Happy Memorial Day
Swimming Pools…
Let me just say I am 100% in support of making sure kids (and adults) are safe in any situation where there is potential threat of drowning. You can never be too careful. So, when my kid received an invite to a classmate’s birthday party with this printout attached, it wasn’t the pool safety importance I objected to, it was the specificity and
length of particulars. The longitude and latitude of where male guests could pee outdoors. The request that we bring a certain type of present (proceeded by the assurance that a gift was NOT required. Phew, thanks for pointing that out). I want a “fun, safe” day too, but when I was throwing a pool party, I hired 4 teenagers who were lifeguards from the Y and called it a day. So, maybe it’s just me, but this seemed awfully … Ungracious? Icky? Something is just slightly off:
“Keep in Mind…
Please bring a towel and a bathing suit. Also, it’s fine with me if your kid comes with another family, but make sure that each kid who comes has a specific grownup who will be solely responsible for them. We want a safe, fun day.
While a birthday gift is not required, if you do choose to bring something, I’d really appreciate it if no one gives him a toy having to do with weaponry or violence.
Hope to see you Saturday!
Additionally:
These are our basic pool rules if you could share them with your kids:
-No diving (pool is 7 feet at deepest point),
– no dunking heads,
-no hitting anyone with pool toys, -no toys in spa.
-Boys may pee outside of gated pool (in area facing trees at perimeter of property)
-Please dry off a bit to use bathrooms inside house.
-Don’t jump onto pool toys from edge of pool lest you slip backwards and hit your head on the coping.
– no glass or crockery in pool area (we will supply paper and plastic ware for you)”
Thanks!
I am 44 years old today
Really.
“A Mother’s Prayer” by Tina Fey
I know – zero points on originality – but too irresistibly perfect not to re-read in honor of stupid mothers’ day. Enjoy y’all …
“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen. Tina”
The New Doormat
Who are we fucking kidding? Not being all cute faux-ghetto; we haven’t had a working doorbell in four years.
*update: apparently a better definition is necessary, as i keep getting corrected on the spelling my my lovely spanish greeting
“Holla”
1. an exclamation of greeting.
2. an exclamtion used to show excitement or enthusiasm.
3. To call or summon
interj. “Holl-a! (greeting)”
interj. “Look at those ladies…Holl-a!”
verb “I’ll holla atch’ya in a hot minute”
The Great McStruggle
I fought (well, more like shove/nudged) a three-year old girl, who also happens to be a little person, over ownership of this plastic nugget toy. It was 14 years ago ,at the book fair on the green. There was a giant cardboard box labeled “Free – please take” containing junky, used and mostly broken and filthy stuff. Still, I had to check it out. We happened upon the nugget at the exact moment and the battle was on immediately. As her teeny three-year old, little person hand reached out and without much force or swift movement, I grabbed it before she could. In my defense, it was actually a pretty reasonably even match, save for weight. (I once gave my friend Alec a serious black eye in what can I can only categorize a badly botched fist bump)
“For a long time now I have been aware that you are taking up more of my life everyday…”
– W.H. Auden, Letter to a Wound
I Remember Me
Almost eleven years ago, something bad happened. One of my sisters got divorced, it was messy, costly, frightening, and everyone fell apart.
It devastated and consumed each one of us, at different times, and in our own ways. It was 10 years before things finally became sort of OK again. Still, it was impossible not to have changed how we would forever see one another, and the way we viewed the world. There was no undoing the damage and in the end, the unspoken truth that we would never be the same family we’d once seen ourselves’ as, was the hardest part to accept.
But onward. That was that. A bad thing had happened to me in my life. I had my story. I paid my dues in the land of the dramatic , sad and unfair. It was over, and now, bullet proof, I was going to be alright again.
And then it wasn’t. As it turns out, there is no cosmic balance sheet of adversity vs. good fortune. In 2007 I was diagnosed with Relapsing – Remitting Multiple Sclerosis. For months , I wouldn’t even say the words “multiple sclerosis.” (To this day,I still spell if wrong. I’m a really good speller, too) Maybe some part of me believed if I refused to acknowledge this thing, it would cease to exist.
But magical thinking aside , the downward spiral was beginning. Whether I chose to acknowledge it or not, things were starting to crumble. I was getting sicker and sicker. My diagnosis was officially changed to Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, And I couldn’t shake the idea that it wasn’t fair. There had been a mix-up. Loss mounted upon loss. I was consumed with bitterness and anger.
