Personal Truths

Who is that masked man?

As you are probably aware, I a big believer in being honest with my kids. Most of the time.

And as my children have gotten older (Today, my almost-five year old told me, 'When I was a little kid I didn't know so many things.') they have become more inquisitive, and have longer memories.

And they remember my lies.

Recently? Santa Claus. Somehow, the topic of Santa Claus came up. SI was so excited to talk about Santa. "Santa gave me my velveteen rabbit!" she said, over and over.

And I got really uncomfortable.

Because I gave her that rabbit. And Santa isn't real. And it's starting to feel like a REAL lie, and not a cute lie.

So you can imagine how welcome it was yesterday when they insisted on wearing their sundresses, "From the Easter Bunny!" and wanted to talk all about it.

I grunted instead of answering a bunch of questions, but SI and DD... they're sharp kids. They figured out I was being evasive pretty quick. And then they asked me...

"Mommy? When you were a little girl, did the Easter Bunny give YOU pretty dresses?"

I sighed, and my mind raced through all the borderline heated discussions my husband and I have had about whether or not Christmas is secular and who Santa is and where our religious backgrounds meet and diverge.

"No, honey. The Easter Bunny never gave me things."

"But... why?"

There is was. There were two honest answers, and I was going to have to give at least one of them.

"The Easter Bunny doesn't bring things to Jewish children," I began. But the children pointed out to me that I was obviously wrong.

"The Easter Bunny brings things to US, and WE'RE Jewish."

"Well, that's because Daddy's not Jewish, he's Christian."

They frowned at me. This didn't make any sense. I knew it as well as they did.

"Look," I said, sitting on the floor and trying not to sweat. "The Easter Bunny wasn't real for me when I was a little girl. But the Easter Bunny is real for you because Daddy makes it real for you. Just like Daddy makes Santa real for you. When I was little, Santa and the Easter Bunny weren't real for me, because my whole family is Jewish, so we didn't have Easter or Christmas. But because Daddy is Christian, you have Easter and Christmas, and the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus."

SI accepted this, and launched into a monologue about how she photobombed everybody's pictures of the Easter Bunny this year, which she definitely did. But DD wasn't sure this whole situation made sense.

"Santa's not real for you?" she asked.

Is it Santa? Or Uncle Robot in a wig?

"No, honey. Not for me."

Her eyes filled with what could only be sympathy. "And the Easter Bunny? He's not real for you?"

"No, sweetie. He's not."

"But he's real for me and SI? And RH?"

"Daddy makes him real for you. Does that make sense?"

She nodded, but not like she meant it. And that was the end of the conversation.

For now.

To be honest, these questions are easier than the ones I really want to avoid. "What are you watching?" while I stream footage from Ferguson, or "Why are you crying?" while we watch Night at the Museum.

It's hard to know how little control we have in the world, how little we can dictate what our kids see and feel, and what the world will do to them. And lying feels wrong, some days more so than others.

Some days, the idea of lying to my kids that Santa is in any way real hurts me to my core, makes me feel the bitterness of exclusion and the smug superiority of being right when somebody else is just plain wrong. And I don't like those feelings.

And some days, I love thinking about the little things I do at Christmas to make Santa real for them. Because despite being the Jewish parent, it's mostly fallen on me. I pick out the gifts. I fill their stockings when they aren't there. I coordinate with friends to come by in their Santa suits and read a story with my ecstatic children. And I take pride in seeing them so happy, and their joy brings me joy.

But the truth is pretty much always preferable to lies.

So what is mommy watching? "Mommy is watching the police, who we know are supposed to be good guys, shooting rubber bullets at people who just want to know why they hurt somebody."

Why is mommy crying? "Because there's a man in this movie who was a wonderful person, and he died, and it makes me sad."

Those truths hurt more than whether or not Daddy makes Santa real ever could.

I think I can let them hold onto that lie a little bit longer.

At A Loss for Words

"I'm gonna miss you."

A lot has happened this summer that I've had a hard time putting words to.

Several months ago, you, my lovely readers, helped me reach my fundraising goal for the Postpartum Progress Climb Out of the Darkness.

It was a strange experience, to be surrounded by women who have also survived PPD, with their husbands and children in tow, gleeful and motivated.

We didn't talk about our shared experiences. Nobody wants to drag those things up, to trigger anyone else's emotional distress. But it was there, silent, below the surface.

It made me feel a little naked for the truth of my experience to be so exposed.

The Chicago Climbers

So I didn't know what to say about it. And time after time, as I sat down to write about it, I couldn't find the words.

Today, the world lost a brilliant light. Robin Williams killed himself, another victim of depression lost their fight.

I knew Robin Williams had battled depression. I don't remember him talking about it explicitly, but I had seen enough interviews with him. I'd seen enough of his roles.

Depression, like any disease, has symptoms. And many times over the course of his iconic career those symptoms were visible. They were visible to me, somebody who didn't know him, but knew them. And they must have been visible to other people. So why didn't he get help?

The thing is, I know he did get help. You don't live to 63 without coming to terms with your disease, at least a couple times. But like any chronic condition, coming to terms with it a few times isn't enough. It's something you have to live with. To manage and control. Forever.

And when you're in the midst of what one might call a "flare up" if it were any other sort of disease, forever is too long. Forever is too goddamn long to bear.

How many times did Robin Williams spend an afternoon in the company of other people who had shared his disease, none of them talking about it?

I want to talk about it. I want all of us to talk about it.

Robin Williams had a disease. He was Bipolar, and with that comes depression.

If Robin Williams had been battling cancer all these years, what would we be saying now?

I ask myself those questions a lot. I have depression, and sometimes it flares up. Sometimes I get the fun-pack of flavors of depression. The postpartum, the manic, the situational, the biplar, and even the suicidal. It's a disease I may never be cured of, and I have to accept that. I have to be aware that when it flares up, and there is always that awful when, I will need to get help all over again.

I don't want to be the parent who kills themselves when my kids are in their twenties. I don't want to be the mom who straps her kids into the car and drives off a cliff. I don't want to be that person.

But that's what depression does. That's what it did to Robin Williams, who's career included some of the greatest of comedy and the greatest of drama my generation knows. Robin Williams, who made me cry in the Dead Poets Society, who made me cry in Hook, who made me laugh in Death to Smoochy and became the bedrock of my childhood in Aladdin.

Depression is real. It is a disease. As surely as cancer can kill if left untreated, so can depression.

And just as surely as cancer can be treated and beaten, so can depression.

I don't want us to look at Robin Williams as some sort of cautionary tale. As some sort of quitter, or failure, or somehow less than the sum of his incomparable accomplishments because this is how the story of his life ended.

