic umbrella.  It covers all sorts of music that has absolutely nothing in common, save a general public opinion of superiority or pretension.

My music of choice when doing that variety of writing is classical for one to three instruments.  I love listening to soloists like Andres Segovia and Glenn Gould, performing Chopin or Albeniz or Dvorak.  It keeps me focused, and energized, and the virtuosity inspires a command of my own voice.

I play blues piano and sing opera.  Too bad I get stage fright.

When it comes to every other variety of writing, I tend to go for something that suits my mood.  And for that purpose, I have a few pre-selected playlists.  "Lea's Happy Music," "Kitchen Music," "Work Work Work," and "Rainy Days."  To give you an idea of what those are like, here are the first ten songs from each of those lists- always simply set to random, and lasting anywhere from 6 hours to 6.3 days.


Lea's Happy Music
1. Every Dog Has Its Day - Flogging Molly
2. Live It For Today - DJ Rap
3. I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles - Vera Lynn
4. Clint Eastwood - Gorillaz
5. Hang On Little Tomato - Pink Martini
6. The Problem With Saints - 8in8
7. Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin
8. Ice Cream Man - Jonathan Richman
9. Those Were The Days - Mary Hopkinds
10. As Time Goes By - Vera Lynn & The Roland Shaw Orchestra

Kitchen Music
1. Extraordinary Machine - Fiona Apple
2. The Dolphins Cry - Live
3. One Headlight - The Wallflowers
4. The Mariner's Revenge Song - The Decemberists
5. Holland, 1945 - Neutral Milk Hotel
6. Superhero - Ani Difranco
7. Dust Bowl Dance - Mumford & Sons
8. Not A Crime - Gogol Bordello
9. Dilaudid - The Mountain Goats
10. This Train - Phil Forsyth and the Lone Gun Society

SI rocks the flutaphone

Work Work Work
1. Seven Caged Tigers - Stone Temple Pilots
2. Four Chords That made A Million - Porcupine Tree
3. Blue Orchid - The White Stripes
4. All Falls Down - Kanye West
5. Anyone Can Play Guitar - Radiohead
6. Burning Man - Third Eye Blind
7. House Of The Rising Sun - The Animals
8. Why Can't I Be You? - The Cure
9. Blur the Technicolor - White Zombie
10. So Whatcha Want - Beastie Boys

Rainy Days
1. Wild Is The Wind - Cat Power
2. Woods Part of When - Noe Venable
3. Jockey Full Of Bourbon - Tom Waits
4. Atoms For Peace - Thom Yorke
5. Raining in Baltimore - Counting Crows
6. Cowboys - Portishead
7. November Rain - Guns N' Roses
8. Come Rain Or Come Shine - Billie Holiday
9. Cloud My Tongue - Tori Amos
10. Indigo Boy - Esthero

Right now?  Cloud Forest, by Trace Bundy.

This house always has music playing.  (Unless I'm listening to Harry Potter on tape- Jim Dale is amazing.)  And that's how I have always been- surrounded by music.

DD- my future rock star

Next year the girls are going to start their first music lessons.  This will basically entail me buying a piano (or GOOD electric equivalent) and teaching them the basics of scales and arpeggios.  And when they're five they'll get to choose an instrument.  And they will learn it.

Instead of my house always echoing 99 Problems or Shesmovedon, it will echo the tuneless, joyless refrains of forced musical practice.  For a time.  And then, it will start sounding like music again.

The music of my brilliant children, on their flutes or violins or what-have-you, playing "The Man On The Flying Trapeze" ad nauseum for weeks.  And I will be so proud.  And I guarantee you, I'll write to that.

NaBloPoMo Day 2: Last Meal

I've put quite a bit of thought over the years into what my final meal would be, should I ever find myself on death row.

Not that there is any reason on this earth why I WOULD find myself of death row, mind you.

I've always wondered what I would ask for.  My food preferences vary wildly from day to day, so such an important meal?

Would I want a smorgasbord of my restaurant favorites?
Would I want something comforting and reassuring?  A remembrance of happier times?
Would I want to go out with a bang- load up on all the exotic delicacies I don't normally get to enjoy?

If it were the first, I can tell you what my smorgasbord would be.  French fries from the Oakland Original O, in Pittsburgh  PA, the Chopped Veggie Salad from the Cheesecake Factory, a South Carolina Maki roll from the House of Sushi and Noodles in Chicago (make that two rolls), a mudjadara sandwich from Ali Baba's in Ann Arbor, MI, and a gigantic ice cream cone of Mackinaw Island Fudge for dessert.

If I wanted something comforting and reassuring, I would want fake fried chicken (made from Loma Linda's fri-chik), lumpy mashed potatoes- skin on and loaded with butter and horseradish- with mushroom gravy, a mountain of peas, and a salad filled with ripe yellow peppers and avocados.  And my own recipe of corn bread- hot and fluffy and right out of the oven, smothered in butter and honey.