My doctors provided me with support, encouragement and idea after idea. Courses of medical treatment that were constantly being tweaked to my specific needs. There was mindfulness meditation, plain old meditation, support groups, endless literature. I focused on the injustice of what I had to endure. The immobility, exhaustion, pain, weigh, depression and acute degeneration of my cognitive skills Everything was slipping away. Enough, I kept thinking, enough. ENOUGH!! I had had it.
There were the days, even weeks when slight glimmers of my old self arrived, ready to hit the ground running. But then I would suddenly snap back. It felt like a faint memory. A downgraded version. I was so conscious and fixated of the inevitable.
Publicly I portrayed a person who was handling it all with dignity and strength. “It is what it is. you do what you have to. You just keep fighting” or “I just thank god my children are healthy” were my go-to answers when discussing my MS with friends, acquaintances, even with my closest family. I so wanted it to be true. Appearing stoic was the most important thing I could accomplish.
But of course the real story was very different.
In short, I simply didn’t want to fight any more. I was done. Full of resentment, I was tired of picking myself up. And I was ashamed of my secret. Turned out that I wasn’t brave at all. I didn’t turn lemons in to lemonade. I was terrified, and resentful and swimming in self pity.
One morning in the beginning of October, a friend that I’ve known since the 8th grade called out of the blue. He was in the area, and would be at my house in ten minutes. Click. I panicked. I looked like the wrath of God. Uncombed hair, shabby, ugly clothes; it was as bad as it gets. I was mortified as I looked around my hopelessly disorganized clutter filled house. I just wanted to disappear. But I didn’t have any time for preemptive strikes. It got ahead of me before I could stop it.
He didn’t pretend not to notice. He just sat with me on my porch, talking a blue streak like always. We made each other laugh so hard we were wiping tears away. It is a fact of our friendship that we could endure both time and distance. We are both adept at adjusting the necessary boundaries that we make as we go. Still, I was struck by the notion that it we could still do it. I could still do it.
He didn’t stay very long. As we began the rituals of saying goodbye he stood up and looked at me. He looked me over. I felt excruciatingly vulnerable and exposed.
“Pray”, he said, finally “just pray and when you can’t pray, just say ‘Give me strength’. Say it over and over”.
As long I’ve known Adam, I have never heard him say anything even remotely spiritual or touchy-feely. Not when his father died, Or in those days after 9-11 when the list of people he had loved and cared for kept growing longer and longer. Or even just three weeks earlier – during the 3am phone call from New York Hospital to tell me he had a son.
I have been given almost identical advice by countless people. All i heard were words strung together. But on that day, sitting on my porch with Adam, I conceded. I don’t know why. I don’t spend too much time figuring it out. I just accept that those words became something. And I knew I was deciding to make a choice. To stop being scared of appearing cowardly. To stop the obsessive focus on appearing anything at all.
Let me be clear – I HATE this disease. MS is a thief. Terrible and sneaky. It has stolen so much from me; the things and worse, the people I hold dearest. I am so angry about the loss. Eventually I just accepted some degree of resignation. I am certain that I will ever be able to make peace with it.
But it’s changing. I’ve found out this teeny part of myself who wants a fight. And that is enough for right now.
Because, to NOT make the effort feels like a slap in the face to all the people who love me, offer their support and who give me credit for being so much stronger than I really am.
The blackness is still there. But, in tiny increments and only for a short time, light wins out. Pure, unfettered, dizzying joy suddenly explodes when my husband and I lay on the couch, watching “The Other Guys”. And that is enough. It has to be, because it’s all the only tools I have to work with right now.
So there you have it; secret’s out.
Litterbug
Within five minutes of moving in to my college sophomore dorm room, I had a an impulse to rip out the screen from the window and throw it out the now open . It resulted in an
inexplicable euphoric state of satisfaction. And that very quickly morphed in to the act of repeating the act with straight up trash. Every day. Several times. For the following THREE years. Passers by might swerve to avoid the following: 1/2 empty iced tea bottle, a clothing item damaged beyond repair, cans, tremendous lamp, overflowing ashtrays, or pizza boxes. At the time, I was not particularly troubled. Or ashamed. That’s just some messed up shit.
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