Robin Williams was the victim of a disease that we need to take seriously.

And as the words, "Robin Williams was," start to sink in, I'll pop in "The Birdcage," and raise a glass to a man who fought a long fight, and lost.

As someday, we all will.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

A windy day for a ball game

You may have noticed that the blog has been relatively quiet this summer.

There's been a lot going on for the SuperMommy family. A week and a half in Minnesota, a few trips to Michigan, me- traveling solo not once but twice in the course of a single season.

But so far, one of my favorite of our many chaotic excursions has been our trip to Target Field in the twin cities.

M is from north of the twin cities, and he's a big fan of the Twins. Which normally I don't make fun of him for, being a Pirates fan, but the last couple years have been nice. The kids love going to baseball games, but this was the first time we've been to one where the kids really paid attention.

DD sat next to me the whole game, double and triple checking which team were the good guys (that would be the Twins, in white), and which team were the bad guys (that would be the White Sox, in grey. You can see how confusing this is for a four year old.).

It was a really exciting game. The Twins held onto a lead for the first couple innings, then the Sox tied it. And then it was just time to bite our fingernails and root root root for the home team until they had a killer inning and tripled the score.

So I did what any self respecting baseball fan would do when they have their four year old daughter trapped in the glow of a tight ball game. I taught her to heckle.

"Swing, batter batter batter!" she shouted. The little old ladies two rows up from us turned around, grinning.

"Hey, batter batter batter! SWING! Batter batter batter!"

Aunt Engineer joined in the fun. "Hey DD- say, 'We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher!'"
"We want a... what is it again?"

And two innings later, "WE WANT A PITCHER! NOT A BELLY ITCHER!"

RH got in on the heckling, too. "Hey, badoo badoo badoo! SING BADOO BADOO BADOO!"

RH in sparkly shoes and Batman pants, ready to rock the ball game

But maybe my favorite bit of heckling the kids enjoyed was when DD and SI screamed together at Paul Konerko- "Hey Paulie! Go back to Bronzeville!"

Sad though I am to say, the Twins have taken the spot of "favorite team" in the girls hearts, stolen right away from my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates.

I harbor no ill will. Sharing in the jubilation and misery of their father's team is something I never experienced. Poppa kindly shielded me from becoming a Mets fan, and I will forever be grateful. Instead, I formed a lifelong abusive relationship with the team from my first home town, where my father took me once in a while to attempt to reconcile that the Pirates were actually the good guys, when they were... well... pirates. Even after we moved to New Jersey and the Mets were so much closer, even when we moved to Detroit during Cecil Fielder's prime... my love lay with the Pirates.

And that's kind of what baseball is about. Blind faith. Unfathomable and illogical loyalty to a team who plays whether or not you're watching, who trades you favorite players and falls apart at the end of August.

It's about falling in love with being in the ball park, and reveling in the insanity caused by a stomach full of ice cream and pretzels, and the smell of spilled warm beer.

I remember vividly when I was about their age, my father's best friend taught me to heckle the players. Somebody on the away team had been caught corking their bat earlier in the season, and under Alan's careful tutelage I leaned over the rail at the old Tiger's Stadium and screamed, "PUT A CORK IN IT!!!"

I had no idea what I was saying. And yes, I recognize that in general, being the loud, screaming, oblivious fan in the stands is not something you want to do. But there is something magical about the belief that if you scream loud enough, and clap hard enough, and heckle thoroughly, you can actually help your team win. You can be part of the victory, or the defeat.

It's addictive. And glorious.

We're taking the kids to another White Sox game this month. I know, we live on Chicago's south side, and they should be our team... but M is a Twins fan, and being a Pirate's fan makes me entirely sympathetic to the Cubs, so if we must pick a Chicago team, it's going to be Wrigleyville any day of the week. But there's never a bad reason to go to a baseball game, and teaching the kids to heckle with delight is as good a reason as any.

Slowly but surely, they're learning the rule. Maybe next year I'll teach them to scream obscenities at the ump.

Okay, maybe I'll save that for when they're in high school. Or college.

M and the twins watching the Twins win

For now, I'm happy to keep taking them out to the ball game, buying them peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and root root rooting for the home team.

So long as it's not the White Sox.

Reinventing Your Fate - #Change #FindTheWords

As the school year begins, too many children are already falling behind. I am 1 of 30 bloggers helping #FindtheWords with @SavetheChildren to raise awareness of the need for early childhood education for all kids. I am participating in this social media campaign to highlight 30 words in 30 days -- to symbolize the 30 million fewer words that children from low-income homes hear by age 3.

Save the Children provides kids in need with access to books, essential learning support and a literacy-rich environment, setting them up for success in school and a brighter future. Learn more about Save the Children’s work in the US and around the world: http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.6153159/k.C8D5/USA.htm

Read to the end for a Giveaway!

When I was about nine years old, I fell in love with the All-Of-A-Kind Family books.

I don't know how exactly they came into my hands, but they were the perfect blend of familiarity and fantasy. A pre-WWI family with five daughters living in New York, Jewish and American, wearing beautiful dresses but also destroying them as they climbed trees and hid in Papa's rag shop.

As a Jewish American girl with two sisters, living in New Jersey, I was in love. I fantasized about my parents having a gaggle of additional children- the idea of being the second oldest took root, and I thought it would be MUCH better than simply being in the middle. The stories the family in the book told about Elijah the prophet and the obviously archaic but still fascinating way girls weren't permitted to study Hebrew, which I began to take particular joy in doing at synagogue on Saturdays, stayed with me as I stayed up all night, reading and re-reading the stories.

And then I had the most incredible discovery- there were more All-Of-A-Kind Family books.

I snuggled under the covers to read the second, All-Of-A-Kind Family Downtown, and read with total obsession the story of the birth of the five sisters' new baby brother.

He was sick, and it seemed he might die. So one day, in the midst of all the worry, Papa takes the baby to the rabbi, to change his name. Papa explains that sometimes, when somebody is very sick, the only thing left to do is change their name. That way, when the angel of death comes looking for them, they'll be looking for the wrong person and pass them by.

Silly, I know. The idea that you can change your name and be so profoundly changed that your own fate can't find you. But it resonated with me.

It was around that time I had become not only an insomniac, but also depressed. As my childish depression deepened into something more profound, I kept thinking about that story. About changing your name and changing your destiny. And so when I was ten years old, I made the decision to change my name.

