September 15, 2014

It's a Book!!!


Weighing in at 1lbs, 1oz, and making its debut bright and in the wee hours of this morning is the newest member of my family!

It's name? My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends, and yes, it's kind of like my baby. In that I love it, and I'm carrying it with me everywhere, and I can't shut up about it.

And it's wonderful. And it's the best book. And LOOK! It has my eyes!


...well, not exactly. But the cover is the same color as my eyes, so it's pretty much the same thing.

Actually, it's the same color as my giant tattoo.


Let's just say there is DEFINITELY a family resemblance.

I'm so honored to be included in this anthology. The stories are riveting, ranging from the completely relatable to scenes that seem like they must be cut from some sort of movie.

Only there aren't a lot of movies about friendship breakups. Because we don't talk about them- we don't like to talk about the end of platonic love.

The more I read this book (I've read the whole thing two and a half times so far. It's that good.), the more I wonder why we as a culture don't ask these questions more often. We talk over and over again about BFFs, and we love stories, even tragic ones, about friends that remain close no matter what happens.

The First Wives Club, Thelma and Louise, Then and Now...

But what about the other side of the story of friendship? Because not every friendship is forever. But that doesn't make the love any less real.

This is a beautiful book. Not just because it's the color of my eyes and ink. (Although, yes, it is now my go-to accessory for absolutely everything.) It's a beautiful book because of the honesty and intensity inside it.

Go buy it! Read it! Buy it for a friend you haven't seen in years. Buy it for a friend you haven't seen in hours.

It's worth every bittersweet memory the stories drag up.

And for that, so much more than being included among the authors, I'm grateful.


September 12, 2014

#WhyIStayed, How the Vanity Fair #LiftTOUR is Helping, And How You Can Too


I had this one really bad date, once. Back before M and I got involved.

I'd been out with him once before, and we got into a petty argument about nothing after dinner... which he'd paid for.

I was, as I now understand, a pretty sheltered girl. I'd grown up in a liberal, progressive environment. While I knew sexism and misogyny existed, I'd never really been the subject of either.

He said something about me shutting up, because he'd paid for dinner. And I said something back. Something probably loaded with snark and that may or may not have implied that there was no way in Hell I was having sex with him that night, if ever. Even if I had invited him over to my place for a cup of tea.

And then he grabbed my hair and yanked me halfway across the room.

Like I said, I was sort of a sheltered girl. I was in shock. I was in total disbelief. Who did he think he was? A lifetime of wrestling with my sisters (who fought DIRTY) kicked in on instinct. I elbowed him in the stomach, punched him in the face, turned and kneed him in the crotch, kicked him in the knees and took off running. I locked myself in the bathroom and didn't leave until I was sure he was out of the apartment.

It wasn't until later that night that a song I'd learned back in middle school started running through my head ad nauseum. It was a self defense mantra somebody had put to music- in a cheery rhythm, the vocalist croons, "Eyes, knees, groin, throat!" to remind you where to hit your attacker to cause the most pain in the shortest period of time, so you can get away. Yes, it was a real song.

I was, in retrospect, ridiculously lucky. It was a second date. I wasn't involved with him. I could walk away.

Most women who discover they're dating abusers aren't so lucky.

Reading the #WhyIStayed feed on Twitter has been harrowing, but in many ways more uplifting than I could have imagined.

Here are women, spurred into a kind of action by the Ray Rice video, coming forward and talking honestly about domestic violence.

There are a few things you need to take away from #WhyIStayed.

The first is that women in abusive relationships aren't just victims of physical violence. They're victims of emotional manipulation as well. Most abusers threaten self harm, either explicitly or otherwise. Their victims feel guilty for not helping them.

The second is that leaving is often the most dangerous thing a woman in that situation can do. A woman is most likely to be murdered by a boyfriend or husband, and then most likely to be murdered if she's in the process of leaving.

We've normalized it. "If I can't have you, no one will!" We've practically romanticized it. And it's terrifying.

Many women, when they fight through the guilt and fear, face other challenges to leaving. They don't have control of their finances, which means they will run away from shelter and food into homelessness. Many have children, who they risk losing to the custody of their abuser.

These are real concerns.

When Janay Palmer says she doesn't want to press charges against her husband, this isn't just Stockholm Syndrome. This is self preservation.

She now has an abusive husband at home, without a job. Things are no doubt about to be much more dangerous for her. And while she may stay with a man who hits her, who abuses her in inexcusable and unforgivable ways, we cannot judge her. This is a man who has the money to post bail if she did press charges, who could kill her or take her kids. Those are real concerns she must negotiate as she decides how to extricate herself from a situation that she knows better than anyone else.

Leaving is hard, and yet, it is achievable. But only with help. With tremendous, collective help. It takes the help not just of a good friend and supportive neighbors, it takes a massive community to help women get on their feet and start a new life.


This week, I was fortunate to get an opportunity to attend a Vanity Fair event, to benefit Dress for Success. I was planning on going anyway- I was going to write all about breasts and taking care of them- after all my sex positive posts, it was a no-brainer for me to talk about body positivity and bra fittings. The fact that Vanity Fair was donating bras to Dress for Success was icing on the cake.

But then the Ray Rice video broke. I didn't watch it. I'm not going to watch it. And although it was on my mind, I didn't dwell on that one horrible turn a long-ago second date took. Instead, I started thinking about the day, six years ago, I spent volunteering at a Dress for Success showroom. I helped sort clothes. Anything too old, anything stained, anything that didn't look brand new and fashionable and professional went on to be donated elsewhere. The showroom gleamed. And everything inside was free.

I talked to one of the women helping us volunteers keep things organized. She told me she'd been in an abusive marriage for eight years, and it was seeing her children get hurt that made her leave. She told me about the homeless women who come in, the women fresh out of jail and living in shelters, who are treated with respect and dignity, as customers and not as charity cases.

That woman's voice was in my ear all week.


Dress for Success is part of the massive network out there to help women get out of abusive relationships. It's a non-profit that provides women with professional clothing to wear, not just on a job interview, but to work. To get them on their feet. More than clothes, Dress for Success provides career development tools as well.

