Too pretty to blog?

An oft-heard conversation in my house goes something like this:
“Mom, why did I only get one Thin Mint and Lara got two?”
“Because I like her better.”

Fortunately, my kids are wise enough to know that to accept this un-motherly, and of course untrue, explanation is to be spared an hour-long lecture on The Inherent Unfairness of Life or Life Is Not a Zero-Sum Game or, my favorite, From Each According to Ability To Each According to Need.

Too bad that I am not the parent of the 18-year-old girls escorted off a Southwest Airlines flight who claim that they were just too pretty to fly. Had I been on the receiving end of such a lame defense I would have gleefully launched into my Pretty Is As Pretty Does speech, which would be great fun since it’s not one I get to use very often.

When I was in college at CU-Boulder, I thought I was rather attractive. Unfortunately for me, most of the girls there were more than rather attractive. I would occasionally go to a college bar hoping to catch the eye of a handsome fraternity boy. I would stand with good posture, trying to project an enigmatic alluring presence, hoping that someone would sense my intelligence, robust wit, and deep compassion for humanity. Well, it never happened. Not once. Finally tiring of plodding along a dead-end road, I decided to change my tack and give it one more try. I positioned myself near a table of 8 Sig Eps, reached into the depths of my being, and let rip an ear-shattering near-heroic burp. Eight heads turned my way. Chairs were pulled out, beers were purchased, and fraternity men jockeyed to be the one who’d take me home to meet the folks. Cosmic confirmation of Pretty is as Pretty Does had been attained.

What, say you, does this have to do with the poorly-mothered girls on the plane? In the twenty years since my stint in Boulder, my understanding of human nature has expanded beyond the Panhellenic membership base. Growing up I remember being unsettled by the apostle Paul’s words To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak; I have become all things to all men, so that I may by all means save some. This seemed disingenuous to me, an outright manipulation to attain a specific goal. But I think I’ve figured out what Paul meant, and modern-day evangelists would do well to take note.

Life isn’t always about me. In fact, life is rarely about me. Or you. It is about figuring out who everyone else is, and what matters to them. It’s about showing empathy and understanding, not forcing one’s opinion or will on someone else. My parents laugh when they meet someone who knows me, because the descriptions of what I am are so varied. Sophisticated and polite. Boisterous and raunchy. Well-read and articulate. Creative and unpredictable. Conservative. Liberal. Jock. Freak. Certainly all elements of my personality. But if I’ve properly assessed who these people –or even organizations — are, then also a reflection of them. Persuasion, cooperation, effectiveness, even friendship, require common ground. Emotional intelligence is necessary to figure out where that common ground lies.

The pretty girls, if they were thirsty and in need of a bathroom, should have better assessed the situation, the timing of their requests, and the duties of the flight attendants. If they had, their tray tables would likely have been overflowing with water and snack pretzels, and a flight attendant would have extracted the bathroom dweller on their behalf. Too pretty to fly? No, too self-absorbed and emotionally-retarded to fly.

Fortunately for my kids, this entire speech has been reduced to meaningful eye contact, one arched eyebrow, and a quiet snap behind my back. This isn’t about you. Reassess. Adjust to the situation. Or you’ll be getting no Thin Mints at all.



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Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
Sylvia Plath

Nostalgia, playground of the emotionally distant

I checked myself in at 6 a.m. I was alone, wearing a fluid dress that hugged the contours of my round belly, overnight case in hand. I sensed that the woman behind the desk felt concern for me. She looked at me and showed visible relief that my left hand bore a diamond ring.

"When will your husband arrive?"

"Pardon me? Oh, I'm not sure. Soon, I imagine," was my bright reply.

At 4 p.m., having walked the halls alone for hours, pushing my IV cart, I was finally ready to deliver. Dave showed up in the nick of time to witness the birth of his namesake, and promptly fell asleep in the father-to-be chair. The baby's umbilical cord was wrapped tightly around his neck. I watched my doctor's face as he strained to move the restrictive cord, to allow my little David James to fill his lungs. Ironically, the only sound in the room, as we held our collective breath, was the sound of Dave's snoring.

