Rox and Roll

TIME - for a change

In honor of Mother's Day and my own Mother's 65th birthday today, I'm writing this post to offer my take on this "Mom Enough" cover of TIME magazine.  I'm no stranger to these "mommy wars," but, in this case, I'm actually not taking on the attachment parenting versus not, breastfeeding versus not, working versus not mommy wars.  Rather, I'm challenging the war that is being raged all over the blogosphere against this mom, Jamie Grumet.

I'll be direct.  I support Jamie's decision to appear on this cover, with this story, 150%.  I am tired of the critiques of Jamie: she's too young (26) to understand the ramifications of her actions.  She's exploiting her child, who -- OMG! -- might be embarrassed by this cover someday.  She's trying to get rich and famous.  The list goes on.  It's all bullshit.  Jamie Grumet knew exactly what she was doing, as she's repeated in subsequent interviews.  We women, especially, need to stop undermining her choice.  That's right: I see this as another CHOICE issue.  To a friend, almost every woman I know who's vocal about choice, when it comes to abortion rights, has questioned this woman's choice to appear on a magazine cover breastfeeding a toddler.  I'm sad about that.  Choice is choice is choice.  You don't have to like the magazine cover or support attachment parenting -- but for so many women to suggest that she's exploiting her child?  Well... ouch.  That feels like a level of judgmentalism that crosses the line.  I've been Jamie Grumet, and I know how it feels.

On election day in 2008, I butted heads with a relative over my decision to take my kids to a No on 8 demonstration.  (Proposition 8 passed, and it took away the rights of gays to marry; we were demonstrating against that with same-sex, married friends and their kids.)  My relative offered a lot of reasons why s/he thought that taking my kids to this demonstration was wrong.  In addition to it being against that person's religious teachings, s/he also suggested that people might photograph them with these signs, or that they might be on the news -- and what if their participation in this protest followed them?  What if they were presumed to be gay later in life because of it?  How could they make a choice about participating in a protest at ages 3 and 8?

I made the choice for them to attend the demonstration, just like Jamie Grumet made the choice for her child to appear with her breast in his mouth on the cover of a magazine.  I made the choice because I want my children to grow up in a world where "all people are created equal" actually means something.  I demonstrated with them because our friends' family looks just like our family, with two loving parents and two great kids.  That they should be denied access to their spouse's healthcare, or to the other privileges extended to married couples under the law, is unconscionable to me.  And if my kids, a dozen years from now, are confronted with images from that protest -- if someone teases my son in high school for being pro-gay, for example -- I will have taught them how to handle that.  I already have.  I wear my beliefs on my sleeve when it comes to social issues, and I am raising my kids to stand up for their beliefs, too -- even if and when they differ from mine.  My kids didn't even know that same-sex couples couldn't marry before Prop 8 came up; they never found it odd that their friend had two moms.  They didn't know any different, because we didn't teach them that it was different (or, God forbid, aberrant, as one elderly lady tried to tell my daughter).  It's funny: when you teach kids that certain ways of life are socially normal, or acceptable, they tend to believe it. 

And that's why I don't think Jamie Grumet is doing any lasting "damage," here.  I think it's likely that when her son has kids, he, too, will be a breastfeeding advocate -- like my grandfather was for me.  I think that if he's in high school (though he's home-schooled -- so who knows?!), and someone tries to make a joke about him sucking at his mom's teat, he'll reply: she believed in attachment parenting and raised me as she saw fit.  It's not for everyone, but it worked for me.  Or, perhaps he'll say: "Wasn't your mom mom-enough to do the same?"  Just kidding.  In part because of this blog post that Jamie wrote for BlogHer, my bet is that this family won't be judgmental about others' choices.  It's unlikely they'll be extended the same courtesy, but I also bet that this boy is going to have the confidence to take it -- for he has a mom who's confident enough to pull off this cover.  Our children learn from our actions; all the better if they're sure-footed ones. 

I would know.  I was raised by one of those women.  I carried things to school in former-protest bags from the ACLU (like "Jobs Not Jails" ones), and, in boarding school, I watched on TV as my mom was arrested for environmental activism (linking arms and praying with Martin Sheen, by the way).  I'd be lying if I didn't share that, for a moment, it crossed my mind that people might judge me or my family for my mom's actions -- that her arrest might be embarrassing, or raise uncomfortable questions among my friends.  And it did.  Some friends' families took me to task, disagreeing with my mother's stance.  And because I learned well from her how to hold my ground, I was able to say "to each her own," respecting others' right to choose to think differently, even if I didn't agree.

The older I've grown, the more I respect women like Jamie Grumet and yes, especially, my mom, for living their life out loud, sure-footed, confident, and unwavering in their support of an issue -- all the while demonstrating how to do so without being judgmental.  We owe women like this the same respect.  It's time for a change in how we interact: time to engage in dialogue about concerns without feeling like a polarized stance is necessary.  It's time to be willing to listen, and perhaps, even, to change our mind about people like Jamie.  Maybe she has it right, even at age 26 -- the same age when my mom became a mom to me, and the same age when I became a mom to my daughter.  Maybe "mom enough" just means "confident" -- something of which a whole lot of moms I know could use a boost. 

To Jamie Grumet, and to my mom on her birthday, I offer a heartfelt thank you, for the confidence to stand up for your beliefs.  Not everyone does, and I sure am glad I was raised by one who was Mom Enough.

Summer Recipe: No-Bake Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookies

I made these yesterday, and it is hard not to eat the whole two dozen.  (The recipe made 27, actually, but I already ate those extra three.)  They have too much sugar, perhaps a bit too much fat, and are just. too. good.  Make these right now, let them cool on the cookie sheet, then refrigerate them overnight (though you can eat the extra three while they're cooling, like I did), and you'll wake up to chocolate happiness tomorrow.  They're good for you because of all of the endorphins from the scant amount of chocolate.  Right?

From the Food Network (appearing via Flipboard, for me):

Chocolate Peanut-Butter No-Bake Cookies

Ingredients:

• 2 cups sugar
• 4 tablespoons cocoa
• 1 stick butter
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 cup peanut butter
• 1 tablespoon vanilla
• 3 cups old-fashioned oatmeal
• Waxed paper

Directions:

In a heavy saucepan bring sugar, cocoa, butter and milk to a boil. Let boil for 1 minute, then add peanut butter, vanilla and oatmeal. On a sheet of waxed paper, drop mixture by the teaspoonfuls until cooled and hardened.  (I did Tablespoonfulls and got 27 of about 2-inch diameter.)

(Note from Rox: I also think these are better after refrigeration, which is where I'd store them.)

Enjoy!

My Bucket List

Along the same theme as my last post on how to live a good life, I'm attempting some serious goal-setting via a bucket list.  Inspired by Maggie Mason (aka Mighty Girl), I've decided to start a list of things that I hope to do before I'm too old (or too dead) to enjoy them.

Please share: what's on your bucket list? 