And Vanity Fair is partnering with Dress for Success to donate brand new bras.

As often as people donate new and gently used clothing to organizations like Dress for Success, underwear is rarely part of the gift. And a properly fitting bra can do wonders not just to make you feel comfortable and supported, but to help you feel in control of your body, and your life.

I say this as somebody who has a nearly impossible time finding bras that fit. (Seriously, YOU try finding yourself a comfortable 34 or 36 J. Yeah, I said J. On top of being freakishly huge, they also grow out of my neck. That is not a joke. My chiropractor should be paying for my bra purchases, these boobs probably pay her mortgage.) Truly, a good bra is like magical armor.

The Vanity Fair LiftTOUR is going across the country through the end of October, fitting women for bras (for free), and giving them the opportunity to donate a brand new bra to a woman in need. When you donate a bra, you have a chance to write a note of encouragement, tie it to the bra with a ribbon, and be certain that whatever woman becomes its owner feels empowered and encouraged.


I'm honored to have had the chance to help Vanity Fair and Dress for Success reach out to women in need.

Join up with Vanity Fair and Dress for Success when the LiftTOUR comes near you. Help women in need become empowered and independent.

There's more you can do that reading an endless stream of #WhyIStayed tweets, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. You can partner with organizations working with women to put an end to their domestic violence.

Those two things I wanted you to take away from the stories of survivors- remember them. Remember that victims must choose the time to leave carefully, and that when the time comes they need mountains of help. They need villages upon villages.

You can be part of that.

Thank you.

September 10, 2014

What It's Like To Be Suicidal #WorldSuicidePreventionDay #NationalSuicidePreventionWeek


There's a common myth that suicide is a coward's option. The "easy way out." That it's a selfish act, and that people who commit suicide are thoughtless and self absorbed.

The truth, as always, is much more complicated.

Because it's World Suicide Prevention Day, in the middle of National Suicide Prevention Week, let me tell you what it's like to be suicidal.

Life is more than hard, life is impossible. Your body hurts, and you neither know nor believe you'll ever know why. Your brain is foggy, and thick, and there's a haze in thinking that makes simple, mundane tasks feel impossible.

You see everything through a fog of self loathing, and you believe everyone else must see them that way too. You expect your friends to abandon you, because you are worthless and depressing and sap the joy out of life. As you alienate them, the grief that they must find you awful only fuels your depression.

You see yourself in only the worst possible terms, and when you're given a glimpse of your life through the lens of happiness or success, it brings all your misery into sharper relief. There are few things more painful than joy, when it becomes clear that you understand that which makes life living, and are simply denied the ability to experience it.

You believe you are a burden. Your constant sadness, your inability to complete tasks, your chronic complaining or resigned silences, the endless droop of your eyelids and the way you have to pause before smiling- to remember that it's an appropriate human response, you believe all of these things make you bad for other people. You believe your depression is infectious, and that your presence endangers people around you.

You believe that if you were dead, people would get over it. They would move on. Your parents, your friends, your spouse, your children... they would move on and have their own lives. Lives that would be richer without the constant strain of dealing with you.

You are scared of pain, and you are scared of death, but only a little. Your fear is absolutely nothing in comparison with the constant agony of living. The constant doubt and hatred and sadness. You begin to wonder what ways you could overcome your fear of death and take your life the most quickly, cause the least additional burden to your loved ones.

Men and boys, they tend to go for the sure-fire, foolproof death. Gunshots, hangings, jumping off bridges and cliffs.

Women, they generally go for the cleaner methods. Leave a corpse that just looks like a corpse, and spare their loved ones the trauma of cleaning up the bits, even if the death itself takes longer. They gas themselves in ovens or parked cars, overdose on medication, swallow bleach.

You spend weeks, months, years, debating what method to choose. You spend weeks, months, years, slowly building a plan- not because you're going to do it, but because it's a comfort. It's a comfort to know that when you truly can't bear life anymore, you know how to get out. The comfort becomes an addiction, and then an obsession.

You begin to give things away. To let your friends and family know that you love them, that they should never question that. That you love them more than you love yourself. You have no doubt this is true.

And then, finally, you snap. Frequently, it's joy that does it. It's a good day, a good party, a good dinner. Something really, truly good. And you think to yourself, "This is the last time I'm going to feel happy, ever again."

And you calmly begin to carry out your plan.

That is what it feels like to be suicidal.

I want to be perfectly clear- ALL of this. The feelings, the self loathing, the belief that you are bad and the world is bad and it will never be okay. the idea that you are hurting people you love simply by being alive, all of that...

All of that is a lie. It is all a lie that depression tells you, that a disease spreads through you. It is an illness, and it can be treated. It is not true.

Depression is an insidious disease. It masquerades as your own thoughts and emotions, but it's not. It's a tumor, sending out little metastasizing molecules and infecting your entire thought process. It's a self-detonating time bomb.

It is not your fault. Nobody goes out out looking for depression, but it finds you. It comes through windows in your experience. PTSD, RTS, panic disorders, chronic illnesses, a bad day. Depression is a disease that like to tag along with the other crap events that happen in life, and when it sets in, you tell yourself it's okay. You're not depressed, something happened and it's bumming you out, but you'll get over it.

Usually, you do.

Depression is like a germ. You can wash your hands and keep Purel on your desk, but sometimes, it will get inside. And you're not defective, you're sick. And there's help.

There is always help.

People with depression often don't go looking for help. They're too consumed with guilt and self loathing. When you hate yourself, you don't want to help yourself. And when you're ashamed of yourself, you want to punish yourself. The disease causes the symptoms, the symptoms perpetuate the disease.

Often the first cry for help is an experimental suicide attempt.

If somebody you know, seems depressed, there are things you can do. Ask them how they are. Let them know you care about them. You don't have to tell them you think they're depressed, just make an effort to talk. To keep the lines of communication open. Invite them out, and offer to spend an evening in. Be honest with them. If it becomes clear that yes, they are depressed, let them know you understand and you're willing to help.

If you are depressed, talk to your doctor. Talk to a therapist. Talk to a friend. If you find yourself fantasizing about suicide, call the National Suicide Hotline- 1.800.273.8255. It's open twenty four hours a day, every single day.