After my sweet baby was safely delivered, the nurses woke Dave and asked him if he'd like to cut the cord. Groggily he replied, "Ah, no thanks. You can take care of that." More sympathetic looks my way.

Well, you know what? I didn't care. I don't care. I experienced the joy and pain of bringing David into the world. I remember every minute of it. I was there, fully connected, acutely aware. I have no need to live it again. I'm happy he is here with me every day, playing his trumpet, running cross country, reading books, listening to his iPod, challenging me with his edgy sense of humor.

If you ask Dave about his experience, he will relate to you a similar story. You'll hear about the endless hallways, the escape to the lunchroom, the scary epidural, the last-minute name change, the cord incident. He can probably tell you the Apgar scores...the struggle over the decision whether to circumcise or not. His face will likely be covered with tears as he "relives" the pain and beauty of David's birth.

He wasn't there. My companions were the nurses, my doctor, my parents and siblings. Nostalgia is often synonymous with absence. With unknowing. A lost chance to experience life and love.

But it most definitely makes the heart grow fonder.....

A puppeteer

I wanted to study dance in college. I wanted to perform on Broadway. I wanted to walk through campus, and life, with "jazz hands."

As a freshman, I was at CU-Boulder, living the life of a lab rat as a Molecular/Cellular/Developmental Biology major. My older brother was a year ahead of me, also an MCDB major, brilliant beyond belief. He seemed to understand the "cell" with all of its asinine complexity at an intuitive level. He understood physics, chemistry, had memorized the Periodic Table and was even capable of making hilarious jokes about it. I, meanwhile, stumbled around campus humiliated by the forehead crease left by my lab goggles, wondering what geek could help me figure out the molarity of my latest unknown.

I eventually changed my major to business, accounting more specifically. It wasn't so much that I was wildly excited by debits and credits, I'm still not, but I didn't come from a particularly wealthy family and I needed a career, not just an education. Becoming a CPA seemed a safe bet.

Because of my college experience, and maybe my perceived lack of personal creative freedom, I always find it interesting to hear what young people are studying these days. I wonder how the parents feel, especially the fathers, when they hear that their young son is going to be, say, a puppeteer. Does this revelation cause Dad to puff out his chest and smoke a stogie on the back deck? Does Mom call over her coffee klatch girlfriends to boast about her son's incredible prowess with a hand puppet?

When my son (now 21) was little he had a puppet as his constant companion. We got it at Poor Richard's and it was, sad to say, a beaver. Furry brown with lewd teeth and a hopeful demeanor. Bren wanted to take it everywhere. Unfortunately, after about five minutes, he wanted me to hold it. He was a very engaging child and whenever he found a new grownup friend on the street or in a coffee shop he would shout, in a loud Mickey Mouse voice, "Look at my mom's beaver!" This, of course, had an EFHutton effect. Everything would slow to a crawl, people would turn their heads deliberately toward me to see how I would respond.

I learned quickly to deal with this recurrent nightmare. I worked up a little beaver dance and performed it on the person nearest to me who appeared somewhat sympathetic. I would take "Beav" and bite the person's forearm and say "Come help me build my dam!"

I don't want to malign puppeteers. In fact, I want to laud puppeteers. In my immediate family, we have three CPAs, a pathologist, an attorney, a pharmaceutical drug rep. Our parents are proud of us. We all have careers and children, big houses and big mortgages, lots of demands for our money and our time. We're living the American dream!

I can't help but wonder, though, if any of my siblings ever feel like I do while I'm scurrying through the office clutching my mechanical pencil and my laptop, wearing the latest Ann Taylor fashions, picturing myself instead in fishnet hose and a bustier, standing under the bright theater lights, bowing demurely to thunderous applause. When my older brother holds his stethoscope does he secretly wish it were a paintbrush? When my sister makes her closing arguments in front of the judge and jury, would she rather be doing improvisational comedy in a little club somewhere? I don't have any idea.

I know one thing. I hope my children will pursue their passions. It may be an uphill battle. Already their Dad and I have college funds set up for each of them. We have firm ideas about which elite schools they should attend and what careers might hold promise. I imagine we'll have a doctor or two, maybe a physicist, probably a computer whiz. The IQ tests have been administered and we know where their strengths lie. But not where their dreams lie.