Here are my first 38 things to do (since I'm 38 years old), in no special order:

1. Drop into a halfpipe.  (Disclaimer: I have learned to snowoboard, but I can barely connect my turns -- so this halfpipe goal is kind of a big deal.)
2. Ride a wave on a surfboard.
3. Learn to sail.
4. Drive the Road to Hana, Maui.
5. Visit Italy (all of it, but especially Rome and Lake Como).
6. Visit Norway (and the rest of Scandinavia too, why not?!).
7. Tour Australia from Sydney to Perth.
8. See the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
9. Drink coffee in Seattle, Washington, USA.
10. Visit Costa Rica.
11. Tour parts of the British Isles I haven't seen: Wales; Scotland; Ireland.
12. Go on Safari in Kenya and/or Tanzania.
13. Take my daughter to Tokyo, Japan.
14. Spend a year in Provence, France (though I'd settle for a week).
15. Gamble in Monte Carlo.
16. Take my son fishing in Alaska.
17. Visit the Hawaiian Islands I've not yet visited: Maui, Molokai, Kauai and the Big Island.
18. Savor a romantic bungalow vacation in the Seychelles.
19. Hike part of the Appalachian trail with my kids, camping along the way.
20. Take my daughter to NYC for a mom-daughter week alone to take in at least 5 Broadway shows together.
21. Take my son to see the Yankees in spring training in Tampa.
22. Take my family on an RV trip to see the Grand Canyon.
23. See the green flash.
24. See the Northern Lights.
25. See the Midnight Sun.
26. Visit every Mission in California with my family.
27. Attend the Sundance Film Festival.
28. Experience Burning Man.
29. Live in an oceanfront abode.
30. Publish a novel.
31. Take singing lessons.
32. Obtain a motorcycle license and a Vespa.
33. Give a talk at TED.  (This presumes I've done something worthy of talking about at TED...)
34. Make photo baby books for my kids.
35. Re-read the Great Books.
36. Compete consistently at a 4.0 level in tennis.
37. Learn to make a variety of chocolate truffles.
38. Ring in my 70th birthday by sittting on a park bench in Central Park with my beloved.  (You know: "Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly?  How terribly strange to be 70." - Simon & Garfunkel)

 ... to be continued ...

 

La Belle Dame Sans Regrets

The title is from a Sting song, and, translated, it means The Beautiful Woman without Regrets.  He sings it in French, and, in any language, it's kind of a dark song.  He doesn't understand her, this woman without regrets; and he cries: "tu brises mon coeur," which means "you break my heart." I've always been a bit enchanted by the song, thinking that la Belle Dame may have no regrets, but the man singing to her probably does. 

"No regrets" has always been one of my mantras; it's an essential part of what, to me, is living a good life.  It's a theme that I fixate on in songs like Sting's, and in books and movies.  For instance, there's this beautiful scene in The City of Angels [spoiler alert!] where Nicolas Cage's character, in reference to Meg Ryan's late one, affirms that it was worth giving up his angel status to fall to earth as a mortal even just for one whiff of her hair in real life.  I have loved like that, and I totally get it.  No one wants to reach the end of their life and wish they'd have lived it differently.  Heck, no one wants to live a day like that; yet the inertia brought about by life's minutiae -- getting the kids to school on time, meeting the deadline, paying the bills, bedtime again -- sometimes makes changing course kind of hard.  If one seeks, like I do, to live life with no regrets, one has to be very brave and sometimes say: I want things to be better than what they are.  And it takes even more courage to actually be different -- to make the change, to be the person we'd like to be, to prioritize living a good life over living the life we're living -- the one we think is right for everybody else, or the one that looks right to the world.

If you were to live the best life you could, what would your playbook look like?  What would be your core principles, your guidelines, your affirmations and mantras and promises to yourself and to others?  I've been ruminating on that a lot, and here's the start of my list, in no specific order:

• Find the funny in the everyday, and laugh out loud at it, even if everyone thinks you're nuts.  After all, it's not the years of life that counts in the end -- it's the life in those years.  Make them ridiculously fun.

• Be a friend to all, the kind of friend you'd like to have, to your actual friends, but also to your spouse, to your family members, to your kids. 

• Likewise, choose friends wisely.  Over time, friendships change; give yourself permission to let go when necessary, and be brave enough to invite someone new out for coffee.  Friends chosen and kept well become family in time. 

• Prioritize open family communication, even when it comes at inconvenient times that kids often pick.  Drop everything when that happens and engage.  If you want kids who will listen to you, listen to them.  Same deal with spouses: talking early about uncomfortable stuff may help you to avoid big problems down the line.  (Same deal with parents, siblings, and pretty much anybody...)

• Make mistakes, and learn from them; but when they affect others adversely, say you're sorry, and mean it.  And don't make the same mistake again.

• Remember that it's always okay to push the reset button.

• Say no when you really don't want to take something on.  Say yes when it's the right thing to do for yourself and for others -- in balance.  Martyrdom is for losers.

• But: help when it's unexpected and most greatly needed.  Notice the elderly, especially, and teach your kids to notice them, too.  Hope that other kids have learned that respect when they're older.

• Find a way to serve others.  The day will come when you need help, and it flows most easily to those who've given it readily.  (And if that day never comes, what a blessing!)

• Prioritize yourself.  Everything else is easier to take care of if self-care comes first; and much harder if self-care is the last priority.

• Remain future-focused, and not mired in the past.  Let it go.  Move on.

• Love is not a boomerang.  Give of it freely, but know it doesn't always come back; and accept that.  Self-love, however, reaps greater rewards than any love given to someone else.

• Don't lose faith: not in oneself, one's God, or one's fellow man. 

• Believe that people are inherently good; and be a good example of that.

• Bite your tongue.  So many things are better left unsaid. 

• Be patient.

• Learn something new everyday, however you can; bonus points for sharing it.

• Soak in the beauty around you: in nature, and in people -- especially in people.  Everyone is beautiful in some way.

... and yes: try hard to have no regrets.

To be clear, I've failed at this whole list multiple times over.  But, I'm trying -- trying to live life with an intention: to get to the end of it and know that I've loved hard, laughed much, and lived as well as I could have.  I may not be La Belle Dame Sans Regrets, but I aim to try hard -- and to not break any hearts along the way, most especially my own.

Tell me: how do you go about living a good life?

The Wonder of It All

There is a lot going on in my world these days about which I am not writing a lick.  Few have ever seen me speechless, but those closest to me know that my thoughts and my feelings emerge most clearly from these keys at my fingertips.  I've kept it all in long enough.  I am a writer.  This is how I let my insides out, and I know no other way.  In the spirit of getting back into writing about this so-called "real life," I'll start with this post about The Wonder of It All.