Know that yes, life moves on for other people. But it also moves on for you. You can survive, you can get better.

Like any chronic disease, there are flare ups. And these can be more dangerous than the original occurrence. Just like cancer, knowing you've beaten it once doesn't mean you can't beat it again, and there is no shame in its return. Just as you wouldn't blame a cancer survivor for a new tumor, don't blame yourself for your depression. It is beyond your control that your depression returned.

But you can get help again, and you can get better again.

Be well, everyone.

Be safe.


September 2, 2014

Personalized Dancing Clock #DIY #upcycle #tutorial

Awesome clocks? Or the MOST awesome clocks?
Hello, lovely readers!

As some of you may be aware, once upon a time I described myself as an artist. It was kind of my thing. I went to art school and I even dropped out! Like a REAL artist!

Kidding aside, I still love to pick up a paintbrush and make beautiful things. But finding the time is hard, so I prioritize. I do wedding portraits.

I like to make each portrait totally unique to the couple, and focus on things that were special about them, or their wedding, or the day in particular.

It's fun, and so far nobody has called me up and said, "Dude, this painting sucks. Can't you just get me towels off my registry like a normal person?"

Today I'll be teaching you how to make my new favorite gift every- the personalized dancing clock.

YOU WILL NEED:
Heavy duty watercolor paper
Pencil
X-acto knife
hot glue
paint (I prefer casein for this, in which case you'll also need an acrylic glaze)
Paintbrushes
Heavy duty scissors
Fine grain sandpaper
Popsicle sticks
Elvis clock, the swinging legs kind.


Believe it or not, these guys are ridiculously cheap. Seriously, go on ebay and search for them. Or better yet, go to a local thrift shop that benefits a charity that means something to you, and buy one. They're everywhere.

Choose a picture of your subject. Preferably dancing.


You're not going to end up with something that looks EXACTLY like that, but getting something where your subject's legs are apart and arms are close to the body is ideal.

Now, take apart your clock.


To do this, you will unscrew the nut in the center that holds the clock together. It sounds like an unfathomably bad idea, but the way to remove the hands from the clock is to simply pull them off. Gently, but firmly. They will push back into place when your clock is in one piece again. With the nut removed, the clock will come apart into a box with the mechanism, the Elvis body, and a fistful of tiny parts you must be careful not to lose.

The pendulum of the clock is a simply hook. It lifts easily off the loop in the back, and that's all the disassembling you'll need to do.

Now comes the fun part. Chopping off Elvis's bits.


If you're lucky, you won't need to trim Elvis down at all. but if you're making a smaller dancing person, you'll need to trim off Elvis's boxy frame.

When you've got your altered Elvis pieces, it's time to trace them onto your paper in pencil. there will be much erasing after the fact, so draw lightly.

Once you've traced his parts, you'll draw the rest of your dancer around them. Keep lining up your drawings with each other, so you can ensure the pieces fit properly.

In this case, I started with legs/skirt that were FAR too long. By the time I lined up the parts properly, Elvis's crotch came about down to the skirt's hem.


In this case, I trimmed Elvis's shoulders and arms for my female dancer, and cut off one arm at the elbow for my male dancer. It's okay if your paper extends farther than your silhouette. Remember, you're not bound to put your dancer in the same position as elvis. For my female dancer, I turned the raise of Elvis's pompadour into the back of her head, by added her bun to the side. Use Elvis for scale- the head and arms will be in approximately the right place for any figure- but that's as tied to him as you're going to be.


Now you'll need to paint your dancers. PAINT THEM BEFORE YOU CUT THEM OUT!!!! If you cut them first, you may warp the paper.

If you look at the style of the Elvis clock, you'll note this doesn't have to be very realistic. In fact, it's best to try to keep it down to four or five colors. On Elvis, that often breaks down to white/black/purple/yellow/grey, or white/black/blue/grey. The face doesn't need to be well articulated, and you don't need much detail at all.

Think, outlines and a few blocks of color or shadow.

If you have a photo editing app, you can turn up the contrast and shadows on your original picture to give you a good idea where those colors and shadows should turn up.


I decided to use five colors- white, black, grey, brown, apricot, and yellow- plus a bit of extra for my bride's tattoos. I know, that's more colors than I generally recommend... but still not so many as to distract from the simplified art style.

Using an x-acto knife, cut out the silhouettes.


Double and triple check that your figures FIT on Elvis. When you're certain, trace the hole in Elvis's middle, and using the x-acto knife, cut the circles out of your figures.


Now, it's time to attach your painted people to Elvis's mangled body.

Begin by sanding down Elvis's body. You need a scuffed surface, or the glue will peel right off.


Wipe him down to make sure he's clean and dry- you don't want plastic and paint dust ruining your clock at the last minute!

Set your glue gun to "high" heat. Let your glue get REALLY REALLY hot. The hotter, the better.

Now, quickly and carefully, make a line of hot glue about a quarter inch from the border of Elvis, all around the perimeter, and a little in the middle for good measure. As quickly and carefully as you can, put the painted dancer on top, and press down firmly.

You'll have a split second to adjust as you lay it down, so remember to check the hole, the head, and and the corners to be certain Elvis is lined up properly as you lay down the paper.

Next, IF you have a figure who's legs don't have Elvis backing, cut down some popsicle sticks and hot glue them to the back. You'll want to make sure they're supported, to protect them from tearing.

Now, as I said before, I used casein paints. I like them for this project because casein is matte, which helps with the sort of comic-book look, and because it's the most uniform medium I know. Casein paint practically eliminates brushstrokes, the color is so consistent. I also LOVE that it dries faster than any other paint on earth. This keeps the paper from warping, and also lets you manhandle your project sooner. The only problem with it is that it's fragile, so if needs a varnish of sorts on top before you can finish the clocks.

I used an acrylic medium to "fix" the pigment to the paper. I like this particular medium because it is also matte, and because it is also very lightweight, and because it also dries quickly.


Once your clock parts are dry, it's time to put them all together again. First the body, then the washer, then the nut, and when that's screwed back down, the clock hands. These are pressed into place firmly, hour first, then minute, then second. To check if you've attached them properly, rotate the minute hand. The hour hand should follow. If not, press down harder- but still gently, You don't want to bend them.