I have secret wish. I want a puppeteer.

Child

I was holding my little boy (at almost 9, not so little anymore) on my lap the other day and I was looking at his hand. His long fingers, still slightly pudgy, tapering to perfect little fingernails. I took off his sock and looked at his little foot, again with clear beautiful skin and perfect tiny toenails. He, of course, thought I was weird for doing this but my thoughts were, “What if I never got to see this again? What if I could never hold this warm little hand, or look into these lovely clear green eyes? Or touch these sweet adorable freckles?” I’m not sure how I’d ever get my head off the pillow.

I once knew a woman who lost a young child to an accident. She held the toddler in her arms for hours after his death and when the nurses finally insisted that she give up the body she asked if she could undress him so she could look at him one last time. She said she wanted to memorize every inch of him so she’d never forget. Especially his little fingers and toes.

The mothers and fathers in war-torn countries encounter this nightmare every day. They’re forced to live with the horror and the guilt of not having protected their babies from harm. Their children become statistics that are reported to us daily, but, believe me, as a parent I can tell you that a child is not a statistic. Even a grown up child.

Oppose war…any day, any place, any time….It’s not worth it.

Dear Principal

Dear Principal,
I attended the Halloween festivities at school this week and was left afterward with a feeling of sadness because it seemed that the school has lost some of its spirit, maybe a little of its heart. The children were quiet, especially during the classroom parties. The parents and teachers seemed reserved.

It is my impression that you do not respect the fact that our school has long-held traditions. Because it is your first year, you believe that you have a clean slate and will create your own traditions. I completely agree that you should leave your mark on our school. But that will, and should, take a number of years to accomplish. Mrs. Principal, do you know us? Do you know who I am or who my children are? I have had kids in the district for 16 years. My father-in-law was a former superintendent. My mother-in-law a teacher and principal for years. All three of their children were valedictorians! My mother taught for 30 years in our parochial school system. Maybe you should learn our names, even a little more about what we value, before you tell our children that they need to walk with their hands behind their backs and stay quiet in the lunch room. Had there been a problem with lunchroom chaos? With dangerous hands? If so, I had never heard about it.

I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says "Rules without Relationship Lead to Rebellion." I put it there so I would remember that arbitrary rules, rules that don't allow opinions to be respected and honored, even with my own 6 children, will lead to insurrection. It may be subtle or it may be overt, but damage will be done. Respect for authority will be compromised. Institutional authority is generally obeyed, rarely respected.

You have come into our midst and enacted many new laws. You've erased our artwork. You've discontinued our weekly school assembly, changed the recess schedule, altered things in the cafeteria. You've changed our long-held Halloween traditions. My children, in the past, have never expressed a hint of reticence at my directive to load into the car and head off to school. On Tuesday, a parent ran up to me and grabbed my arm. "Is it true you're pulling your kids out of the school? My daughter is so upset." "No," I replied. "Not true at all. I guess it's just wishful thinking." To know that my children are unhappy with their school and are longing for change is upsetting to me. That's why I'm speaking up.

Mrs. Principal, I know feel you were brought in to accomplish a task. I understand that there was a vocal contingent of parents worried about CSAP scores. But let's be brutally honest. Our CSAP scores will not improve until we stop accepting so many out-of-district students. I know this. I spent 8 years at another D-12 school. I know that there is no difference in curriculum. I know that there is no difference in teacher quality or parental involvement. There are, however, fewer kids from other districts. Fewer kids from lower socio-economic classes. I am not advocating that we do this. I like the fact that our school has more diversity than many others in the district. I think it enhances my children's education.

Besides, can you show me a connection between no Halloween masks/no AARFF/no BRAG/no recess/safe hands/quiet lunchrooms/orderly parking and higher test scores? I rather doubt it. Eliminating fun and freedom is not going to solve the "problem." There is, however, a direct connection between socio-economic status and test scores. Truth needs to be on the table before our CSAP scores will increase.

I understand that every authority figure has her detractors. I have found, in my roles as parent, boss, committee chairman, that respect and openness to tradition and to differences of opinion, make an effective leader--a leader who can and will shape the future and, at the same time, preserve the morale and the joy that should be inherent in every elementary school.