I wear rose-colored glasses.  I believe that people are fundamentally good, and I find the good in pretty much everything and everybody.  If I'm 1% happy and 99% unhappy, I'll still tell you that I'm happy.  That's just how I roll.  It may seem a naive outlook on life and on the world; perhaps it is.  But I've recently felt what it's like to live differently from that -- to focus on those dark places, on the down-side, on the less-than.  And I say, f*ck that.  I'll stay in my land of unicorns and rainbows, and there's not a person who's going to bring me down from my Truffula Tree.  I can deal with the ups and downs of life from a vantage point of presumed happiness -- because if I'm not happy, I can find a path to happiness rather than fester in something that's less than that.  "Choose to be happy" has been my life's mantra for as long as I can remember.  I forgot that for a while.  Shame on me.

I didn't get back here from nothing.  I drew inspiration from friends who are living examples of what is "right" in this world in the way they give of themselves, and they've given so much to me: they have reminded me of my character, of my value, and of what I bring to the world -- much of which is the belief that I have something to share with people, something that's bigger than me, both through my writing and through hard work with my hands through service.  And I also returned to my "home-base" by drawing inspiration from some bloggers, especially Kelle Hampton who writes "Enjoying the Small Things."  The way that Kelle both photographs and writes about her life with her two daughters in Southern Florida is so moving to me that, when I'm down, just looking through a few of her posts reminds me that there are, in fact, people in the world who are just like me: people who wear their own rose-colored glasses proudly and with great effect.  Please take a moment to read Kelle and wonder with me: is her life, as she portrays it, too good to be true, or is it, in fact, what life would be like if we just lived it without any worries other than caring for each other and making the best out of the everyday? 

Spring has sprung here in NorCal.  My favorite wisteria (which my kids deemed to have a name "like a disease" last year) is starting to bloom.  Tulip magnolias are dropping their petals, and the sweet scent of various blossomings dogs me on my increasingly-frequent walks.  I got lost for a while this winter, brought down by weighty matters that deserved my time and energy but not the soul-sucking, mind-numbing incapacitation that I gave up too easily.   I'm walking back from that now, cautiously, but with my rose-colored glasses back on as I stroll toward the sunshine.  There is so much real beauty in this world, so much graciousness, so many people and places and things that deserve to be examined in the best possible light for the goodness and truth and realness that they have to offer.  Winter was hard, but spring?  Life begins anew; such is the message of Easter, too, for those who Believe.  'Tis the season for a restart, and I invite you to walk with me on a new path that takes at least a minute each day to focus on some magic in the everyday.  There's so much of it that I drink it in with reckless abandon on sunny, fragrant days like today.  This is a pretty good way to live, soaking up the Wonder of It All.

 

About Dash, Age 7

Last weekend, my son Dash turned seven years old, and he's still not in juvie.  Let's all take a moment to kiss the ground and thank Jesus.

Kidding, kidding.  Dash would never end up in juvie because, bless his heart, he behaves, generally speaking.  He doesn't punch or kick or hit or fight, except in Kung Fu when he's supposed to punch and kick and hit and fight.  He doesn't talk back, and he doesn't swear (much).  (Ahem.)  He tries to be sly, but he cannot.  It is not in his heart to pull a prank without telling you first.  Like tonight, when he asked to hug me, with a twinkle in his eye, and I asked: "Dash, is this a love hug, or is this a nefarious hug?"  He seriously replied, in a deep voice, "Never, never is it a nefarious hug.  It's always a love hug.  But I was going to fart on you, too."

See, that's the thing: the kid has a sense of humor, AND he uses words like "nefarious."  (I know; I had to look it up, too.)  Kid is smart.  No, kid is wicked smahhht.  He talks, nonstop, about everything, and it's mostly accurate.  He can tell you more about World War II than I can, and I have an American history degree that cost my parents a small fortune.  He can distinguish among 50 fighter jets and tell you in which theater they were used.  He knows about Greek gods and Roman gods, Atlantis and the Bermuda Triangle and who went missing there and when, the Mayans and the Incans, the Confederacy and the Union and why he'd have joined the latter.  He speaks French with his phys ed teacher, just for fun.  (He doesn't actually know French beyond the few phrases he's picked up from his sister and me, but that's beside the point.) 

And in case you haven't picked it up yet, kid is exhausting.

Dash runs hard, plays harder, and loves hardest of anyone I've ever met.  When he hugs you, even with farts, you feel it in your soul.  Nothing in the world matters to him in that moment other than that hug, and those hugs are among his only stopping points in a day -- a moment when he says, "yep, I'm still on earth, real and connected to this person" ... right before he gets back to "and now, I'm taking off again, seeking another adventure."

And the joy -- oh, the joy! -- in this little boy... I haven't the words for it.  I have never met a more joy-filled person in my entire life.  He smiles from his eyes to his ears to his nose to his mouth to his fingers and toes and whole body, and then he whips one of his arms around windmill-style as he runs off to spread the smile to the far corners of the earth, or at least the playground, at warp-speed.  He is SO happy, almost all of the time.  And when it's that other fraction of time, you know it, and he quakes, but he resets so fast that no one knows what happened.  The greatest joy in his life appears to be any time spent with big sister Petunia.  They have this communication system worked out between their big, huge brown eyes that is wordless and loving beyond measure and generally up to no good.  The two of them together might end up in juvie; I'm not ruling that out.  But they also might cure cancer together, because that's how they roll.  In fact, they plan to open a veterinary practice out of our Vermont home, where Dash has an ingenuous system worked out that involves him mooching off of his vet-sister while he raises his six adopted sons with no wife, because he doesn't need one, plus I'll help him, he says.  (Ummm...)  In any event, this vet practice also involves pulleys to lift horses up to the second floor, where Dash and his six sons will sleep with them just to keep an eye out.  It has to be the second floor so they can't escape, in case you were worried.  At least he gave his sister the first-floor master, but she also has the alligators -- you know, because they're a common pet in Vermont.  Like I said, kid is ... smart.  And only seven.

In any event, looking back at this past year of Dash's life, I find myself wondering where it all went, first and foremost... and then I remember the highlights, things like him pretending not to enjoy Irish dance in kindergarten (but oh, he did!)... his first coach-pitch baseball team and how much he loved playing the "hot corner" (that's 3rd base to the rest of us)... visiting Hogwarts Castle with him at Universal Florida's Wizarding World of Harry Potter last spring, and his general love of all things HP... his week at VINS science camp in Vermont and how much he fell in love with the mudslide there... so many lost teeth... his first trip to Disneyland this winter (Indiana Jones!  Star Wars!  Heaven!)... reading and reading and reading some more because there's just. so. much. to. learn....and the list could go on and on.  There have been oh so many joy-filled moments that my heart could just burst, because there's one little boy smack in the middle of it all with a big, huge smile on his adorable tooth-deprived face.

He still doesn't eat well, he still goes a hundred miles an hour, he can still be stubborn as a mule, and he still can disarm me with just a giggle.  He's my sweet boy Dash, and he's seven.  I can't believe it.

And Dash?  Thanks for making my heart sing again every day.  You are sheer joy, and I'll always love you up to the burnt-out lights.  (He made that up.  I love it.)  xo Mama

A Time-Out for Twins

This is a sponsored post.  Details appear at the end of it.