Hook the legs back onto the loop in the back, and insert batteries.


You are now the owner of a beautifully personalized dancing clock.



September 1, 2014

One More Cup of Coffee

I am BEYOND thrilled to be participating in...

THE RETURN OF TWISTED MIXTAPE TUESDAY!!!!

It's back as a once a month Tuesday, instead of a once a week Tuesday... but still! MORE MIX TAPES!!!!

My Skewed ViewThis month's mix tape theme is the Soundtrack Of Your Summer. This is a bit of a cop out for me, as my summer actually did have a soundtrack. And it actually is a mix tape. And no, it has nothing to do with Guardians of the Galaxy.

Starting at the beginning of last school year, I built a list of songs that my kids loved listening to. In the car, mostly. That way, I'd know what music to put on when somebody suddenly started having a meltdown. There are a few songs that didn't make the official list, because of fairly obvious reason, but once the list was long enough to fill up a CD, I burned it. And it's been playing in our car pretty much on a loop as we traveled all summer.

To give you an idea of how effective this disc is, last weekend we went to a birthday party in the distant 'burbs. RH screamed halfway home, until I remembered to put on the disc. As the first few notes of the first song played, she became instantly silent. And then, in a perfectly calm voice, she announced, "I happy now!"

Here, for your listening pleasure, is the soundtrack of my summer. Enjoy!





The kids fell in love with this song over the course of the year, on days when we drove downtown to pick up M from work. I would sing a few bars of the song as we crossed the bridge over the Chicago River, and eventually they stopped believing me that it was a real song. Well, now they know every single word.



This song is on a mix M and I like to listen to on a semi-regular basis, so the kids fell in love with it during our drive to Minnesota for Christmas last year. As much as they love it, SI refuses to sing along. "The words go too fast."



I put this track on a mix for myself once upon a time, and I LOVE IT. So of course I played it in the car once in a while. Well, SI fell in love with it. She wanted it, on a loop, every time we got in the car. For months. It's still her favorite song. Actually, she just generally loves Bob Dylan covers, her second favorite track being "Forever Young," as performed by Poppa.



The first of several Beatles tracks. Another one I sang as we went about our business around town. I would sing it to RH in order to get her to hold my hand as we crossed the school parking lot. Again, the children didn't believe it was a real song until this mix came into being.



Every morning last year, as we drove to preschool, I'd surf through the local pop stations, looking for what the kids and I called "bouncy songs." These were songs the kids could happily bounce in their seats to, through the whole six minute drive. This was one of their two favorite "bouncy song."



There are several songs that, starting pretty much at birth, RH has responded really well to. The first song (and one that's not featured in this list) is "Monster" by Eminem, featuring Rihanna. That's one that M nixed for being "inappropriate." Whatever. RH also loves her some Men At Work.



I don't think there is was child alive in America in 2014 who didn't memorize at least half of the nonsense words in this song. And unlike most music that falls into the category of "kids songs," this one is actually a brilliantly crafted pop song that doesn't terribly grate on the adults in the vicinity. So it made the list.



Really, the songs RH loves have a common theme. They're high tempo, with a repetitive guitar or bass riff. I have NO complaints about her love of this song. I love this song, too. So RH gets two giant thumbs up from me on her taste in music. (Yes, Eminem included.)



One of the kids' favorite movies is "Yellow Submarine." When I started making the mix, I put every single track from the movie into it, and slowly whittled away the ones they liked least. They love this track, not exactly sure why, but it's delightful and makes everybody happy, and I'll never turn my nose up at The Beatles.



When I was a kid, my dad used to play this on the guitar. And starting when the kids were very small, I'd sing it to them every time it rained. Sometime last year, DD fell in love with it, so the original made its way into the mix.



So in case there was any question that my kids are, in fact, ridiculously awesome. Let's recap. SI's favorite song is a Dylan cover by the Turkish equivalent of Madonna, RH's favorite song is by Stevie Nicks, and DD's favorite song is Peter Gabriel's magnum opus. It comforts me to know that, all other things aside, I'm at least doing SOMETHING right.



This song came on randomly one winter morning, and SI stopped eating to ask me about it. She requested it three days in a row, and it made the list, and then RH fell in love with it. That up tempo, repetitive riff thing again. It's a great song, and these kids have fabulous taste.



Truth be told, we tried and tried and tried to find a download of the Maccabeats' cover of this song, "Candlelight." But this version was also one of our favorite "bouncy songs." And so the kids are perfectly happy with the original. Plus, I dance like a maniac behind the wheel and other moms in other minivans stare with unbridled awe and shame at my killer moves.



No explanation required.



Another of RH's favorite songs. It always cheered her when it came onto the radio, and so it made the list. Bonus? It's one of M's favorite Billy Joel tracks too, so while I'm recovering from belting along to "Let It Go," M picks up the singing slack and sings this like he's about to win the world championship of karaoke. I love that man.



I am thoroughly a child of the 90s, and my children are more than minimally exposed to the great songstresses of the Lilith crowd. This is their favorite Sarah McLachlan track, I'm not sure why. I always had a thing for "Possession." Then again, they ARE four years old, and I imagine a lot of the subtext is going over their heads.



Like I said, it's one of their favorite movies. I would rather have kept "Nowhere Man" on the list, if it were me, but RH really appreciates this song. And hearing her scream, "Yellow Submaween!" over and over again is awfully cute.



Starting back when we used to have our post-breakfast dance parties, the girls and I listened to a lot of swing. This is a favorite of theirs, and has few enough overt sexual innuendo for M to deem it acceptable for the children.



Another song RH fell in love with after it came onto the radio one day. Repetitive high tempo riff... plus, Mommy sings along and rolls down all the window and blasts the music. And who doesn't love that?



Another song I used to sing them myself, now with a mix tape backup. This one is a CLASSIC. I have no idea how many versions of it I'd heard, but until Madeline came around, I'd never thought of it as one I could really sing. I lover her so much.



Yes, you probably recognize this track from previous mix tapes. The girls love it as much as I do, so it got onto their CD.