My grandmother mocked me. She would call me "Rachel," and I would answer, and she would point out that if I didn't want people to call me that I had to stop answering to it. So I did. From that point on, the only name I would answer to was my middle name.

I was determined to stop being Rachel. I was going to be somebody else. Somebody less frightened of being made fun of, somebody bolder and braver and more confident. To me, 'Rachel' was a shroud I'd been wearing my whole life, and had done nothing to make me happy. So I shrugged her off, and assumed the identity of my middle name, 'Lea,' who wore whatever the hell she wanted to instead of trying to fit in with the WASPy pre-teens in her girl scout troop. Claudia, from the Babysitter's Club, became my style icon. I cut off my long hair and embraced the "New Jan Brady" style 'fro that puffed up in its wake. And then my family moved.

I embraced every aspect of this change. I was a new person, with a new look, a new outlook on life, and now- a new location. I showed up for my first day of middle school with my hair puffed in a halo around my head, horn rim styled pastel glasses, a floor length gold skirt, and a blue cropped faux turtleneck t-shirt.

And while it was true that everything on the outside had changed- my appearance, my name, my location, my school... things were fundamentally the same. I was still woefully unpopular, still the butt of ceaseless jokes and the recipient of incessant bullying, and still profoundly unhappy.

But I was more confident in who I was. I was a person who had defined myself, and although my attempt to change my life by changing myself hadn't exactly worked the wanted it to, it had worked in some way. I had, mysteriously, kind of grown up a little.

I was changed by the act of changing.


----

Books had a profound impact on me during my childhood, but not every child is so lucky. Having books in the house helps children learn not just to read, but to appreciate and cultivate language. 65% of young children in need have no access to books, and more than two thirds of poverty level households have no books appropriate for children in the house.

By the age of three, children from low-income homes hear on average 30 million fewer words than their peers, which puts them at a disadvantage when they start school- a cognitive delay of eighteen months.

But we can change that.

Join in the #FindTheWords campaign! If you see a picture of my word, "Change," tweet it with the hashtags #FindTheWords and #Change. Help raise awareness of what Save The Children is doing to help kids reach their potential, and move out of poverty.

...if all the student in low-income countries learned basic reading skills, 171 million people could be raised out of poverty.

Can you #FindtheWords? #Change @SavetheChildren pic.twitter.com/9h8DHD5GG4
— Lea Grover (@bcmgsupermommy) August 8, 2014

You can help.

And to thank you, I'll be able to give one of you a $100 gift card, from Save The Children. All you have to do is comment on this post, telling me about when reading has changed you. Or helped you change the world for the better. (Please leave your email address in the comment, a link to somewhere I can find you via social media. Facebook, twitter, the usual.)

#FindTheWords. Be the #Change you wish to see in the world.

Losing a Friend You Can Always Find

Ten years ago, I met this girl.

I have to admit, at first I had some reservations about her. I knew her through our mutual friend, her roommate, and she was a bit... odd.

At barely 18, she had left home and moved across the country to where her boyfriend lived. A boyfriend she'd never met in person, but had known online for several years. A boyfriend I only met twice in seven years.

She was a vegan self-made expert on feminism and human sexuality, and although her quiet snark could cut, she was sweet and conscientious to a fault.

We became friends. Close friends. I helped her get a job with me, working eldercare. She made herself incredibly unpopular with management of the senior center building when she brought to light the sexual abuses undocumented women were experiencing at the hands of the people they were caring for.

She was always looking out for other people.

I liked her a lot. Truth be told, I loved her. She was one of my closest friends. She stood up in my wedding. She helped me move furniture. She modeled for me when I painted.

She was a good friend.

I probably wasn't so good a friend. I went through a lot in those years. I needed a lot. And maybe, I didn't realize that she needed more from me. She was such a giver, she made it easy to ask favors, to ask for help.

She helped me when M and I moved in together. She helped me when he was going through chemo. She helped me get ready for the wedding. She helped me move again, when I was six months pregnant with twins.

And then one day, I called her. I'd seen on facebook that she and the long time boyfriend were engaged, and I wanted to offer my congratulations. She didn't want to talk to me. She was angry at me. I'm still not really sure about what, but she had a list.

The strange thing was, most of the things on her list? They weren't real. She told me I'd never liked her fiancé, who I'd only met twice (once at my wedding). She accused me of stealing a DVD, which I promptly bought and had shipped to her. She told me she hated the portrait I'd painted of her.

I sat on my bed and listened to her list my faults and my transgressions, and I apologized. I couldn't think what else to do. And when I asked what I could do, she told me I could never contact her again.

I agreed, and she glibly told me goodbye, and hung up.

It took me a few months to do everything she wanted me to do. To unfriend her on facebook, and take her off my google chat list.

It sucked. Every second of it sucked. Because she was my friend, and I loved her, and I was heartbroken that when it seemed she was so happy and life was going so well for her, what she wanted most from me was to leave her alone. Forever.

I've kept my word, for the most part. I haven't contacted her. But when her new husband sent me a friend request, I took it. And although it's been four years now, I can't help myself. I check in on her.

You see, people are easy to find now. Particularly when you have mutual friends. A quick googling, a run through photos on somebody else's wall, a few unflattering minutes searching...

You can kind of stalk anyone you want to. And you shouldn't.

But it's hard. It's hard when I see her name published somewhere, and know her career is going well, it's hard to know I can't send her a note telling her I'm happy for her, and I'm unaccountably proud, and I'm glad she's doing exactly what she knew she wanted to do when she was eighteen.

Social media is amazing. With social media we can keep up instantly with the news. with our celebrity icons, with television shows we like, with bands we follow, with the teams we root for. Thanks to social media, I can find out nearly instantly when my friends have babies, or get new jobs, break up, or have a really awesome meal at a restaurant I want to try.

But it also makes us, all of us, accessible in a way we never have been before. Anybody can probably find me, if they try hard enough. Just as I can always find somebody I knew once upon a time, but lost touch with, somehow.

I miss her, and being able to see her whenever I want, from a distance, makes it linger. Makes it impossible for me to just pull the plug and unfriend her husband (who I have never disliked), and tell myself to stop looking for her articles.

But I keep hoping one day she'll miss me, too. And one day she'll check and see how I'm doing, and maybe just click "like" on just one thing, just once.

Because she was a good friend, and I miss her.

I've been thinking about it a lot lately, as the release date of the new HerStories book about the end of female friendships approaches. I have a piece in the book, but it's not about this friend. This ex. Because whenever I think about the idea that our friendship is really over, that it's really done and everything that could be said has passed... it still hurts.