My second and final child, Dash, turned seven years old this past weekend.  While I have a whole post forthcoming about that momentous event, it also reminded me of the moment I learned that I carried only a singleton and not twins, a surprise both times.  On my father's side, twins appeared with regularity, and my grandfather was a twin; on my mother's side, my great-grandmother was a twin.  For generations on both sides, eager relatives have been waiting for twins to reappear -- to no avail.  I have to admit that I'm a wee bit bummed that they didn't appear for me, for I've always envied twins; no playdates are necessary, for a friend is always available... right?  (According to some twin-mom friends, yes; according to others, no.)   I'm intrigued on a numer of levels, not the least of which is how twin relationships are portrayed in the media.  Twins seem to be fodder for some funny, funny stuff. 

For example, in Adam Sandler's recent comedy Jack and Jill, his annual "playdate" with his twin sister comes in the form of an annual visit as they're both adults.  The juxtaposition of a pretty laid-back brother with a sister who can be described as passive-agressive at best sets a pretty tense scene, interrupted periodically by high-profile cameos (hello, Johnny Depp!).  The release of this movie on DVD inspired me to think about twin movies that I've enjoyed in the past -- and for someone of my generation, The Parent Trap stands out first and foremost.

Whether your favorite, like mine, is the original Parent Trap from 1961 starring Hayley Mills, or the redone LiLo verson (1998), the movie is so engaging because of the twins at its heart.  Divorced parents each take a twin and raise her.  The pair ends up at the same summer camp, at total odds with each other until they are forced to spend time together -- at which point they figure out their twinship.  The movie is spent plotting how to reconcile their divorced parents, neither of whom ever remarried.  The girls ultimately bring the parents back together by returning home in the other's place, one to California and one to Boston, necessitating a switch-back.  For the rest of the story, you'll just have to watch it... What I enjoy most about this movie is the plotting of the kids because of their strong desire to be together; but as a mom, now, it takes a lot to get past the "how on earth could parents separate twins?" sentiment.

 

Then, too, Twins, from 1988, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito, is another twin-touchstone film of my youth.  Schwarzenegger plays Julius, a child created from a lab experiment to be genetically perfect (athletic, smart, etc.) while DeVito plays Vincent, a good-for-nothing "accident" of a twin, considered to be genetic trash.  The experiment is considered a failure because of Vincent's birth alongside Julius's.  The whole premise is hilarious because of the obvious difference in size, stature and -- well -- everything between DeVito and Schwarzenegger, neither of whom knew they had a twin at the start of the movie.  It's part comedy, part action-movie, part social commentary, and all-around fun.  And the best part is the very end of the movie (spoiler alert!), where the brothers work alongside each other, happily raising their own families -- including, of course, twins for each.  What I enjoy most about this movie is simply watching two funny actors at their craft -- not Oscar-worthy, but certainly a laugh riot.

Do you have a favorite twin-themed movie?  I'd love to add to my list through your comments below!  And if you're interested, click here for an Amazon link if you're interested in adding it to your twin movie library.  Enjoy the show!

Sponsored by "Jack and Jill",  Now on Blu-ray™, Combo Pack & DVD

*Note: The thoughts and opinions in this post are my own. 

March Madness on Rox and Roll

Rox and Roll is back in action with some fun entertainment ahead for you this month.  I'm still working on Dash's SEVENTH birthday post (how did THAT happen?!), but, in the meanwhile, the following themes lay ahead:

- Movies, starting off with twin movies, inspired by Adam Sandler's new release, Jack and Jill; then continuing with my review of The Lorax, and more

- Book talk.  What are you reading these days?

- Travel.  I have an urge.

... and more, including a long-overdue update on the antics of Petunia and Dash.  Thanks for sticking with me, and I look forward to making you laugh out loud at least once this month.  (Hopefully more, but I'm aiming low.)  xo Rox

On hiatus until Spring 2012

Rox is taking a blogging hiatus until spring of 2012 to focus on self-care, on family, and on work.  Stay tuned for a relaunch in a few months! 

The Rox and Roll Gift Guide 2011: Think Different

I have a confession to make: Generally speaking, I'm shopping-averse.  I'm not sure if it's because I'm approaching 40 and finally rejecting a culture of consumerism, or if it's because my favorite gifts are those of experiences; I'd always rather do something than buy something.  Or maybe, as a woman of faith, it is not lost on me that the Reason for the Season is not somewhere in Housewares, or even in Target at all.  But I do love this season in which I can choose little unique somethings to express my appreciation for family as well as for a family of friends who enrich my life experience every day.  And while I could show a dear friend that I am mad talented by gifting her with that very special carefully-selected something from her pre-approved Amazon wish list, sometimes I like to go off of the menu and show my appreciation differently.

So ... drum roll please ... I introduce you to theme adopted for this year's Rox and Roll Gift Guide: Think Different.  (Yes, I know that's an advertising slogan created for Apple in 1997.  I didn't say I made it up.  I said I adopted it.)

Here we go:

Subscription commerce: This is the new term for "_____ of the month" club.  Forget fruit: these days, there are options for monthly anything.  No matter who you're gifting or the price you want to spend, there will be something just right.  I ordered three to try in November for the purposes of this list.  Of the three, I recommend two: Foodzie (written up below) and Birchbox, which is monthly trial-size cosmetics box.  I'm also going to be trying Blissmo, organic and eco-friendly products that I discovered at San Francisco's Green Fest.

About my favorite, Foodzie: I squealed with delight when I opened my November Foodzie box, pictured at right.  When I subscribed, it was $19.99/month -- totally worth it.  I learned after the fact that the November and December boxes would be at that old price-point but jacked up to bigger sizes, and then the price woudl rise to match the box at $29.99, which, to me, is discouraging.  That said, I will give it as a gift on occasion for sure; it'll be a great teacher gift, hostess gift, birthday surprise, etc.  In November's box: pickled figs by Boat Street Pickles, dried cranberries by Willow's Cranberries; fruit and nut crostini by Anjou Bakery; garlic onion pistachios by Fiddyment Farms; pistachio and almond nougat by Vadeboncoeur Nougat; and cornmeal pancake and muffin mix by the Nitty Gritty Grain Co. -- ALL things that I'll enjoy immensely.  If there's a foodie in your life, this is the right gift.

(P.S. For more subscription commerce ideas, check out this link on Sean Percival's blog.)

***

Betabrand clothing: For years, the Guv has waned a DARPA hoodie.  Why?  Apparently, it's the fusion of science and fashion.  In other words, he's a nerd, and he only wears red t-shirts, so, dear God, please let someone buy him this for Christmas, maybe in blue?

Meanwhile, Betabrand is so crazy that they actually sell something called Discopants.  If anyone buys those for the Guv, s/he has to take him out when he wears them, 'cause I won't.