Another one my father sang to me as a lullaby, and now I sing it to the girls as a lullaby. When I found this version, my heart kind of exploded a little bit. I put it on the list for the girls without their having ever heard it, and now they adore it. Lucky me, they still let me sing in "the bedtime way," when it's time to sleep.



Okay, fine. You're adults. You can deal with it. Here's the bonus track that ran through my head every time this mix played, despite M trying to keep it away from the kids. You're welcome.

August 27, 2014

End of the Month Controversy- Israel and Palestine

street art by Banksy

Once upon a time, civilization emerged in what we call Mesopotamia.

Mesopotamia means "land between rivers," and the rivers it refers to are the Tigris and the Euphrates, in modern day Iraq.

Many civilizations emerged there. many cultures and religions. Many more emerged nearby, each spreading deeper into the three continents that Mesopotamia bridged.


One of those culture and religion is my own. Five thousand years ago, the Jewish people were nomads, wandering through the deserts that surrounded Mesopotamia. Four thousand years ago, they became the dominant culture in land at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea, to the west of Mesopotamia. Three and a half thousand years ago, they were conquered, and their country fell, and they once again became wandering nomads. They wandered to Egypt and were enslaved.

Or at least, some of them were. But a great many Jewish people remained in the former Israel, farming and shepherding, living under the rule of other peoples. So many, in fact, that for another thousands years or so, they remained the dominant culture. Part of what kept them so dominant was the assistance of another nearby people- the Persians. After Xerxes (known in Hebrew as Ahasuerus) took a Jewish girl named Esther as his queen, the Persian Empire was one of the first places and times in human history where Jews were allowed to live as they pleased- worshipping their own God, controlling their own commerce, and existing in their own communities. The Persians even allowed the Jews to rebuild Jerusalem. But the land that was once Israel was on the border of another two continents, and constantly at play in the wars of other people.


It was around that time that the Romans, living to the north of Mesopotamia, took over what was once a desert belonging to no-one, and then a Jewish country called Israel, and then the property of Assyrians and Persians and other assorted middle eastern peoples. Within a few hundred years, Jesus was born, and the number of Jews living in the modern day middle east began to become a number of Jews and a number of Christians, and even more numbers of people of neither faith or heritage. A tribe of Jews wandered off into Africa and became lost for millennia, the Christians moved farther north into Europe.


Half another thousand years after this, Mohammed was born and an empire began growing around him, in the land to the south of Mesopotamia. This new culture pushed north into Europe, and east into Asia, and west into Africa- through the land that previously belonged to the Romans and the Assyrians and the Persians and the Jews and nobody.

So now Israel was part of the massive empire of the Caliphate, which covered all the northern part of the African continent, modern day Spain, India, and Turkey. It was a massive empire.

And the Holy Roman Empire fought with the Caliphate, and the land that was once Israel and had belonged to dozens of passing tribes over the past four thousand years traded hands many times.


The Holy Roman Empire didn't only fight against Islam. It also fought against Jews, now living in Europe. They were tortured and killed, and many fled. Some wandered deeper and deeper into Europe, some went back through the former Mesopotamia into India, and some went to their former territory, the former Israel, because they believed it to be their homeland.

When the Ottoman Empire came, that land once again traded hands, and still the Jews who had decided to remain there after the fall of the Jewish country, and the fall of the Persian Empire, and the fall of the Romans, etc. etc., lived in that place- with the slowly accumulating European Jews, and all the other peoples who had come and gone, building their shrines and temples, and taming the desert.

Meanwhile, persecution against the Jews continued in Europe. The Jews wandered farther north, farther east, and as pogroms grew in frequency in Russia, many European and now American Jews embraced a new philosophy- Zionism- and began immigrating to the land to the west of Mesopotamia in larger numbers. In the decade before World War 1 alone, forty thousand Zionist immigrants landed on the shores of what they knew as Israel. And tensions between the Jews and Arabs, which had always been fraught, began to rise.

With the first world war, the Ottoman Empire was cut into pieces and distributed as spoils to the victors- assorted European powers.


The British took what they called Palestine, and kept it under their direct control. European and American Zionists continued moving back to the desert, planting apricot groves and building settlements and cities.

And then came the Holocaust.

When World War II ended, the new United Nations agreed that in order to prevent another Jewish genocide, the Jews needed a home. The British offered Palestine, where many of the Jews were going anyway, and gave it to them.

There were already Jews there. What overnight became Israel again was already home to hundreds of thousands of Jewish people.

America was hostile to Jews. Europe was hostile to Jews, with the exception of a several Scandinavian states who had welcomed Jewish refugees as early as the sixteenth century. Nobody wanted to offer their protection, but Britain had a sliver of land that happened to already be home to more Jews than almost anywhere else on earth, and only having owned it for a few decades, they figured they wouldn't really miss it when it was gone.

But as we know, Jews weren't the only people in Israel. The two thirds of the non-Jewish population in the territory was made of all sorts of people. There were Muslims, who had been living there for half a thousand years, since the Caliphates spread up from what was now Saudi Arabia.

There were Christians, who had been living there since the Roman Empire.

There were dozens of other tribes, with their own religions and their own cultures, who had been living in the land to the west of Mesopotamia since before history.

So the great powers of the world agreed- send the Jews to Israel, a country the size of New Jersey, and the problem is solved. Within a year the Jewish community grew from 30% to 80% of the populations.

The day after the British left, every Arab neighbor attacked the new state. Miraculously, Israel survived. Twenty years later Egypt announced plans to "destroy Israel,"and Israel went to war with its neighbors again, this time expanding territory into the Sinai and the West Bank. After that, the Arab neighbors met and announced their conditions: No recognition of an Israeli state, no peace, and no negotiations. It's an attitude that has continued in Hamas.

And so, despite the existence of a modern Jewish state, there have only been three places in the history of Judaism where Jewish people could live essentially in peace.

The first was Israel as it was four thousand years ago, in its half millennia of autonomy and prosperity.

The second was Persia, when Jerusalem was returned to the Jews to administer as they saw fit.