Four years later, it hurts. And I still wish I could call her up to let her know how glad I am that she's happy. How glad I am she was my friend. How no matter what has happened, I'll still always be there for her. If she ever wanted me to be.



-------

"My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Leaving and Losing Friends" comes out next month. You can pre-order below



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Your New Best Resource

This is a sponsored post, brought to you by MomAssembly. All opinions are my own.

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Classes on coping with postpartum depression. On marital conflict resolution. Classes on how to maximize your maternity leave.

These are the things you might not have anyone to teach you. These are things you might be afraid to ask, but need to know.

I went through the classes for the course, "Coping with Postpartum Depression," nodding along so hard I almost gave myself whiplash. These courses are cleverly designed as a conversation between a woman with PPD, and a therapist.

Can I just say how brilliant this is? If only I'd had this resource when I was suffering through PPD after RH was born. Not only would it have made me feel so much less broken, so much more human, to see another person experiencing so much of what I was experiencing, but to put it in the context of therapy is perfect. It shows that therapy helps, that it's not frightening or embarrassing or invasive. It's both a class and also tacit permission to go out and get the help you need, a support structure, if you will.

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The Truth About Sex After Kids

People like to joke that once you have kids, you stop having sex.

Obviously this isn't true, or there would be no such thing as younger siblings or vasectomy parties. (Yes, I contemplated throwing my husband a party to commemorate his vasectomy. I am certain this is actually a thing people do, and I'm not just a lunatic. There are menses parties, for god's sake!) I sometimes think this is a myth created by people who just don't want to imagine that their parents actually had sex for pleasure on a regular basis.

Movies like "Date Night" perpetuate this myth, with such hilarious scenes as the mouthguard incident, or the look of shock on Tina Fey's face when her friend says she's getting divorced in part because she and her husband were only having sex two or three times a week. And yeah, I laughed my ass off, because I'd recently had twins and my husband and I were living in shifts in order to take care of two sets of dirty diapers and whatnot 24 hours a day, and yeah, we weren't having sex every night. But judging all of parenthood by the first six weeks is like judging all baseball teams by the Cubs, or judging all of "Up" by the first ten minutes.

So I'm going to set the record straight.

Sex is a minefield at first. First off, there's the awkwardness factor of attempting to move in concert with another person in such a way that both of you can avoid making strange and humiliating noises (and not just with your mouths) and trying to look sexy while you do it. Then there's the goodie-bag of body issues most of us go into sexual relationships with, making things just that much harder by necessitating a completely dark or poorly lit sex environment. On top of that, there's shame based indoctrination, that tells men they're never big enough and they don't "last long enough," and tells women they should be capable of half a dozen orgasms pretty much all on their own with no help, or that they're not really supposed to like sex to begin with, depending on their cultural backgrounds.

Basically, until you get comfortable with your partner, sex is kind of... awful.

That's not to say it doesn't still feel great. Because let's be honest, most of the time it does. But parts of it are embarrassing and confusing and involve lots of talks about what it all means, and whether you're having enough of it, and you avoid the conversations that might actually make it better.

After kids? Forget all of that. Sex is completely different. Why?

Because you have completely lost all sense of shame or embarrassment towards your body and what it does. The fears you used to have about whether or not he'll stop liking you if he notices your fat stomach are replaced by the knowledge that this person has watched you screaming in pain while you carried multiple human beings around inside of you, with random parts swelling up and growing hair no human should grow and with that wild hormonal glint in your eyes that threatens actual physical violence, and you know what? They still love you!

So fuck it!

Once the realization that your partner loves your body and what it does, regardless of what you think of it, really hits?

The sex is incomparably better. You can simply ask for what you like. You can explore your fetishes and kinks and preferences, even the ones that previously embarrassed you, because nothing embarrasses you anymore. Not when you've both sat staring at each other at the crack of dawn, covered in the same infant's vomit and feces. Not when you've had more conversations than you care to count about the kids' diarrhea and whether or not the shits you're both experiencing indicate a virus, something psychosomatic, or yet another side effect of prolonged fatigue. Not when you've been responsible for popping each others' back pimples, harping on each other to get to the gym, and sitting on the couch after the children are FINALLY asleep, each eating your own entire pint of Ben and Jerry's. Once you hit that point, the sex is epic.

And that makes people feel icky. To know that their birth heralded in a new and exciting era in boning for their parents is beyond uncomfortable.

So stop making it about them already, and make it about you.

All that said, there are still some deep truths when it comes to the levels of exhaustion a couple with children experiences come the end of the day. There is nothing quite like going to bed utterly exhausted and already covered in four people's fluids to make you NOT want to be covered in another variety.

There are levels of bone weary tired that only appear when a kid woke you up at three in the morning the night before because they had a hangnail, and then another woke you up at dawn because you promised they could have scrambled eggs for breakfast. SCRAMBLED EGGS. It's not like you need an extra hour to prepare them, for God's sake! Followed by a whole day of wrangling into carseats, evacuating from car seats, pushing around loaded strollers while doling out snacks and keeping tabs on space cadet kids who forget to follow you in the middle of a park because they thought they heard a dog somewhere.

That kind of exhaustion comes only with having children or providing instructions to astronauts in a busted space ship for what to do to keep their air breathable until they can make their descent back through Earth's atmosphere.

So when it comes to post child sex, there are really two varieties, and for your reading pleasure I will sum them up to you with the following entirely theoretical definitely not real certainly not from me and M conversations:


"Hey, remember that thing you did the other night that made me see God while I was orgasming? Can you do that again, only this time can I be blindfolded and can you use some ice?"
"Sure! Only you have to promise that tomorrow you'll do that other thing. Twice. And I want you to wear that thing we got on Valentine's Day while you do it the second time."
"Do we have to wait until tomorrow? Can we do it now?"
"Yes please!"


"I'm so horny. But I'm soooooooo tiiiiiiiired."
"If you decide you're more horny than tired, I can rally."
"You can rally? Okay... these pajama pants have a hole in the crotch. How about I just lie here and you make this happen through the hole in my pants, and we call it a night?"
"I'm not doing that."
"Probably for the best. That would make the laundry extra gross."
"snooooore"



So the truth is that it's inconsistent. Like almost everything in life. But it's not the sad, exhausted, infrequent joke it's made out to be.

Which is why vasectomy parties should totally be a thing.

Go get your freak on, people with kids. You have more than earned it.

Sunday Blogaround - 7.13.14

I've been meaning to revive the Blogaround for a while now, but this week I'd like to do something a little different.

This is a list of of the Listen To Your Mother videos of women I've known forever online, or who I've read since before we had any idea what we're doing, or whose careers I've followed forever.