***

The morning-after basket: So you're going to a party, and you're tempted to grab a bottle of wine.  Or, if you're like me, you're tempted to stop at the store on the way to the party and pick up something like Ouzo, 'cause you know nobody else will bring that.  Unless your hosts are hard-core dish-breaking Greek alcoholics, they'll appreciate a morning-after basket much more; plus, nobody else will think of it -- so it's like Ouzo, but healthy!  Someone did this for us after a party, and it blew me away; she had baked huge, awesome muffins and packed them in a basket with fresh fruit, coffee, and a single-cup french press.  It was so nice to wake up in the morning to a special treat after a late-night of post-party clean-up!  And every time I re-use the basket or the french press, I remember who gave it to me.

***

A bald eagle: For my conservationist/ecology-minded friends, I'm giving them something they'll love this year: bald eagles.  No, not real ones, silly, that'd be dangerous!  Instead, I'm sponsoring some in their honor through Vermont Institute of Natural Science's bird adoptions. This place and its birds are very near and dear to my heart, as my kids have enjoyed summer camps at VINS for five years and counting.  Their raptor center is truly amazing, with rescued birds ranging from a pair of bald eagles to sawheet owls to songbirds.  Since Vermont was hit so hard during Hurricane Irene, I worry greatly that charitable giving to this phenomental center will suffer -- so I'll be supporting their holiday adoption specials this year for extended family and teacher gifts.  Why should YOU care about VINS?  Their environmental educators and wildlife rehabilitation specialists are among the best in the world.  When's the last time you saw a raptor center?  Protecting our natural habitat is paramount, and these folks are on the front lines.  I am grateful for their service to our earth.  (Psst: If you have a Harry Potter fan in your house, you can also adopt Hedwig, aka a barred owl.)

***

Uncommon Goods: Pick anything -- seriously, just about anything.  This is, bar none, my favorite catalogue from which I rarely order anything but covet everything.  My favorite things this year: The Corkcicle wine-chilling icicle; the 7 deadly sins shot glasses, because face it: everyone drinks boring old wine at parties, but you could be a hero if you brought these and a bottle of Old Number 7; and just so y'all don't start thinking I only conjure up gifts having to do with ETOH, here are some crocheted headphones for your teenaged babysitter who dresses like Janis Joplin.  

***

Prayer cube: Perfect for households of faith, especially for godchildren, we have fun with these "prayer die" in my house.  We use the table grace one, and there is also one for daily prayers and one for bedtime prayers.  This Episcopal Bookstore on-line has lots of nice faith-based gifts for those so inclined.

***

For the Occupiers: If you have a friend on the front lines of the Occupy Movement or on any picket line, here's a fun gift: a book called "Good Chants for a Lively Picket Line."  The website selling it, Syracuse Cultural Workers, has a lot of fun and unusual stuff, including a "Build Community" tee that is a wardrobe staple for me.

***

The Fiesta Disc Pitcher: A Piece of American History: Fiesta Dinnerware is made by the Homer Laughlin China Company in Newell, West Virginia.  You've probably eaten off of their dishes at restaurants galore and might be surprised to find out that instead of paying Macy's prices, you can shop factory direct on-line.  I grew up just down the street from the Fiesta factory and have eaten off of these dishes since my aunt and uncle gifted me with an overfull set for my wedding in 1997.  Using Fiestaware makes me feel closer to home, and, as I buy additions and replacements over the years, I feel really good knowing that Americans from my hometown are employed making this awesome stuff.  I'm big on "think global, act local" and stock my house with as much as I can in support of my native Appalachia.  (Fenton Glass is another West Virginian one for those who enjoy it.)

***

Fairy House Kits: There's something about this time of year that makes me want to hold on to the magical beliefs in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, leprechauns, and yes, even the Easter Bunny.  At the Dickens Fair in San Francisco, Petunia and I picked up a fairy house kit to build together.  While I'm not really sure I believe that fairies are putting knots in her hair just because she's not leaving her shoes pointed in the right direction before she goes to bed (someone told us that once and totally seriously too), I do like the notion of providing space for their imagination -- even at age 11.  The fairy house vendor linked to here is not the one from which we purchased our kit but looks very similar; she also sells on Etsy.  In any event, I think this is a great gift for anyone in your life who remains a dreamer, from school-aged through advanced-age. 

***

Prints Charming: Made by Etsy store Poppy and Pinecone, two prints hang beside our bed in both our East and West Coast homes: one of Vermont with a heart in the center, and one of California with a heart in the center.  It's an artistic expression of our bicoastal life and love.  Especially for someone living far from home -- perhaps a college student -- these prints are heartfelt reminders of a special place.  Equally special and surprising are prints by the big harumph, also on Etsy.  We own "rush less, play more," "imagination is everything," "today is the day," and some images.  I'm a big fan of little reminders.

***

A Three-Way Gift: Get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm referencing charitable donations here: a gift from you to someone else that benefits a third party.  Personally, I'm a big believer in supporting local needs, which is why we support Vermont Institute of Natural Sciences, mentioned earlier, as well as Vermont Foodbank, the Ecumenical Hunger Program here in Silicon Valley, and the Shelter Network, also here in Silicon Valley.  For ideas on charities to support, get some ideas from Charity Navigator, described thus: "Charity Navigator, America's premiere independent charity evaluator, works to advance a more efficient and responsive philanthropic marketplace by evaluating the Financial Health and Accountability and Transparency of America's largest charities."  Check them out to make sure that your dollar is being stretched as far as possible.

***

Thanks for checking out the 2011 Rox and Roll Gift Guide.  If you're still fishing for that perfect gift, might I suggest The 2009 Rox and Roll Gift Guide: Stuff for Adults or Stuff for Kids, or The 2010 Rox and Roll Gift Guide: Gifts for a Cause, Books, Movies, Games, In-Home Experiences, Out-of-Home Experiences, Play, and Gratitude.

Happy Holidays!

An Attempt at Meal-Planning

For someone who greatly enjoys experimenting with cooking, having a family that doesn't enjoy eating anything "funky" is a bit frustrating.  Since I'm wheat-allergic (not gluten-free, but close enough), another layer of complexity -- beyond picky eatering -- factors into our meal planning.  If I were to list the amount of things this family does *not* eat ... well, wait, that could be a twitter feed, kind of like "sh*t my dad says," just called "sh*t they won't eat."  I could make millions!  Just not dinner.

For example, my entire family will not eat meat on the bone.  Imagining the standing rib roasts that will never be cooked in my wood-fired oven brings a tear to my eye, as did the chicken cacciatore I cooked with "boneless breast of chicken," which might as well be called "why bother eating."

So, we often solve this problem by going out to dinner.  There's a local Mexican spot that will make hamburgers for the Guv and for Petunia -- who didn't used to be fussy, but who has recently entered preadolescence and, is, therefore, Sick Of Everything.  When I'm there, I eat spicy sopes or albondigas.  At our favorite vegetarian South Indian spot, there are cheese dosas (we call it Indian grilled cheese) and idly (we call it Indian wonder bread) for the Guv and Dash; Petunia and I get a little funky and sample around the menu.  And we also go out for pizza.  Lots and lots of pizza.  (I usually am stuck with salad on these nights.)