And the last is the United States, in the last half century, after the struggles of the Civil Rights movement suddenly changed the perception of Jews in America from a maligned "other" to "white." (Ironically, American persecution of Jews had gained momentum during the Civil War, when Ulysses S. Grant issued orders evicting Jews from American territory.) But as the government of Israel continues to grow more and more conservative and aggressive in its fight with Hamas, even America is less welcoming.


There are 8.3 million Jews living in America, spread out through all 50 states. There are 6.3 Jews living in Israel- a territory the size of New Jersey. There's another three million scattered across the world. That's all the Jews on earth.

Everywhere but here and Israel, Jews are a persecuted minority. Hate crimes against Jews continue in France, the country with the third highest Jewish population. Hate crimes against Jews continue in Russia, where they aren't given citizenship.

And Israel's neighbors continue to threaten its total and absolute destruction.

Israel's government is in a position that most of us cannot begin to comprehend. Vastly outnumbered by enemies who take every opportunity to attack, but still they MUST abide by expectations of far distant allies.

And in this situation, the Israeli government has done very, very bad things.

The way Israel treats the peoples of Gaza and the West Bank is unacceptable. The hardships they inflict are often compared to apartheid, and not without reason.

But each time Israel eases the restrictions they place on Palestinian territories, Hamas responds with attacks.

This does not excuse the actions of the Israeli government.

Many Jews (even in Israel) are not Zionists. Many Jews don't believe a Jewish state is a good idea. Many Jews don't believe the Jewish claim to the land that is now Israel but was once Palestine and Roman and Ottoman and Persian and Assyrian and just a desert to the west of Mesopotamia is a valid claim. Some Jews interpret the Torah in such a way as to forbid a Jewish state in Israel.

Source
But Many Jews feel compelled to support Israel, because nearly half of the Jews on earth are there, and part of being Jewish is the constant awareness that somebody is coming for you. Somebody is coming, bent on destroying the entire Jewish people. And Israel is a damn fine target for those people who want to destroy the Jews.

Nearly half the Jews in the world live under the constant threat of annihilation from their next door neighbors, who explicitly demand their destruction. Nearly half the Jews in the world spent the last two months running for their bomb shelters over and over again as Hamas fired rockets. Nearly half the Jews in the world are faced daily with a choice to live in the land where their people have lived for five thousand years, or to flee alone into a world that despises them.

THAT is what's happening in Israel.

There is no doubt that the Israeli government is doing criminal things. But that is not the same as the Jewish people.

Yet, because Israel is THE Jewish State, and because Jews, as all minorities are, find themselves compared to and represented by the most visible entity with the same label, the rest of the world takes out its frustration at the Israeli government on "The Jews."

That's why Jewish students at American universities are being assaulted on campus. This is why random Jewish couples in New York City are being attacked by strangers on the street. That's probably why a 65 year old historian was beaten to death this month in Philadelphia. Because all across the world there was already a nasty streak of anti-semitism, and it is being fed by fury at Israel. The factions of people already attacking Jews has adopted the same language and set of complaints used to attack Jews a century ago.

It is much more complicated than a country ripped from the hands of one people and given to another.

It's more complicated than Jews versus Muslims. The majority of Jews in Israel are not religious, but the ultra-orthodox members of the Knesset have passed laws excusing ultra-orthodox Israelis from their mandatory military service. In what is, for Israelis, not a religious war, the Jews with religious motivation have eliminated themselves from the lines.

It is even more complicated than Jews having their own country to run as they see fit, because the increasingly conservative and violent government of Israel is making it harder for non-Israeli-born Jews to become citizens.

And it is more complicated even that that- because American Evangelical Christians are founding and promoting charities with the sole purpose of moving more Jews out of Europe and into Israel, with the hopes that when ALL the Jews are in Israel it will bring about the second coming of Christ, and the world will end.


But it also serves to convince the growing Anti-American movements in the Middle East, like offshoots of Al Qaeda, that America is connected with the Zionist movement, creating more hatred towards Israel and Jews, and funneling more rockets and fighters into Gaza.

THAT is how complicated the situation is.

Hamas and Israel agreed to another ceasefire yesterday. After fifty days of death and destruction, mostly in Gaza, another shaky attempt at peace is here.

When it fails, as it probably will, be careful in where and how you assign the blame. It is not anti-semitic to be anti-Zionist. Just remember that a people and a country are not the same.

Remember that if the Israeli government wanted to kill Palestinian civilians, they'd all be dead already.

Remember that if the Palestinians weren't oppressed, they wouldn't accept Hamas.

Remember that the people living in Israel, people living EVERYWHERE, have only ever wanted to live free from persecution, regardless of which Empire erased or redrew the borders last time around.

All of this fighting- it is all based on invisible lines in the sand. The same sand we've been fighting in for five thousand years.

Remember that five thousand years is a long time. And remember that we can't change history to suit our needs. It is not black and white, good and evil, right and wrong.

It's a series of events that occurred, and if we are careful, we can learn from them.

And maybe, then, we can build a lasting peace.

August 25, 2014

My Body, My Choices- Thoughts on the Chicago SlutWalk


Over breakfast on Saturday morning, I reminded the children that we were going to a rally. To protest, as I simplified for the children, when people are mean and hurt other people, then say it's the other person's fault because of what they were wearing. I told them, as I often told them, "You're in charge of your body, and nobody is allowed to touch your body without your permission."

"There will be lots of people with signs there. I think most people will have signs. Would you like to carry signs, too?"

"Yes!"

"What would you like them to say?"

DD answered in typical DD fashion: "You should wear whatever you want to wear because you get to wear what you want and people shouldn't be mean to you because of what you wear and you get to wear what you want and if people are mean that's not okay because they don't get to choose what you wear and you do get to choose what you wear and they don't get to be mean to you."

"That's an awful lot to put on a sign. How about, Wear What You Want To Wear?"

"Yes! Can it be pink?"

"Yup! SI, what do you want your sign to say?"

"How about, I'm in charge of my body?"

And so I made the kids signs, and RH freaked out. "I want a sign! I want a sign!"

As we were on our way out the door, I grabbed a sharpie and whipped up a quick little sign for her, without asking first. Considering that RH is the most stubborn kid I've ever known, I thought a message she's approve of was that she makes the decisions regarding her body. This is already as true as it can be for a two year old. "What's it say, mommy?"