I, and certainly other parents, would be happy to meet with you and discuss how we can work together to preserve what we've built over the years and still allow you to accomplish your goals. Please call me if you'd like to set up a time to get together.

Thank you,

Marie Walden

Blather

I sometimes read what I've written the night before and wonder why I have any friends at all. What a bloviator I am. I think that I have Multiple Personality Disorder (which is nothing to be ashamed of, Sybil). I feel like I'm writing from the heart and the next day I wake up, full of hope and good cheer, and I think "Who is this weird, arrogant, angry person who's taken possession of my body and mind?"

The truth is that I have small boobs and a big butt; I'm way too old to be a MILF; I barely make ends meet every month; my hair looks terrible every other day; I love my kids' cute little school and all the lovely and caring teachers that adore my children and tell me as much every chance they get. I'm not overly fond of government control and I don't like the war but, if the truth be known, I don't even hate Dubya nearly as much as I should. I think he's sort of sweet and boyish and he's married to a very nice woman which elevates him in my eyes. He loves his cute daughters and gets along with mom and dad and cares about his siblings....all the things that I strive to engender in my children.

The truth of the matter is that my life is a daily grind, just as yours is. My lofty goal each day is to stay on track, to keep a whole lot of people sane and healthy, to counsel them and love them and instruct them and pray for them. To cook and clean and do laundry and pay bills--to try to work in a little exercise, a little charity work, an occasional shower. My nights are filled with homework and sporting events and bathing, toothbrushing, Halloween costumes...it never ends. Nor do I want it to.

I am my best self when I am giving to my family, my community, loving my people and my God. It's hard for me to care that much about the war, about poverty, about abortion. I don't have a lot of spare time to think, less even to act. So, late at night, I let my alter ego come out and say whatever she'd like. I get up early to make breakfast and send the kids off to school and when I read what she's written I think to myself, "Please shut up and make me some coffee."

MILFs and the state of public education

Yes, I know. I'm lucky. I was born under a lucky star. I have my health and my wealth. I have a big house, two fantabulous cars, and six exceptional children. I recently won the Filling the Deep End of the Gene Pool award. "Oh my goodness. I am so honored. I'd like to thank the Catholic Church, especially Father Foxhoven for his guidance during my difficult teenage years." I have big boobs, a small butt (think upside down pear), and I'm generally considered a MILF, my daily affirmation. If you don't know what a MILF is then (A) You don't know any high school boys or (B) You don't watch WEEDS.

My point? I am supposedly part of the elite....the people who have NO WORRIES....NO HEARTACHE....GOOD HAIR EVERY DAY. We wake up each morning and weep tears of joy at our good fortune. We drink mimosas before school and feel compassion for those who have less. "God, why? Why, oh why, isn't everyone as blessed as I?"

Speaking of school. I am in a district with an incredible curriculum. We have a college prep program, Gifted and Talented programs, Science and Math Olympiad programs, Music programs, Advanced Placement programs that can get our kids into Stanford quicker than you can say "Will that be MasterCard or Visa?"

So what is my gripe? Well, the Ninth Court of Appeals recently ruled that when we turn our children over to the public school system, we check them at the door. THEY are in charge of MY children. My dynasty. They determine what my children learn, both in and out of the classroom. THEY? Who are they? Do THEY live on my street? Play golf at my country club? WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY?

Here's who they are. THEY are the administrators who allowed a troubled little girl, out-of-district-but-we-do-like-to-be-inclusive, push my perfect baby boy off the top of the slide and break his arm with absolutely no punishment. THEY are the principal who suspended my perfect baby girl for writing a clever cartoon about how girlz can deal with pesky boyz by spraying them with freeze spray and framing and hanging them in the hallway--something about a specific threat against a named individual. THEY are the government fuckheads who make my perfect darlings walk through the halls with "safe hands" clasped behind their backs so they can't threaten anyone. THEY are the counselors who called my children in during my very amicable divorce without my permission to tell them about how uncertain their futures are now that their parents have split up.