But if I were to go all out... to make my last meal absolutely the best meal of my life...

I would want Rick Bayless to make me a twelve course tasting menu.  And I would trust him to make it right.  "Rick," I would say, "this is my last meal. Make it amazing.  Put in some morels and blue potatoes and all the cilantro you can get."

And he's just the sort of guy who would do that, I think.

But honestly, the most important thing I would ask for is the company.  Because no meal is worth eating alone.  I would want my friends, but most importantly my family to be at the table with me.  To pass the dishes around, to talk, to laugh, and enjoy for one last time.

I would let my children mash their potatoes into their hair, or eat all the pickled ginger, or just eat rice.  I would smile, because they are so happy- they are always so happy in my mind.  And I would cry, because it would be our last meal.

If I ever find out that I'm truly dying- that I have only weeks to live- you can bet that dinners at my house will become a to-do.  Every meal treated like it might be my last.  Every meal a festival of life, a celebration of friends and company and the successes of living to eat another meal.

Every meal I would bend over backwards, make it the best meal of my life.  I would break the bank.  I would let out all the stops.

I almost look forward to dying just for that.  Just to make every dinner the most wonderful last meal I could imagine.  It's how I would want to be remembered.  Foisting second and third helpings on everyone, forgetting to share recipes, welcoming all my loved ones to the table.

I think that in that regard, we could all stand to die a little every day.  If only to remember what is really important to us when it comes to living.

NaBloPoMo

This year, I was seriously considering signing up for NaNoWriMo.  And, again, I didn't do it.  What with everything else I have going on, it was just too daunting- too big of a commitment.  But I felt like a real loser.  I've got a novel inside of me... I just need the time to let it out.

Eventually.

And then I discovered NaBloPoMo.  Which is, absolutely, a gigantic copout.  But it's sure making me feel better about myself.

Instead of writing a novel in a month, I'm going to be writing something based on a prompt every day for a month.  It's not exactly cohesive, it's not exactly 50,000 words in 30 days... but it's something.  And I'll feel pretty good about it come December.

The first prompt of the month is, "What is your favorite part about writing?"

Convoluted grammar aside, this prompt completely illustrates why I think it's a copout, but here we go anyway.

Some people see writing as a process, as a formula with a beginning, a middle, and an end.  I only really see it as one element- an action.  To write.  The fact that at the end you have a finished product is sort of irrelevant. I do it because I love it, because I love the satisfaction of putting two words together in a unique way, because of the incomparable ability of words to convey something universal and true, or something completely unknown and mysterious.

I love that within the strict limits of language, absolutely anything is possible.  All you have to do to make something happen, to make another living, breathing human being believe anything even for a split second is to say it the right way.  And there is a right way.  There is always perfection.

At least, in literature.  Probably not on this blog, but in my mind.  In occasional fragments of thoughts, joined into glorious cohesion.  Every once in a while, writing yields something beautiful.  And that is amazing.

But it's not why I do it.  I do it because I love it.  I would write even if I whole-heartedly believed that I sucked at it.  I would write if there was nobody on earth to read it.  I write because words are too important not to use, not to test, and not to experiment with.

My favorite part of writing is writing.

And you're gong to be getting an eyeful of it for the rest of the month.

Flexing Your Creative Muscles

Photo by Brigid Marz

Hello, lovely readers!

I'm guest blogging again today, over at Hannah Explains It All (kudos to all you fellow Snick fans who love the MJH reference!) on the subject of creativity.

How do you stay creative?  What is creativity?  Why does it matter?

For the answer to all of those questions and a box of crayons, head over to read the post!

Cheers!

Occasionally, creativity is exhausting.

End of the Month Controversy - Mythology

DD and SI at the beach

I'd like to take this opportunity to finally start a monthly feature over here I've been dying to get into for ages now.

I'd like to start stirring up some controversy.

You see, parenting is hard.  Really, really effing hard.  It's not the individual tasks, for the most part, it's the fact that it never ever stops.  Not while you're sleeping.  Not while you're eating.  Not ever.

No matter how hard a day job is, no matter if you're working 80 hours a week, you still get to stop.  Sometimes.  Even if you're on call every single day, you get to take a few moments to STOP being a doctor, or an engineer, or a teacher.  You get to breath for a few minutes and pretend that whatever happening somewhere else just plain isn't your problem.

Parenthood isn't like that.

While you're asleep, things that are ABSOLUTELY your problem can still happen at any moment.  While you're in the bathroom, you know that somebody's going to get hit with a toy truck or fall off of a piece of furniture.  If they're at school or with a sitter, you keep a phone handy so that the seemingly inevitable emergency looming over your offspring will come to your attention immediately.  Even once your kids move away, I can't imagine you ever stop worrying.