"My body, my choices."

"MY BODY! MY CHOYZIZ!"

"Good enough."

Forty minutes later, we were at the fourth annual Chicago SlutWalk.

Of course the kids were a hit. Everybody who stopped and asked what their signs said got an earful. SI especially loved telling people EXACTLY what her sign said, and what that meant. She got a lot of high five from essentially topless women.

I was so proud of them. I was so proud of them for asking intelligent questions all afternoon, and being patient through over a mile of marching. I was so proud of them for being polite and kind to the people there.


I took a picture of them with their signs, and when we got home, I put it on the Becoming SuperMommy facebook page and twitter.

Within hours, the backlash came.

Let me be clear- I have taken my children to SlutWalk twice before. I have published pictures of my children at SlutWalk twice before.

Never have I experienced anything like this.







Maybe it's because all the responses I've had to previous year's SlutWalk posts have been so positive, I was blindsided. And more than that, I was hurt.

Because, knowing full well that one should NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER engage with a troll... I responded to them.

And what they said pained me in my soul. Not because of the personal nature of the attacks, that didn't bother me at all. It was their profound blindness to reality.







What got to me was knowing that in attempting to help my children escape and change a culture that devalues them for being female, that will condemn them for what they wear and blame them for their own victimhood, I have exposed them to a form of that violence.

I knew it was possible that as we marched people would shout unkind things. I was ready to talk to them about it. To teach them.

What I wasn't ready for was being personally attacked for teaching them. And I realize now how profoundly naive that was.

The fact is that we live in a culture where events like the SlutWalk are still necessary, because we live in a culture where college students are devoting their time to inventing nail polish that detects date rape drugs. We live in a culture where thousands of people think it's a good business idea to produce rape-proof jogging shorts.

And there IS a need, and a market for those things, because sexual violence is RAMPANT.

When they go to college, I don't want to have to take my daughters shopping for anti-rape pants and nail polish that changes colors when exposed to roofies. I don't want my children going to high school and being able to relate to a new generation of teen political anthems, like this punch-to-the-gut country song:




Yes. There's a country song about Steubenville-esque high school date rape. Because this story is so damn common that it's horrifically relatable.

THIS is the world we live in.

This is the place I have to teach my daughters to navigate. To survive and thrive in.

This is the world I have dedicated myself to changing so that the burden my daughters bear will be lighter.

I took my children to a place where women were dressed provocatively, some wearing only thongs and pasties. Because the point is that IT DOESN'T MATTER. It doesn't matter what a person wears- they are STILL a person. They are STILL in charge of what happens to their body.

It doesn't matter if they expose their body, that's not an invitation to ignore their autonomy. It's not an excuse to dismiss their ability to say 'no.' It's not public property, even when it's visible.

After the hate mail started coming, I asked M if he was glad we took the children.



"Of course I am," he said. "While I was walking, and reading all the signs and everything, it really hit home for me in a way it never had before. How one out of three women... and we have three daughters..."

I will not apologize for taking my daughters to SlutWalk.

If I had sons, I would be even more determined to take them. Because it is our sons more than our daughters who constantly hear messages that women exist for their pleasure. While I've had many fears about raising girls in my years of motherhood, until Saturday I hadn't really understood what it must be like to fear raising boys. To fear the mechanism of our society that wants to taint them, to train them, to pat them on the head and permit them to become abusers.

I would take my sons to the SlutWalk, and say to them- "These are people. All of these people are PEOPLE. And when you see somebody in next to nothing, or naked, they do not stop being people. They don't suddenly lose their right to control what happens to them. Remember that for the rest of your life."


I will not apologize for teaching my daughters that they control their bodies, and their fates.

But I will apologize for this world, because I am a part of it. And until I can be confident that I have more than done my part to make it safe for them to exist here, as girls and then women, the guilt that has plagued me most of my life will continue.

I am responsible for them. For now. For a short window in time, I am in charge of keeping them safe- and more importantly, teaching them to remain safe.

I'm going to keep doing it the best way I know.

At SlutWalk '14


At SlutWalk '12


At SlutWalk '11




August 18, 2014

The Best I Have to Offer

My favorite small humans
Tomorrow is M's birthday. We're going on a date, and that means tonight we're having a little family party.

The girls planned it.

That is why we're having a strawberry cake with chocolate ice cream, and the cake will be decorated with pictures of the whole family standing under a rainbow.

Yes, I'll post pictures.

That's why I'm still unshowered and my house is a mess. Because the priority right now is birthday.

Wrapping presents. Baking cake. Mixing frosting. Making ice cream.

And yes, picking flowers. And making a giant freaking mess.

I always feel bad about the way my home looks. Always. Because my home is always a disaster zone. Take the dining room right now- there are dress ups under the easel, there's laundry on the rack that's been dry and ready to hang up for three days. There's a mountain of coloring books and picture books under the toy table. The dining room table still has breakfast dishes, and craft supplies, and random crap all over it. My desk is a an organizational nightmare. There are random trucks and clown shoes and neck pillows scattered on the floor. There's dryer sheets and bean bags and a puppy in a baby carrier just hanging around underfoot.

That's just one room. And barely the tip of the iceberg.

That laundry has been there since Thursday.
I tried to clean it last weekend, so that a professional housecleaner could come to my home and do the deep cleaning.

She deemed it uncleanable and gave me my money back.

I am constantly embarrassed by my home. I go to other family's homes and I see their floors. Their carpets, and I see their spotless countertops, and their little rows of matching shoes... and I feel ashamed and incompetent.

That's how I feel most days.

But there's one person in this world who always makes me feel better about my home.

I've never seen her home. I've never seen her family. But she's in my home twice a week, every week, and she knows when I make some pathetic excuse about how busy we've been, it's nonsense. This is just how we live.

And that person is RH's physical therapist.

You might recall RH started physical therapy about a year and a half ago to help her compensate for a possible spinal cord tether. Since then, two times a week, this woman comes into my home and plays with my children. She takes all three of them to the yard so I can take a shower. She plays games with them, and she compliments them.

And before she goes, she compliments me.