I am one of the fortunate individuals who has options. I can move my children to another school within the district. I can change districts. I can move to a private school. I can home school. Actually, I've opted to do several of these over the years. But since I pay my property taxes and abide by the Constitution, I would rather bitch. Bitch about government overstepping its bounds. Bitch about social engineering. Bitch about the NEA. Bitch about revisionist history. Mostly I want to bitch about people--people who control people. The unluckiest people in the world.

Jarts

Do you remember the good ol' days when we were reckless and free? Unencumbered by good sense and family responsibilities? When we were able to get together with friends on a sunny day, have some hot wings and cold beer, and play a dangerous little game called Jarts? Yard darts, lawn darts, whatever you recall, were steel-tipped weighted mega-darts that one hurled gleefully into the air toward a yellow plastic circle across the yard. It was truly a "team" sport because everyone at the party had to pay close attention to the action to avoid being impaled in the temple. The wayward dart was most likely tossed by the belle de jour in a polka dot sundress (oh! how we laughed!)...the "new girl" once again brought by Ashton Chase, our friend with connections to Chase-Manhattan. Dammit, Ashton. Stop it. Think about us for a change.

We were the only people with a kid at the time...a preschool-aged boy. I know for a fact that one of his fondest childhood memories (oddly, he remembers this in slo-mo) is of 6 adults dropping full beers in unison and racing across the yard to body check him into a fence to save his life. Kind of a boozed up backyard version of Swan Lake. Without the tutus. Well, except for Ashton.

Sadly, they have made the game of Jarts ILLEGAL. I don't know who "they" are. Whose job is it to troll back alleys, looking for young people having fun, and then steal our toys and jump up and down on them in black Gestapo boots while we hold our blankies and our beers and sob aloud at the spectacle? Yes, them. They took our darts and our plastic rings and left us with no way to amuse ourselves.

That's when we starting smoking pot. Dang it! They've got us here too. Not only have they made our harmless little substance illegal, they've made pretty little glass sculptures with rubber hoses and small pieces of very thin paper off limits as well. What a bunch of fuddy duddies. Puh-lease. Let us have our fuuuuunnnnnn! We are functioning members of society, doctors and lawyers and brokers and developers and financial analysts, all of us. Now we can't smoke pot and play jarts in the privacy of our own yards? Well, then we quit. We are all going to go on welfare and stop paying our mortgages and and mowing our useless lawns and wasting our time volunteering with the PTA.

Actually, I have a better idea. I was on eBay this morning trying to buy a set of illegal lawn darts and I noticed that, instead of the $14.99 I remember, a used (vintage) set of crappy darts is going for more than $200 (and are to be used for nostalgic display purposes only). And, pot. Well, we all know what a nice sticky bud of Wowie Maui is going for these days (okay, I've dated myself and revealed that I don't actually smoke pot but I still like it conceptually). Perhaps we should walk away from the rat race and make our fortunes selling reasonably harmless illegal things! Yes! We could each play a role in the family business. I, the CPA, could count the beans and file the tax returns (oh, wait, tax free! ha!). Tad, the broker, could invest the profits and set up retirement accounts for each of us. Ashton, the banker, could fund our start up costs. Betsy, the attorney, could get us out of trouble and Dave and Tim, the doctors, could act as money launderers. Chris, the developer, could find us a place to grow our inventory. The only thing we need is a horticulturalist to help us with the hydroponics. Horticulturalists? Any takers? Why don't we know any horticulturalists? Dang.

Come to think of it, I think we'll start manufacturing and selling yard darts as well. At $200 a pop, it won't take long until we we're ready to retire en masse and move to gentler climes. Sipping mai tais, swimming with dolphins, playing limbo. Just like the good ol' days.

I hope they outlaw beer pong as well. Bora Bora, here we come.

Personality types

You've known me for 25 years and still I am a complete enigma to you? I've slept in your bed, given birth to your children, spent countless evenings watching the Cubs lose, folding laundry, tending house with you. You've known me since I was driving a (very cool I must say) green Camaro in high school. For crying out loud, we've grown up together! We've shared a life that no one else will ever be part of.