With the exception of the South Indian fare, I cook better than most places I eat, so, unless I'm going out for something I never make (e.g. veal at Il Fornaio -- yeah, I know, baby cows, I'll probably get virtually paint-balled by PETA), I should cut back on the dining out as a solution for my picky eaters.  Dining out isn't exactly good for our collective waistlines, either, or for our wallet.  There's a better way, so, this week, I'm cooking.  And, like it or not, family, I'm going to push your palate a wee bit.

Inspired by my friend CityMama, and including one of her recipes, here's my plan for this coming week:

Monday: Turkey Tacos on organic blue corn shells topped with diced tomato, jack cheese, and guacamole; mixed veggies on the side

Tuesday: Crock pot night: something from The Indian Slow Cooker, steamed rice, and homemade mango lassis.  I'm assuming the boys are unlikely to eat whatever's in the crock, so I'll make a side of chicken nuggets, too, that they'll enjoy with the rice and lassis. 

Wednesday: CityMama's Yummy Balls (with oatmeal substituted for bread crumbs and Amy's tomato soup substituted for Campbells so that they're GF) with bread (sourdough baguette for them, homemade Pamela's GF white bread for for me) and a veggie crudite tray

Thursday: Crock pot mac-n-cheese and salad

Friday: Grilled burgers, baked potatoes, fresh tomatoes

Saturday: South Indian for lunch, so a light dinner is in order; possibly a date night since Grandma's here, so she'll have salad (she always does) while the kids do a pick-me-up of leftovers or scrambled eggs and toast

Sunday: No idea.  Leftovers wil be in order for lunch, and Petunia eats at our church youth group, so it's probably pasta night for the rest of us, since Petunia is always sick of pasta.  That's a win-win!

***

Wish me luck ... I'll report back next week on how this attempt at planning went ... Meanwhile, what are YOU cooking this week?

Holidays ... huh?

I cannot believe that it is November.  In fact, I cannot even believe that it is actually autumn.  I do not know how Halloween happened.  In fact, it barely happened.  I have two bins of Halloween decorations, one that remained untouched and the other cracked open moments before trick-or-treaters rang the bell.  Somehow we had some decorations, and the kids had costumes, and the trick-or-treaters happened ... and then today, someone mentioned Thanksgiving.

Huh?

Maybe it's being back to work that has me so uninspired ... but that has barely started.  Maybe it's the knowledge that we're alone for Thanksgiving, and alone for Christmas, and not travelling for either, that has made me this chill about the holidays.  Yeah, that's it, I'm chill.

Which is code for denial.

Friends are posting "pinterests" of skittle-flavored vodka gifts and holiday decor projects.  Family members have called to declare their shopping complete.  Complete! 

Which is code for: "Rox, you'd better get on that."

I'm thinking that this year, we need to wake up on Christmas morning with one thing in each stocking: a plane ticket to someplace unexpected -- someplace warm, someplace where our tiny dog is welcome, someplace where we'll all be happy to be.

But there are still a gazillion relatives to buy gifts for, and hundreds of cards that won't make or address themselves, and, and, and.

It's not that I'm all "bah, humbug," but, well, I kind of am.  I don't care for turkey -- none of us do -- and I try to express gratitude regularly, so Thanksgiving?  Contrived, to me.  And Christmas?  I believe in the Reason for the Season, and I really love picking special gifts for people -- really, really love making people happy.  But if I have to go to one more store where I already hear Christmas music playing before Thanksgiving is even here, I'm going to scream.  I shopping on-line this year, Macy's; leave me alone.

And just when I thought: okay, I have an action plan: start the photobooks next week, take the annual picture on the next sunny day, have gifts ordered by the end of the month, I get a message in my inbox:

"What are your kids doing for summer camp?"

In November.

Rox, you'd better get on that.

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It's Back to Work I ... Went!

Today was my first day back to work at a paid, regular job in over eight years.  I wrote about wanting to do it, and now, I have.  It's a bit overwhelming, of course, but it's also more than a bit wonderful.  I'm not going to discuss the specifics of my job on here other than to say that it's akin to the career I had before staying home with our second child and puts to use my graduate degree.  It's like I took a time-out and am picking up just where I left off.  I feel blessed and very, very happy.

But I need to say something more than that, of course, because this is Rox and Roll.

To my sisters who are also home with their children who are also trying to go back to work, know that you can do it.  There will be a right job for you at a company who will value your experience.  Have patience, and heed the advice I was given by an unbelievably impressive female HR professional who is at the very top of her trade (truly, you might fall out of your chair if you knew who this person is): don't be girlie bout it.  Don't make excuses for being home with your kids.  Focus on what you've done in the past, and tell the company what you're going to do for them.  Be action-oriented, loading your resume and your interview responses with action verbs.  Don't waffle, and don't hesitate.  Don't "I think" -- be decisive.  Don't list the ways being on the PTA has helped you to be bigger and better; focus on your past and your future in your career.  And prepare, prepare, and prepare more -- prepare for interviews, prepare for writing cover letters, prepare by reading industry publications and by talking to folks in your business.  More importantly than anything: ask for mentorship.  A female start-up CEO (also huge and OMG impressive) rewrote my resume with me and prepped me for interviews, hard-core style -- and the awesome HR friend put my resume through the ringer again and also coached me on what might be the best fit job for my personal goals.  She heard what I was considering and offered insights on roles that I might've dismissed, thinking I was underqualified or overmatched.  In other words, surround yourself with hardworking, successful women -- especially moms -- who are already there, and ask them for the advice you know you need.  They will never turn you down; they'll be flattered, and then you can pay it forward by helping another mom find her way back.  We are all in the sorority of motherhood, and we can all help to lift each other up when needed.  (This is not to say that stay at-home moms need to be lifted up -- I'm only addressing moms who want to return to work here, supporting their desires and offering no judgment of those who make different choices.)  Fundamentally, know that you can have kids, stay at home to raise them, see them off to school, and still return to work -- and be a valued contributor to a place that knows it's lucky to have you. 

Today, I checked a big, huge box for myself -- it's probably one of the most significant dozen or so days of my entire life to date.  Because for me, and for my family, I wanted my kids, at a young age but old enough to know that I stayed at home with them, see me dress up, take a briefcase in hand, and leave for the day -- and I also wanted them to see that Daddy can pick them up from school and deal with snacks and homework and sports practices and dinner.  I wanted them to see that we both can do the same things, and that regardless of our specific roles at any point in time, we'll still love and care for them the same way -- even when the day comes when we're both working full-time outside the home.  I wanted them to see that there is no "mold," no one way of doing things -- that mommies and/or daddies can stay home, that mommies and/or daddies can go to work, and that kids will be happy and fulfilled no matter what the combination.  Today, I checked that box, and it felt GREAT!

An Alternative to the Occupation

Many folks responded to my last post either on Facebook or privately, and most didn't care for my tone.  To those I offended, please know that I approach much of my blogging as op-ed style journalism.  This comes from studying with Katie Orenstein's The Op-Ed Project.  When I share an opinion of mine, it is just that: my opinion.  And I welcome -- embrace, even -- your disagreement.  It's my firm belief that healthy dialogue among those with differing points of view is at the very heart of democracy. 