I am not the best parent in the world. Despite what my husband and kids say, I know I'm not. I know there are parents out there who make more nutritious meals for their kids, every day, from scratch, and at least once a week my kids have veggie corn dogs or fake chicken nuggets courtesy of Morningstar Farms, smothered in ketchup that's 99% corn syrup.

I know there are parents out there who keep their homes clean. Like, REALY clean. Who have EVER wiped down the baseboards. Who go through the house putting away toys once the kids are in bed. Who never leave dishes "to soak" in the kitchen sink overnight.

I know there are parents out there who are more engaged than me. Who spend all day homeschooling, or unschooling, or going on adventures. Who ration out screen time carefully. Not like me, who uses Disney Princess movies that I despise as a nearly daily opportunity to brush my teeth without being interrupted.

I know there are parents who get out of bed before the kid so they can get in an uninterrupted workout routine, whereas I stay under my covers until the very last moment it's humanly possible.

I know I'm not the best mom out there.

This is one of DD's "collections." You can find them in drawers, corners, baskets,
and hats all over the house. Only the flowers don't look so good anymore.
I know that today I've already threatened my kid with a spanking for screaming and crying and ignoring me when I tried to talk to her about headbutting her sister so hard in the face that it gave her a nosebleed. I know that today I ignored the fact that my toddler was wearing "princess shoes" before "princess shoe time" because it was the first time all day she's stopped yelling about anything and everything, even though our downstairs neighbors have more than reached their limits when it comes to the constant noise of three small children above them. I know that I've got a pee soaked cloth diaper draped over the edge of a diaper pail with no bag in it because I'm not going to risk waking a sleeping toddler just in the name of sanitation.

I know I'm dirty, and exhausted, and I smell like days old migraine sweats and somebody else's piss, and in a few minutes I'll take the world's fastest shower so I can finish baking a fresh-from-scratch strawberry birthday cake and write "Happy Birthday Daddy" on it.

But an hour and a half ago, when RH's physical therapist left my home, she stopped to talk to me as she does every Monday and Wednesday.

"RH is doing so well," she says.

"And SI and DD are so smart and so polite," she says.

"And they're so good with her. They're such good big sisters," she says.

"I don't know how you do it. You must do a lot of reading," she says. "Your girls are so sweet. I'm so impressed with how you deal with the temper tantrums. All the talk about choices and talking them through what they did. I tell my sister how good you are with that kind of stuff."

And I am flabbergasted that she says these things. I cannot imagine that she could mean them. This sweet woman, with two kids of her own- also four and two. She thinks I'm doing something right.

This is the woman who, one particularly rough day, SI greeted by announcing, "Mommy THREW DD onto the floor!" Which isn't what happened, but it had JUST happened. And I was sitting on the floor, hugging DD and telling her I'm sorry she fell when I yanked her out of her seat, but she needed to use TWO HANDS when she grabbed for a full cup of milk and I needed her to move instead of freezing so I could get to it before all the mess all over the dining room was soaked in milk. And while I panicked that now a state child welfare worker was going to have to report me for potentially abusing my child, she looked at me and said, "Would you like me to take the kids outside so you can have breakfast with a little quiet?"

I'm a mom who snaps more than I'd like to. I get angry, and I get frustrated, and I'm constantly outnumbered. Outnumbered by three kids who are all going through growth spurts and won't eat cheddar cheese if they know there's gouda in the house, and hate mangoes until all they want to eat is mangoes, and trash every room the moment I've finished making it livable again, and no matter what I do I can't keep up with them.

But I'm lucky. Because twice a week, another mom who's constantly outnumbered and exhausted and can't keep up with her kids either comes into my home and tells me I'm doing a good job.

Part of me hopes RH needs twice weekly physical therapy for the rest of her childhood, so I'll always have that twice weekly moment of reassurance.

Part of me feels intensely guilty for my gratitude that this woman has no choice but to come and relieve me for an hour twice a week of the constant attention of my own kids.

My little chaos machines
Today we're baking a cake, from scratch, and I can do that. I can do these fun things, and take pictures, and laugh, and have a great time with my kids.

I can help them wrap presents and I can enjoy this time with them, and I can make a gourmet freakin' dinner for M's birthday- grilled tuna steak with tequila salsa for him, quinoa garlic patties for the rest of us, a spinach strawberry salad for us salad eating adults, and curry roasted cauliflower for everyone. I can acknowledge I'll be cleaning up those dishes for another three days. I can acknowledge that while the cake cools, the children will be trashing the living room.

I know it's coming.

I know what my life looks like, and what it looks like is chaos. These are my priorities.

And although I'm ashamed, constantly, of the results of those priorities when it comes to my shabby house, my monstrous dust bunnies, my perpetually nearly-not-dying house plants and the random used bandaid that turns up in the middle of the floor, I'm not ashamed of my choices.

I'm happy with them, because they are the choices that make me happy. Rather than force myself to feel the constant frustration of my children's enthusiastic mess, I just let them live in it.

Rather than feel the constant exhaustion of not looking beautiful enough, I put my hair in a ponytail and settle for an Ariel assisted tooth-brushing.

Rather than argue with an obstinate two year old that she's making an invisible neighbor miserable, I accept the tongue lashing I'll get in ten minutes on the phone.

Facts are facts. The fact is that my house is a disaster.

But my life isn't.

And even when it feels like it is, because people can see my disastrous home and therefore must have access to my disastrous life... the physical therapist smiles and tells me my kids are great, and I must be doing something really right.

Today is our celebration of M's birthday. Fresh fish, a pink cake, chocolate ice cream, home-made wrapping paper covered in his daughters' drawings.

He deserves it.

I deserve it.

And my children deserve the best of what I can give them.

I can't give them a spotless home. I just can't. But I can give them the best of my love. I can give them the majority of my attention and affection. I can give them hugs and kisses, and songs, and stories, and green eggs and purple oatmeal, and teach them to squeeze lemon onto sliced strawberries.

I can let them make a mess.


For me, I think that's the best I can do. Because my life is messy, and they're a part of it.

And I think they know what a big part they are.

August 14, 2014

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.

LinkWithin

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Vote for me!

Visit Top Mommy Blogs To Vote For Me!