As a result, there are no simple answers.  There's no right way to do absolutely anything.  But as any parent will tell you, there are a million WRONG ways to do things.

There's an old Jewish proverb- "There is only one perfect child on this earth, and every mother has it."

I'd extend that to say, "There's only one perfect mother on this earth, and every child has it."  In her own opinion.  Or at least, as close as it gets.

This can lead, as I'm sure you might imagine, to a huge amount of inter-mother conflict.  I've written about it a great deal, here and here for example.  Moms are constantly attacking each other for their beliefs- not about life, God, or politics, but just about plain ol' parenting.

The same thing that people have been muddling through since the dawn of human history.

So for my first controversial topic, I choose the arguments of how one is to best raise their children.

DD

Every choice that I make is an indictment of every choice that contradicts it that another mother has made- IF that mother chooses to see it that way.  And it's hard not to.

Circumcise your kid?  You're a monster of a woman.  Feed your child Froot Loops?  You're a horrible parent.  Let them play with frogs and bugs?  They should lock you up.  Mothers are always attacking other mothers.  Not everyone, of course.  Not always to their faces.  But somewhere in our lizard brains, I know we're all doing it.  Taking other parenting choices personally.

I had a professor once who described mythology as, "Somebody else's religious beliefs."

People take religion VERY personally.  If I say that my religion is what I believe, and it contradicts your religion, that means that one of our religions is wrong, doesn't it?  It means that either I'm going to Hell, or you'll miss the nice hike to Jerusalem once the messiah comes.  But it can't be both.  Our disagreement is absolute.  Unless we make a very conscious choice to find common ground.

Bad parenting could probably likewise be described as, "Somebody else's parenting mistakes."

But "mistakes?"  Totally objective.  Do I think it's a mistake to postpone potty training?  Maybe.  For me.

That phrase, "for me," that's what's most important.  It would be a mistake "for me."  For that family?  For that parent?  For that child?  Who am I to judge?  If I say that my parenting choice works for me, and you say that yours works for you, where is that conflict?  Who's to say that they're not both perfectly good?  Who's to say that my child wouldn't be just as healthy if they weren't vaccinated, or that yours wouldn't be just as well adjusted if you had?  These are choices that are not so black and white, that we should have to work towards an understanding.  We should just be able to nod and say, "Yeah, it's hard, and you've made a decision that works for you."  Whether we agree with it or not, this much is true.

Towards the end of each month, I will write on a topic filled with controversial potential.  Circumcision, vaccination, abortion, home schooling... my list is long.  Some of them still create disharmony in my own home with my own husband.  And all of them are related to parenting.

All of them come back to one fundamental idea- is somebody else's parenting choice a mythology or a theology?  How respectful can we be of different ideas- my own included- without feeling that our own emotional security is threatened?

It's a really difficult job, respecting different parenting choices.  It's hard to avoid hurtful language when disagreeing.  It's hard to tell somebody you do things differently without saying that you do it better.  And that's what makes people crazy.

They've got to know that they're doing better than the person who does it differently.  Because for some reason, we seem to believe that there's only one right answer.  That's what religion tells us, it's what mathematics tells us, and it's what our innate fears tell us.  But it's not true.  It's almost never true in the life of living creatures.  We make choices between perfect alternatives every day, without even thinking about it.  But we put so much thought into parenting, so much work, so much worry...

SI

If you do it one way, and I do it another... can we both be right?

I think we can.  But we don't get the answer until our children grow into functional individuals within their own new adult society.  And people become functional adults all the time- regardless of how badly their parents screwed up.

So yes, we can both be right.  Or we can both be wrong.  But neither of us has any clue which it's going to be, so we might as well be civil about it.




2. There is no one "right" way to be a good mom...

Rockin' the Bump

I've always loved Jewel.  But that's not why I'm linking up with Rockin' the Bump.  I'm liking up because I ROCKED the bump.  I LOVED the bump, no matter how miserable or uncomfortable I was.  I LOVED the bump.  So I showed it off.  And here, for your viewing pleasure, is how I rocked the bump.

22 weeks pregnant with twins

25 weeks pregnant with twins

28 weeks pregnant with twins

30 weeks pregnant with twins

32 weeks pregnant with twins

33 weeks pregnant with twins

34 weeks 5 days pregnant with twins, just a few short days before popping.

The Mom Pledge Vlog Tour

As you may or may not recall, I took The Mom Pledge.  Now there's a Vlog hop of sorts, a get-to-know-you-face-to-face.  How un-internet-y!  So of course, I've finally put aside all of my other projects and had a conversation with my video camera.  I hope you enjoy!

Integrity

The grublings playing on the lawn

As most of you are probably already aware, I'm in school these days.

I'm a perpetual student.