In short, these writers and my icons, my role models, and my friends.

Enjoy.

Of course, the place to start is with the Listen To Your Mother Chicago show. The whole thing. The WHOLE thing.  They're all spectacular.





This is Jessica of Four Plus An Angel, which is one of the first blogs I started following as a mother of multiples. She's just reached her kickstarter goal for her new children's book, Soon. You can still donate and get yourself a copy for another three days.





Last year, when my letter, "Dear Less Than Perfect Mom," went sort of viral... I got this weird note from a stranger saying that somebody had stolen it, and she was going to take care of it for me. Julie ushered me into the world of blogging in a way I'd never seen it before- as truly a community not of back-stabbing content thieves, but of writers supporting each other and looking out for each other. I've been thrilled to watch Julie's NFP, Sober Mommies, grow, and when this piece first appeared on her blog, Next Life NO Kids, I loved it and cried and loved it some more. Putting a voice to all her words has been remarkable.





This is Kristi of Finding Ninee. I've been reading her blog for ages, thinking that THIS is where the quality writing of the blogosphere was. When I met her at BlogU, I made an ass of myself by mispronouncing its name (It's NINE-ee, not nee-nee). Her calm and humor always impress me. Both online, and in person. And now, on film as well.





This is Ashley of Clothesline Confessional, who I met and fell in love with at BlogHer last year. In the past year she went from starting a personal blog to reading aloud her letter to the mother of mass shooters on the news, and now to the stage. I am so proud of her, and so happy to hear her voice again.





This is Kerry, one of the geniuses of In The Powder Room. I've been laughing my ass off at her expense for years, and having a voice to put to all the hilarious stories she's shared in the past brings them all to life all over again.





Another friend from BlogHer 13 is Cheryl, who runs Busy Since Birth. I can't tell you how grateful I am that I got half lost looking for the bus, because it led me to spending an afternoon in her inimitable company. I was thrilled when she became a LTYM producer, but I had no idea how utterly spectacular her piece would be.





I also met Erin and Ellen of The Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms at BlogHer last year as well, but I'd been following them online for a while. Sometimes, when you watch people interact as a duo on the internet, you feel like it's got to be some sort of act. But it's not. The love of these two women for each other is completely heartwarming.





This is Janel, of 649.133, which I've featured on the Blogaround more times than I can count. I love this woman. She's amazing.





This is Rebekah. Once upon a time, I was an AmeriCorps VISTA, and she was the VISTA before me who trained me in. She taught me the ropes of managing the recycling truck, and talked about her undying love for the Dave Matthews Band. When she drove down to Chicago to see our show, she joked that she would run into people from her AmeriCorps days. And as it turned out, she was right. It was wonderful seeing her again, and it's wonderful to feel like she's back in my life.





Another writer I followed vaguely on Momaical before meeting her at BlogHer, and religiously after, Tracy is utterly hilarious. And insightful. And she's just plain great.





This is Carissa, who I also met at BlogHer. I know, there's a theme here. She's one of the sweetest, most considerate people I've ever met. When I saw he again at BlogU, she hugged me and asked all about my family. As though we'd spent all of high school together rather than a weekend a year ago. She's charming and wonderful, and you should listen to her, and read everything she's ever written.





Amanda, of Questionable Choices in Parenting, is in a group of bloggers I call my tribe, and she's hilarious and warm, always. Watching her read this story was amazing, because it might have been the first time I'd seen a writer I knew speak, and thought, "Yup. That is EXACTLY what she sounds like in my head."





Kelley's Break Room was one of my first favorite places to connect with other bloggers. She hosted a humor linkup, and I linked up. She's always so funny, and I was thrilled when I got to meet her, briefly, at both BlogHer and BlogU. I love getting a chance to hear her voice again.





Zakary was one of the speakers at the Voices Of The Year last year. She read a piece about nearly killing herself with poisonous plants, and immediately became my anti-Pinterest hero. I love getting a chance to listen to her read again.





I met Jessica of Welcome to the Bundle at the BlogU open mic a month ago, where she read this piece. And it was hilarious. It's still hilarious, and I still love watching her read it.





This is Debi, who I've never met. Who's writing I'd never read, until now. She reached out to one of my cast members, Meggan, and shared each others' stories. It is a remarkable thing to see a friendship grow between these two women, one finally actualizing as her true gender as an adult, one supporting her young child in the same struggle. There need to be more of these stories out there, showing that gender and identity aren't the black and white issues some claim they are.





Ann of course, Ann Imig. The woman behind all of Listen To Your Mother.

Baring Our Souls All Over Again

Photo credits to Balee Images

I bet all of you were wondering how in the hell I kept myself from harassing each and every one of you all day on Wednesday to keep myself distracted from our hospital drama.

Well, wonder no more.

I can't tell you how incredibly, unfathomably grateful I am that the same morning I headed off to the hospital to spend six hours in tortuous emotional limbo, Listen To Your Mother released this season's videos.

Not only was it incredibly gratifying to see how calm and collected I mostly looked, or even how flattering the dress I AGONIZED over looked, but it was a tremendous comfort to spend the morning reliving that day.

The women in my Listen To Your Mother cast are remarkable and wonderful. It's been a joy staying connected with them, sharing their happiness and celebrating their triumphs. As I said then, a cast is a family. And watching the women I loved baring their souls all over again... it was a little like a family reunion.

But it wasn't just our cast's videos that went live on Wednesday. And it's not just the Listen To Your Mother Chicago performers I've come to know and love. My blogging friends in Boston, New York, Austin, Richmond- in dozens of cities across the country- were there to distract me and cheer me as well.

Some of them I watched over and over again as I sat around in hospital waiting rooms. And as crazy as it might sound, I spent my anxious day laughing and grinning at strangers, barely restraining myself from tugging my laptop over, pulling out my headphones, and saying, "You really have to watch this with me! It's WONDERFUL!"

And now you too can enjoy the experience of having me at a dinner party, droning endlessly about childhood stories you have little to no interest in hearing. Looking fabulous and put together in a way I never do in real life.



And you can also watch the remarkable videos from my castmates, and my friends, and the incredible Listen To Your Mother community.

Here are a few of my very favorites, so far.

All my love, lovely readers. And enjoy.

Just Fine

Three days before he asked me to marry him

I tell people M was diagnosed with cancer sixteen hours after we got engaged.

That's not really true. It was sixteen hours after we got engaged that he had the seizure that brought him to the ER, and from there to the CT scans, and from there to the MRI, and from there to the surgery that diagnosed him with brain cancer. The whole process from seizure to diagnosis took almost exactly five days. But from the moment I got the call that he'd had a seizure, part of me knew.