To clarify my viewpoint on the Occupation of Wall Street, I offer the following: I spent my first years of life in a trailer on a farm in rural Appalachia.  And I now live comfortably in a house I own in one of the most high-earning zip codes in America.  When it comes to the range of wealth in this country, I truly understand it, for I've lived it -- not to the tunes of millions, but I'm lucky in that, at times, I've had more than I've needed.  Enough said.  But what sticks with me from my youth, especially, isn't the feeling that I had less than somebody else.  (I don't think I ever felt that our circumstances were meager since I had a place to live, food to eat, clothes, and cousins with whom to play.)  It's the trips I took with my mom to deliver boxes of food to families in some pretty extreme circumstances.  Sometimes, we would drive these boxes down dirt roads to shacks in which the living conditions were comparable to the slums of India depicted in "Slumdog Millionaire."  I understand poverty in America, I really, really do.  I work, now, for the day when I can "retire" to a job that actually does something meaningful for the 535 American counties affected by something called rural persistent poverty.  As a native West Virginian, I see it as my longer-term calling in life to revisit the walk Bobby Kennedy once took with MLK through Appalachia, tying the fight against economic oppression to the struggle for civil rights.  I've studied it from an academic perspective, and I'm taking time to build my own service ethic and network such that I actually have the connections to effect change, whether in Washington or with nonprofit work.  If I ever do have excessive wealth, it is likely that it will be spent in and on West Virginia.

My cards are on the table now, and it should be clear that I care very deeply about this fight against poverty.  While it is not wholly incompatible with the "occupation" movement, depending on whose sign you read or whose perspective you believe, I do believe that the fight against poverty is a wholly different thing.  I am more bothered by poverty than I am by the widening income gap; they are related, but different, causes.  The United States is not yet living up to the standards demanded by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.  This is a very major problem, and we have to ask ourselves where the answer to that problem is found.  I think it's found in holding our politicians' balls to the fire.  (Not feet.  Feet aren't sensitive enough.)  Wall Street can't vote on a living wage.  Wall Street can't make sure early childhood education is strengthened throughout the nation.  Wall Street can't guarantee our citizens' healthcare.  And neither will our government unless our ire is directed at it.

So what do I think can be done differently?  I really like change.org's "Top 10 Ways to Fight Poverty" -- especially, as I mentioned in my last post, the call to volunteerism.  The Poor People's Economic Human Rights Campaign  is dated but still rife with information.   I also believe in tracking anti-poverty legislation.  My representatives in Congress know what I think; do yours? 

At the end of the day, I do respect people's right to protest on Wall Street -- of course, I do.  I still reserve my right to opine that there time would be better spent elsewhere.  Unless our entire government is going to be recalled, the point has been made; and now, it's time for people to start figuring out a way to "think globally, act locally" when it comes to concerns about the economy -- whether jobs, hunger, education, or whatever is your hot-button.  We have the world's attention now; and now, we can do some great things.  We don't have to wait for government action, though we can work locally to impact that.  There's so much that we can do ourselves to make a difference where we live.  That movement could be called "occupation backyard."  Or, as Gandhi says, "be the change you wish to see in the world."  Change starts with me -- and you.

Cross-posted on Rox on a Soapbox

The Hypocrisy of the Occupation

When I add up the man-hours wasted on the "occupation" of Wall Street (and other sites around the globe) over the last couple of months, I fear for the future of a nation growing more impoverished by the minute.

How many Habitat for Humanity homes could have been built in that same amount of time by the same amount of people?

How many boxes of food could have been packed at food pantries?

How much Hurricane Irene damage could have been cleaned up in Vermont, where there is still plenty of mud to shovel and roads to repair?

How much furniture could have been cleaned out of their own homes and donated to transitional housing programs for the homeless?

How many suits could have been collected out of their own closets and donated to Dress for Success?

How much could have been done to actively fight poverty in America?

All of the above are things that cost no money at all and are things that most of the entire 100% of the people involved in this occupation could do to alleviate poverty in our backyard.  If this "occupation" is at all about 1:6 Americans living in poverty, shame on every damn person who has stood there holding a sign when they could have used their own two hands and the same amount of time actually doing something about poverty.

I believe in the power of protest; I really do.  Most recently, during the last major election in 2008, I stood on a corner with my kids for hours demonstrating against Propostion 8, the proposition which, unfortunately, passed and, therefore, ended gay marriage in California.  Many people worked for months fighting for civil rights for all Americans, and I was proud to be among them.

But this, this "occupation," what is its goal?  To end corporate greed?  To change tax code?  To demand a distribution of wealth?  Does anyone believe that Wall Street itself is going to do anything about that at all?  Or might Congress actually effect some changes -- in which case, shouldn't the protest be there?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government which continues to fund costly wars while 1:4 children in America go to bed hungry every night?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government renowned for wasteful spending, where the cost of one state dinner is rumored to be close to half a million dollars?  How many soup kitchens could open and operate with half a million dollars in the bank?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government that promised universal healthcare, where the option to buy-in is still years away -- unless power shifts again, and that right disappears again?

Shouldn't the protest be directed at a government that is elected time and time again over promises to improve education in America -- then systemically panders to the interests of unions that protect workers, while children have no union to defend their interests?

The list could go on and on and on.  I understand this "occupation," I really do.  I understand that it is "showy" -- and it shows our children that when one is angry, one can show that anger.  If you want to have more money, you can ask the government to redistribute wealth.  You can blame the millionaires, for, if they paid more in taxes, little Johnny wouldn't go to bed hungry tonight.  You can believe in social revolution, in a world where there is no top 1%.  You can kill the American dream like that, just by waving a sign. 

Does anyone really believe that any of that is going to come to pass?  Does anyone believe that if millionaires suddenly pay more in taxes, fewer children will be hungry in America?

When I donate soup to our school's food drive for the local pantry this week, I know that fewer children will be going to bed hungry in my backyard.  Instead of going out and buying food for this drive, I used what was in my pantry and made cutbacks to my own grocery budget, so I didn't end up spending a thing "extra" on these donations.  (The point of that will follow, below.)

When I cleaned out my closet and gave dozens of suits to the local transitional housing shelter for borderline-homeless families last week, I knew that some ladies and gentlemen would look pretty spiffy for their next job interviews.  It cost me the gas to drive to the shelter.

When I volunteer this weekend for a group rebuilding a playground at a low-income school, I will be putting my two hands to work and expending a lot of energy, but not a dime otherwise.  The cost to me is just time and, again, gas money.

Look, I know I sound preachy, morally indignant, even.  While I apologize if that offends you, I don't regret it.  I proudly refuse to participate in this Occupy Wall Street movement, for if I had the time, the talent, or the treasure, there are other ways to effect change in this country -- ways that don't involve Wall Street, the government, or a single picket sign.  If you really care about poverty in America, I urge you to do something about it in your own backyard.  It may not cost any money at all (see above).  The way out of poverty is through working together to do what we can do to care for our own neighbors.  No picket sign will ever have the same effect as a Habitat hammer. 