I've majored in Opera Performance, in Philosophy, in Creative Writing, in Fashion Design... and now, here I am.  Narrowing in on my degree at last.  In Public Administration and Urban Policy.

Sort of a left turn from where I started out, no?

I've been in college, a variety of colleges, for the past twelve years.  It used to be exciting, exhilarating.  I used to learn and have my preconceptions tested and debunked.  Not anymore.

Now I'm just getting by.  Killing time.  Closing in on the end.  And this is an endless source of depression for me.

DD

You see, there's a reason I've never finished my degree.  It's not that I'm lazy, or disorganized.  It's not that I was ridiculously young to be embarking on a college career, and sort of confused about it.  No, it's a matter of integrity.  Once I realized that I had no intention of building a career, of using the degree I was working towards, I couldn't continue towards it in good conscience.  When I realized I would never be able to be an artist (which is to say, never be ONLY an artist as opposed to waiting tables or telemarketing), I left art school.  Once I realized that I could never work in an industry that is fully conscious of the exploitation of its laborers (had a lovely conversation with the accessory buyer for Sears that devolved into a shouting match), I dropped out of fashion school.  Once I realized that being a working philosopher was, in most respects, worse than being a working artist, I joined AmeriCorps.

But now I'm almost done with my degree.  A degree that I can use, that I can move into non-profit management, or walk into the public sector and find meaningful work utilizing.

And I'm miserable.

SI

Why?  Because I am learning nothing.  In these twelve years that I have been school hopping, the standards in the Universities across this country have dropped dramatically.  Here I am, juggling two toddlers, a fairly complicated personal life, and completely half-assing my school work.  And even though I'm completely aware of how much I'm half-assing it, putting in three times the work of my fellow students.  Self-entitled slackers who make excuses like, "It was my boyfriend's birthday so I had to go to the club instead of preparing my presentation.  I even lost my sweater."

...these students are getting As.

The work I'm doing now, this work MIGHT have gotten me Bs at my first community college, over a decade ago.  And the degree I would have gotten with these grades?  It would have gotten me a really good job.

This degree is only going to get me a good job because I've also got the experience and the networking skills.  By itself, I'd be looking at grad school.  And this makes me feel like a fraud.

This degree, it's meaningless.  It means that anyone in my classes can get this degree, which is to say that they can limp along, never doing the reading or the homework, coming up with sob stories and excuses, and walk away with this degree.

DD

When I started this program, it was a pilot.  It was entirely taught by graduate faculty.  And they made me WORK.  They made me LEARN.  One of them even gave me a B, and she was right.  I could have done better.

Now they've hired on a whole faculty of undergrad professors.  Who mostly just care about making sure everyone passes.  Already knowing the material, knowing that I'm half-assing it... I feel like a cheater.

And I want to teach my children about integrity.  I want to teach them that they should stand up for professionalism, for intelligence.  For doing their best.  Regardless of how unpopular or isolated in might make them for a time.  No matter how many people might tell them that they're wasting they're energy, or making them look bad.  I want my children to know that they should always do their best.  Should always BE their best.

So for me, this degree is going to represent a betrayal of my ideals.  And that really hurts.  But it's just as important that I set an example for my children that they finish what they start.  No matter how long it takes.  So I'm going to finish.

SI

And maybe I'm going to learn something important, too.  Maybe I'm finally going to learn a lesson about shutting up and doing what I'm told.  I've never been good at that.  I've never wanted to be.  I still don't.  I would always rather be the lone voice on the side of honesty and decency, and not blindly following along when it makes no sense.  But isn't that what you really need to succeed in this world?  Isn't knowing how to put on some blinders and just get things done because you HAVE to a good thing?  I had a supervisor tell me that once, right before he sent me home without pay to decide whether or not he was going to fire me.

So often, I find myself looking at a crowd and seeing a mass of ignorant, angry, or frightened strangers.  People who are looking for any excuse to follow- not to have to think for themselves.  And there are two kinds of people who can see the crowd and stay out of it- people of character and integrity, and people who want to lead the frightened masses.  Who want to tell them who to blame, who to castigate, who to attack.

I don't want to be that kind of person.  I want to be the sort of person who slowly but surely opens their eyes to the crowd around them, to the dangerous wackos pointing them in meaningless circles, and help them find a way to their own path- and their own mind.  I want other people to find that integrity within themselves, to hold themselves up as the best example of themselves that they can be.  Not to half-ass it when they can be so brilliant.

M and his children

This time next year, despite my husband's cancer, despite my complicated pregnancy, despite my wedding and my children and my own illnesses, and despite changing degrees seven times and changing schools five times since I was a terrified and green 15 year old freshman, I'll be getting myself a cap and a gown.  I'll be getting ready to do something I've never done before in my life.  I'll be getting ready to graduate.

I just hope I can set aside all of my disappointment and disillusionment and enjoy it when it happens.