I'd been watching his symptoms develop slowly for the better part of a year. They were things you'd almost never notice. Things even his doctor, doing a neurological exam, didn't find in any way significant. But they were significant to him, in ways even he didn't really catch.

Eight months before the seizure: "I keep tweaking my left ankle when I run at night. I never used to do that. Isn't that weird?"
Six months before the seizure: "I used to play this song better, but the pick just won't stay in my fingers. Maybe I forgot how to play the guitar?"
Three months before the seizure: "I don't remember being so bad at base running! My left leg just won't quite do what I tell it to. I must really be out of practice."
And then, when I'd finally persuaded him to ask a doctor about it: "He thinks I probably just have a pinched nerve or something. I'll stretch more, and it'll be fine."

That was about two months before the seizure.

July is a big month for us. On July 4th, we got engaged. It was the one day we truly got to celebrated being engaged, even though it happened late in the evening.

On July 5th, M had his seizure. And we stopped celebrating being engaged and started going into emotional lockdown. Alternating denial and fear and a lot of figuring out how to fit both sets of our parents, who had never met, into our home so they could stay for the surgery.

And on July 10th, seven years ago today, the surgery. The endless awful hours of it, and then learning that M had stage four astrocytoma, an aggressive glioma that would likely take his life within two years.

It's much more comfortable to remember the other anniversaries.

May 23rd is a good one.

Yesterday, M had another MRI. As you may recall from a month ago, his last MRI wasn't exactly ideal. Instead of waiting our usual six months for a repeat, the doctor asked him back in eight weeks.

And if your math skills are functional, you'll note I said that he had another MRI yesterday. So what happened, right? Why did he have one in four weeks instead of eight?

Seizures. Seizures like he hasn't had in five years. An MRI that showed something and then seizures. Plural.

So his doctor wanted him back sooner, in case whatever that something was had started growing at an alarming pace. Or in case the last set of images had missed something. Or in case of any number of things, because after five years of having no seizures beyond the occasional micro focal seizure, that's alarming.

Here's the thing about seizures- everybody has what's called a "threshold." There's a point when the different things that can cause seizures- heat, medication, pressure, infection, blood sugar. fatigue- do. For everyone. People who get them regularly simply have a different balance of pressures already affecting their brains. And there are medications to manage them.

So yesterday we went back to the hospital to spend six hours getting MRIs and talking to the doctor.

And I'd like to say a very special couple of words to M's neurologist, who I love, and respect, and like personally as a human being.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU???? Seriously- you sent in two med students to do the most in-depth neurological exam he's had in SIX YEARS while we sit around reading everything and anything into it? Were you getting a new baseline? Were you trying to teach them how brain tumors manifest? Were they supposed to be learning how to keep a straight face when they might be looking for signs of brain cancer?

M looked at the fourth year med student, who administered the rigorous tests while the first year student studied her. And I studied the first year student. What the hell does she know? What is going on? What the fuck is going on????

And then, finally, our beloved neurooncologist returned.

M's new scans were identical to the last. They were, to use the same word we've been hearing for six years, stable.

Bald from chemo and radiation, but totally handsome that way

You see, when M was diagnosed with an inoperable stage four brain cancer, we did everything the medical team knew how to do. And more. We did everything. And what they told us then was this:

This kind of brain cancer is never cured. You'll never be in remission. You'll never be all better. The best we can hope for is that nothing changes.

Because he could live a perfectly normal life with the symptoms he had. Because if there's a stable tumor in his brain, it's not actively hurting him. It's not growing. It's not killing him. It's not doing anything. It is stable.

But then, miracle of miracles, his scans weren't really stable. Instead, they got better. His neurooncologies, not the one he has now, but his first, beamed with joy and pride and accomplishment every time he saw a scan.

They weren't stable, they were improving. When you looked scan to scan, you couldn't see a difference. But when you looked over the course of years, they were better. M's tumors were continuing to die, or shrink, or do something that made them less visible on MRIs. And that was unprecedented. It was spectacular. It was beyond all hope.

Which brings us to now.

Now, for the last several scans, things had appeared identical. No change from scan to scan. But, as of last month, there is something. A tiny, minuscule shift that when viewed over years instead of months, shows those vague areas that used to be solid white in the MRIs becoming a little bit cloudier again.

So what the hell does that mean?

It could mean any number of things. It could be that scar tissue is starting to develop around the dead tumor. It could mean that yes, the tumor's not dead, and it's starting to recover from being irradiated and poisoned. It could mean nothing at all.

Because at this rate of change? Everything is still stable. Just in case, we're getting scans every three months instead of every six. That's something we can definitely live with.

M and M on the beach to watch our 6th 4th of July fireworks since getting engaged

And the seizures?

Turns out the medication M takes to balance the side effects from his anti-seizure meds... lower your seizure threshold. Other things that lower your seizure threshold? Stress. Lack of sleep. Anxiety.

Three things he's had in spades since last month, when his doctor saw something and we started wondering if maybe it was the sort of something we've tried not to think about for seven years.

So he's going off that medication that might have contributed to seizures, raising his dose of anti-seizure meds, and focusing on getting some decent sleep. Which is a much easier thing to do now that we know he's still stable.

And as I continued running through scenarios in my head of what we would do if M needed brain surgery in another couple years, or when it would likely be, or what it means that the area is still changing, albeit at a ridiculously slow pace, it hit me.

This? This is the opposite of how we survived.

The way we got through brain cancer when it hit us was pure and simple- confidence. We never doubted. Yes, the medicine was essential. Yes, without the arsenic trial this would have been a different story. But what kept us going through all that? Confidence.

We never hesitated. I told M what I told everything else. "You're going to beat this. You're going to be just fine. You're going to kick it's ass, and then it will be history."

I still believe that. I need to stop preparing for alternative scenarios. There are no alternative scenarios.

So what if, medically, nobody can say that M is "cured?" So what if his "stability" is no longer the unprecedented improvement of years past?

He's fine, and it's time to stop worrying. Time for me to stop worrying, and time for everyone else to stop as well. The worry hurts. It brings doubts. And with doubts come excuses.

The only thing changing from here on out is that M needs to make his health a higher priority. He needs to make the time to get to the gym, he needs to eat better, he needs to treat his body like it's the miraculous POA it is.

M's stable, and that's all we really need to know.

The whole fam-damily

I'm going to keep my eyes open for those other signs. For new symptoms he might not register but that I never miss. I'm going to keep logging events in the binder because that's important to do, and I'm going to keep asking questions when we see his neurooncologist.