You tell me that you loved me, that you poured yourself out for me, bled for me even, and all I see is an aloof and unreasonable dickhead. I'll tell you that I tried to be pretty and intelligent and in control, perfect and accomplished in every way, but you see a tragically flawed and irrational human being. I'm all about a lively battle between the sexes, but this is ridiculous! There must be something else afoot.

Well, here is our long-awaited chance to thank the Junior League. Well-groomed women wearing pearls have taught me something that I will forever remember and appreciate always. It's not about the externals, the things that make us look like a great pair. It's not about how smart we are, or how funny, or how attractive or talented. It's about the inner sanctum...the sacred and holy place that makes us US. It's how we perceive the world, how we process information, what we value.

You are an extrovert. You get energy and inspiration in the presence of other people. I am highly introverted. I may look like the life of the party but I spend three days alone in a closet after a backyard barbeque to re-energize myself.

You are sensory. You feel fantastic after an intense game of yard darts, the sun overhead, the wind at your back...You hike mountains, you travel...you pay attention to the outside world. I am intuitive....I live inside my head. I can easily content myself on a blanket alone watching, feeling elated and peaceful...knowing that everyone is having a great time and that this is a lovely slice of life. I'd be the happiest quadriplegic on the planet....so unimportant is the sensory to me.

You are a thinker, you follow your head, you're comfortable with the impersonal, the exacting. I am a feeler...I follow my heart, I'm in touch with the personal and the emotional. I cannot divorce myself from the inner life....matters of the heart...the divine. You easily can. Here's the solution, you say. TaDa!

You rely on knowledge and information to make a judgment. You feel a sense of urgency until a decision is made, you like to tie up loose ends. My reality is based on perception, facts be damned! I keep my eyes open and look for alternatives...I am spontaneous and in no hurry to resolve things.

No wonder we can't work it out. We live in the same world, yet it is a world completely apart. We love the same children but view them in very divergent ways. We encounter the same problems yet our solutions are diametrically opposed. On many days, we don't speak the same language at all.

I am an idealist....I'm enthusiastic, loving, giving, spiritual, nurturing, focused on personal journeys and human potential. I have a deep commitment to the positive. You are a rational....you are self-controlled, logical, pragmatic...you have incredible strength of character and are decisive and autonomous.

Here is the funny part. You need me. You need me to give you vision, to give you wings, to keep you human and relational. And I need you...to keep me grounded, to keep me sane, to appeal to reason and make me strong.

I think we did our best to work things out. We didn't understand each other....we still don't. I've now chosen a new mate. Guess what? He's a lot like you. He's rational and logical but softer and more accessible than you were. At least I hope so. And you've chosen a new mate. She's pretty and kind but more rational and exacting than I am.

So maybe we're wiser. Time will tell, I guess. But I know one thing.....there is no one that I would rather have been linked to for the past 25 years than you. No one that I would rather share parenting duties with than you. My love and respect for you is undiminished. I am incomplete without your guidance and strength. You are still my better half.

Private philanthropy

I was recently introduced to a young couple, both 21 years old, proud parents of a month-old baby. They live in low-income housing, dad works a joe job. . .mom stays home, no friends or family nearby, to take care of baby.

Is this an untenable situation? YOU BET IT IS! American society requires that we become rugged individualists. . .nuclear families reign supreme and exist in a vacuum of our own making. In the days of yore, mother/grandmother/sister were omnipresent. . .helping with practical matters but, more importantly, providing guidance and wisdom and support in navigating life's tricky waters. WHERE IS MY RED TENT?

Wanna make a difference? We have lots of opportunities. We can bankroll large ventures that help people help themselves. We can write and protest and travel the world looking for the downtrodden. . .hoping to shine some light on injustice.

But another option is to look a bit closer to home. Speak some kind words, bring a dinner, offer to babysit, share your experiences, your wealth, your time. I BELIEVE in private philanthropy. I believe that anyone who comes across my path presents a challenge to me, an opportunity for me. Maybe it's all my years spent in uniform as a Catholic girl but an old song keeps playing in my head. "All that I am. All that I do. All that I'll ever have I offer now to you."

Parenthood

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to be a wise parent--as long as you don't actually have kids?