Who gives a fuck if you're "never cured" when you have stage four astrocytoma? Who the fuck knows anyway?

M's as cured as it gets.

So no more worrying. No more doubting. No more stress.

When the anxiety comes creeping back, I'm going to tell it what I've always told it, and then leave it behind.

He's just fine.

Epic Family Fun at Raging Waves Waterpark #WelcomeToSummer

The SuperMommy Family at Raging Waves Waterpark

This is a sponsored post! Raging Waves gave me a free pass to take my family, it's true, but all of the opinions/ (and the majority of the photographs) are my own.

The weekend before Independence Day, my family were graciously invited to spend a perfect July day at Raging Waves Waterpark, in Yorkville, IL.

It's about a forty five minute drive from Chicago proper, which is a long way to go for brunch, but completely reasonable for an all day excursion to one of the best sets of waterslides I've ever laid eyes on.

I'm not just saying that- I've seen a lot of waterslides. We've done the Wisconsin Dells on many occasions, and growing up in Michigan I made many day trips to Sandusky, OH to gets soaked at Cedar Point. And let me tell you, when it comes to waterslides, Raging Waves has them beat.

That said, I only got to watch for the most part. Going to a waterpark is a very different kind of adventure when you've got three kids under five in tow. You don't have the luxury of climbing up half a dozen flights of stairs, because there are three small people either too short or too distracted to handle the wait. So for the most part, the family stuck closer to the ground.

Our first stop was Kookaburra Kreek- the lazy river. This one was delightful- a full quarter mile of peaceful floating, with excellent views of the rest of the park. What's more, Raging Waves has higher water safety standards than most places when it comes to their lazy river. There was always a lifeguard in sight during our float down the river, which was a good thing because I worried that, where I was floating in my tube, if RH somehow slipped from my grip and went into the water, I might have trouble getting to her. But the life guards all around saw us, and I could tell they were keeping a vigilant eye on everyone as we drifted downstream. So from the cool comfort of Kookaburra Kreek, we planned our next steps. Our next step was the Kangaroo Falls- a kid's play area.

This place was AMAZING. at first glance, I was a little worried. My two four year olds freak out when their faces get wet, and they have height related anxieties, and general little-kids-who-don't-spend-much-time-playing-with-random-other-children nerves. But they were FEARLESS! They both ran right up the stairs to the biggest slides, and slid back down again. It was unbelievably adorable and so nice that they felt comfortable and confident enough to go it alone, without an adult.

I was totally comfortable letting them go it alone too, because the Kangaroo Falls structure is almost completely surrounded by fencing. They'd have to work at it to get lost, and I felt safe paying almost no attention to them as I stayed close to the littlest little.

RH had only turned two a whopping ten days before our Raging Waves adventure, and although that kid LOVES the water, she's not a fan of being surprised by it. One trip halfway up the stairs, and the giant bucket of water slowly filling up at the top tipped. We were both doused, and RH lost her cool completely.

Lucky for us, down the stairs there were plenty of other watery distractions. She played with a bubbling fountain for about half an hour while her sisters did laps up and down the slides.

And keep in mind- this is just Kangaroo Falls!

Once everyone was completely soaked, just the slightest bit sunburnt, and starting to lose interest in staying in sight of each other, we headed over to one of the lunch spots we'd seen on our lazy river ride.

I can't believe how big they are!

Now, we are a tricky crowd to feed. First there's the fact that four out of our party of six (we have a loaner teenager for the summer) are vegetarians. Then there's that two of the three vegetarian children are picky eaters, and the third is fairly lactose intolerant. And last of all, our loaner teen. That kid doesn't eat ANYTHING. Over a whole summer and now another month, I've learned the things she'll eat and I can count them off without running out of fingers. SHE DOESN'T LIKE NUTELLA FOR GOD'S SAKE!

But I digress.

It took some doing. There was much confusion in the snack shack, and many hangry words were shared between my children. But when it was done, everybody ate, and EVERYBODY was happy. That said, if you also have picky kids with dietary issues, you may want to bring your own food. There is a no-outside-food policy, but the owners made it clear they're happy to make exceptions for kids who need it. Next time, I may bring a sack of apple slices and grapes and rice cakes, just to smooth things over.

As for me? I truly enjoyed my grilled veggie wrap. It's part and parcel of being a vegetarian- you assume when you get a "fast food" type meal that a) it's not going to be very good, and b) it's going to take forever because they never actually have to make them. My grilled veggie wrap took a long time, but that was because they were actually grilling veggies to order. As you can imagine, the resulting sandwich was fabulous.

And M's burger was most certainly to his liking.

Sadly, the moment we placed our order, we realized the high dive show was starting. We ate, now watching the clock, determined not to miss the next one.

At Raging Waves, there are high dive shows throughout the day. They're a whole production- a story about pirates and pineapples and whatnot, with an old fashioned display of spectacular diving. You can see the performers climbing up the mast to the high dive from nearly everywhere in the park- it's that high! The whole thing is pretty sensational.

After lunch, the kids wanted to down Kookaburra Kreek again. And from the lazy river, we heard the announcement of the next (and last) high dive show of the day. The kids decided they'd rather head to Koala Kove- the wading pool adjacent to Kangaroo Falls. As we walked to Kangaroo Falls, we stopped to watch riders going down the Boomerang. The girls were FASCINATED, and definitely wanted to go. The only problem was, they were too short to go it alone, and while M and I could have taken them, M was a little busy being a place for a completely pooped RH to rest.

So on to Koala Kove it was.

Remarkably, the big girls were more frightened of the slides at Koala Kove. Unlike at Kangaroo Falls, the waterslides simply dumped them into the pool, and that made them nervous. So M took the kids back to Kangaroo Falls again and I stayed at Koala Kove with RH.

I don't know if I've ever seen a happier kid in my life. She kept bouncing and bouncing in the water, squealing with laughter and screaming, as she jumped again and again," TO OUTER SPACE!!!!"

With a gaggle of rapidly fading four year olds and a manically exhausted toddler, we decided to call it a day an hour before closing time.

Every day since, it's the same routine over breakfast.

"Can we go to Raging Waves today?"

"Can we go to the waterpark now?"

"WATERPARK! WATERPARK! WATERSLIDE! PRETTY PREEZE!"

And while I keep saying, "Not today, kids," the good news is WE CAN! And so can you! There are always tickets on sale, particularly for a weekday trip. You can save a bundle when you get them at Costco (which means when we go to Costco the kids see the picture of the waterslide and start screaming, "RAGING WAVES! CAN WE GO????"), and there are regular events that let parents or kids in for free or reduced prices. On Father's Day, dads got in free. And since they weren't open yet on Mother's Day (they're a Memorial Day to Labor Day operation), they're hosting a Mother's Appreciation day next month to let moms in for free too.

We will DEFINITELY be back. No doubt. And if you're in the Chicago region (or the NW Indiana region- let's be realistic, where I live on the south side is barely Illinois), or southern Wisconsin, or even the near Minnesota area, it's worth the trip. If you're spending the day, I highly recommend renting one of the cabanas- they're tents with refrigerators, and shaded chairs and tables. You can reserve them in advance, and use them as a home base if you're with a crowd. That is most certainly in our plans.

There's so much we didn't get to do. We still haven't been to the wave pool, which looks epic. We still haven't explored the labyrinth of enormous slides to our satisfaction, and we STILL haven't seen that whole high dive show!!! You can bet we'll be back.

My Other Ex

I am beyond honored to be able to tell you all, the editors at HerStories have selected a story of mine to include in the upcoming anthology- My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Leaving and Losing Friends.

It's a collection of stories about what happens to women's friendships. About the fizzling out, or the fights, or the simply drifting away. How universal the experience is, and yet how deeply personal, and how much more wounding it can be when you "break up" with a friend than with a significant other.

My contribution is a deeply personal story, and I am so glad to have the opportunity to share it with you. Books are now available for preorder, either in my sidebar to the right, underneath the image below, or simply by clicking this link.

The other contributors are incredible women and writers, and I cannot believe I have been given the opportunity to share this experience with them.

All the best-
L




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My God is Better than Your God, or What the Hobby Lobby Ruling Could Mean For You

Today the Supreme Court decided that Hobby Lobby doesn't have to provide birth control to its employees, despite federal laws that dictate otherwise.

Hobby Lobby claimed that provided contraception violated their religious beliefs. Now, religious institutions... churches, non profits... they were already exempt from these federal laws. But Hobby Lobby is a for-profit corporation. Legally, as Mitt Romney reminded us, a person.

To give you an idea of why this is such a terrible precedent, I present myself. The married mother of three. The accomplished crafter. The SAIC educated artist. The DIYer. I am exactly who Hobby Lobby wants shopping at their store. And I am also who they want to work for them.

Most of the people behind the anti-abortion movement consider themselves religious. And the anti-abortion movement and the anti-contraception movement are closely linked. It seems like madness, but it's true. Because in both of these cases, the philosophical center of the debate is women, daring to have sex for pleasure. If they get pregnant and need an abortion, they're evil, selfish, sinning harlots. If they don't get pregnant because they successfully use contraception, they're evil, selfish, sinning harlots.

That's the common ground. That's where it starts.

Now Hobby Lobby, who claims deep religious beliefs, says it's an infringement on their freedom of religion to support those evil, selfish, sinning harlots if it provides them with a third party insurance plan that includes birth control*.

The fact is that about 99% of women in the US have used contraceptives. Married women are among the most reliable users of the pill*. Working women rely on contraceptives.

And NOT just to keep from getting pregnant.

Birth control regulates periods, letting you control what day it begins, how long it lasts, or even if you have one at all. And with all the side effects of menstruation (cramps, headaches, insomnia, etc.), being in control of when or if these symptoms occur INCREASES your productivity at work.

So if I worked at Hobby Lobby, they would have the right to ensure that I am minimally productive for at least one week out of each month.

Hobby Lobby, which says its deep religious beliefs are behind this legal action, wants to make sure women follow its Christian values. But I don't have Christian values. In fact, as a Jew, it is essentially to me that I take contraception.

The most important law in all of Judaism is to do what you must "in order to preserve life." You can eat any non-kosher food, break the Sabbath, anything- IF it preserves life.

If I get pregnant, I get melanoma. If I get pregnant, I get cancer and a uterus ready to explode. If I get pregnant, I run extremely high odds of death. For me, contraceptives preserve life.

Now that Hobby Lobby has the right to deny me my legal protections because of their religion, I might be fired for taking off my Jewish holidays. Or if I skipped shul and went to work on Yom Kippur, I could be fired for refusing to take my lunch break, what with my fasting and all.

Now Hobby Lobby has opened a door that MUST be closed, to the elevation of one religion over another.

Now that the Supreme Court has ruled that Hobby Lobby has the right to ignore federal laws under the guise of religious persecution, it's open season on non-Christians in the workplace.

Because as much as these right-wing conservative blowhards claim there is a war against Christians in this country, it's a lie. What's happening is that our country, founded with the understanding that there must be no state instituted religion, founded by men of faith but not CHRISTIAN faith, by theists and deists and Quakers, has reached a point where the "other" religions are visible. Where once in a while, a Christian might assume that everyone around them is also Christian and be wrong.

Jews, Hindus, native peoples, Sikhs, and horror of horrors, Muslims are all around us. Living in peace, administering to their faith in peace, and generally going about their lives.

This so-called War on Christians, it's the realization that Christians don't have the absolute majority anymore. That there is enough of a voice of "others" out there that when a statue of Jesus or the Ten Commandments appears on a state house, somebody is going to complain. Not just to whine for the sake of whining, but because this great country was founded on something important.

"All men."

Not Christian men. Not white men. And not even all male "men." All people. They all have the right to their religious beliefs or to none at all. And no company is above that.

At least, not until today.

It's a dark day in American History. A day when all the non-Christians stood slack jawed and shocked, amazed that now their employer could dictate their lives beyond work, based on some idea that their moral authority is better, that their faith is more important, that their God is better than your God. Or even that their personal idea of God is somehow superior to another person's.

I'll leave you with this, rather than my own furious ramblings.

“I am for freedom of religion and against all maneuvers to bring about a legal ascendancy of one sect over another.”
~Thomas Jefferson


“We have abundant reason to rejoice that in this Land the light of truth and reason has triumphed over the power of bigotry and superstition… In this enlightened Age and in this Land of equal liberty it is our boast, that a man’s religious tenets will not forfeit the protection of the Laws...”
~George Washington




---
*Yes, I know the ruling specifically covers a subset of contraceptive methods. And despite what you may have heard, these methods (IUD, morning after pill) are NOT abortifacients. This still sets a tremendously dangerous precedent. The precedent that YOUR BOSS gets to decide what medication is or is not covered by your plan, based only on your boss's own perceived religiously moral superiority. If YOUR BOSS says that blood transfusions are against his religion, or that mammograms are against his religion, should he have the power to remove those options from your third party insurance? I think not. And I am not alone.