I'm done looking to our government for solutions, and I'm ready to work.  I'll be occupying a local playground this weekend with my hammer.  What will you do to make a difference?

cross-posted on Rox on a Soapbox

Too old to play?

I'm having one of those "life must be working out just as it should" weeks, because, in several arenas of my life, one big question keeps cropping up: when is someone too old to play?

In recent days, I've been told by more than one parent of a teenager that their kids don't "play" anymore.  When they do have breaks from their hoards of homework, they go on-line, or maybe they watch TV.  If parents are lucky, maybe they'll take a walk.  But play?  Nah.  Too old.

Also, I've heard from parents of middle-schoolers that kids are "hanging out" these days rather than having "playdates."  "What do they do?" I asked.  The answers from my informal tiny-group survey were: Wii, YouTube, TV, movies.  Play?  Nah.  Too old.  Toys?  Nah.  Too old.  (Bluntly, this doesn't mesh with the amount of Nerf and Lego stuff I see labelled 12+.  Something's off.)

For my daughter Petunia's recent 11th birthday, parents asked, "What's she into these days?  You know, since they've outgrown toys?"  I tried not to cry.  I also tried not to "out" my daughter for her Earth Friend and American Girl dolls with which, yes, she still plays. Come to think of it, she still plays Playmobil and Legos with her brother, Dash; in fact, when she received the Lego Harry Potter "Burrows" from him for her birthday, it might have been her favorite gift.  They still build with K'nex and Tinker Toys, train tracks and Matchbox cars, blocks and paper.  They especially love building forts out of found materials and can spend all day making cities with sidewalk chalk and string and sticks and rocks.  When they're not together, Petunia still plays with her dolls on her own, or does crafts projects (which I consider playing much of the time), or writes stories (playacting in her head).  She does still play, and yes, sometimes with toys; when not with toys, she's still very much playing -- like last Thanksgiving, when she shocked us as she lashed together a real TeePee made from 2x4's and moving blankets (thank you, Girl Scouts!) then proceeded to dress as a Native American for our celebration.  In other words, she acted like a 10 year-old girl -- a pretty bada$$ 10 year-old girl, if I do say so myself!  And frankly, I hope she incorporates that whole act into her Thanksgiving routine every year until she's so old she has to ask a grandkid to do it.  Too old to play?  No. Way.

I grew up playing with cousins on a farm, and then with friends in a town, and often with family in a living room.  We played cards, and it's been super-special lately to teach my daughter the same card game ("Spite and Malice") that I used to play with my great-grandmother and my grandmother.  I would give up anything else to play that game with them, anytime -- still would.  I also remember many family Scrabble games, Trivial Pursuit, and much more far before video games and computers.  Nowadays, I play the occasional on-line game, and I do enjoy the Wii from time to time -- but give me that card deck, and it's what I'd rather do more than anything else.  Too old to play?  Never.

When I took up snowboarding at 35, I didn't do it because I'm crazy.  I did it because I like to play in the snow.  I did it because I wanted my kids to see me try to learn something new, to take a risk, to fall down, to get back up again, and to squeal with excitement the first time I connected a turn.  I wanted them to see that you're never too old to have that much fun.  It's a sport, but it's just playing in the snow. 

I know that play changes shape and form over time, and I do know that, for kids these days, a lot of it is virtual.  But we need to still send our kids to the park with a soccer ball.  We need to teach them our old card games.  Even if they're 16 and have 5 APs for which to study and seemingly no time for play, we have to get them to come outside with us and fashion the perfect pirate ship out of a cardboard box for the new 5 year-old boy in the neighborhood.  We need to find a way because we want to, because we know that happy, healthy people need to have something silly and joyful in their life.  Just think of Steve Jobs' words: not just to "stay hungry," but to "stay foolish."  Had he never played, would Apple exist today?

In closing, I'll share that the most fun I've had of late was at the Maker Faire taking part in a project to crowdsource the construction of a huge model drawbridge from recycled objects.  (I think it was from Berkeley Institute of Design, but don't quote me on that.)  For about an hour, my two kids and I worked alongside ages almost-1 to 90-something to duct-tape and string together a remarkable contraption that never really worked, but oh, how we laughed with strangers.  We were participating in a crazy experiment, perhaps, but it was even simpler than that: we were playing with the same stuff kids have always played with: materials at hand, repurposed into something amazing. 

Too old to play?  Never.  It's like saying one's too old to live.

 

My tribute to Steve Jobs

At the intersection of two of my favorite streets in Palo Alto sits a lovely house with a courtyard known for crawling with hired zombies at Halloween.  One of those streets is my favorite to drive, walk, and bike down in Palo Alto, its winding road and pretty homes making for a relaxing passage.  Many are bigger homes, but most aren't mansions; Steve Jobs' tudor house with its magical Halloween courtyard isn't.  It's a normalish house for here, for a normalish family, with kids who went to their neighborhood grammar school and a family who ate in our same restaurants, shopped in our stores, and whose friends are friends with my kids.  But, of course, it's not just any normalish house: it's the Jobs house.  And for the past month, as we passed by daily, we noticed the changes: security cars, a private ambulance waiting.  When Steve Jobs announced his resignation from Apple, the press suspected he was, again, unwell.  Those of us who live here saw the other signs, and we held our breath. 

Yesterday, we exhaled, with accompanying sobs and looks of shocks -- for even when you know it's coming, when the light of a great visionary is extinguished, it is rather dark and upsetting. 

A Buddhist, Steve Jobs likely would appreciate the continuity of the circle of life on the day of his passing: more babies are born on October 5 than on any other day of the year.  Somehow, that seems fitting, just like the rain that has beset Palo Alto over the last few days -- rain that is a bit unusual, as it's usually not this constant this early in the season.  My kids call rain "angel's tears," and I think they're spot-on.

Steve Jobs is part of why I love living in Palo Alto -- and I say "is" intentionally, for while his life is gone, his legend never will be.  Of all of the words he could use in his life, he used ones like "Stay Hungry.  Stay Foolish." -- words that actually weren't his own but, rather, were poached from a catalogue, adopted as a mantra and shared in a Stanford graduation speech in 2005 as a way to live.  In this and in many other speeches, he encouraged and challenged, but his advice never felt dogmatic.  It just felt simple, and straightforward, and do-able.   And though his legend lives on in a message of passion that can never die, Silicon Valley feels, right now, like a ship without a captain, the person who motivates and sticks with and inspires his crew.  I daresay that none of our other local leaders of high-tech industry have been as personally inspiring.  Jobs reminded us that we don't all need to found an Apple, but we do all need to remember that aiming to do something bigger than ourselves is a worthy goal, whether it's through work, service, art, writing or whatever brings us joy.  When I try to figure out what, to me, Jobs' legacy is, I don't think of Apple first; I am reminded that great things come from living one's life intentionally and with passion, purpose, and commitment.  If I can be remembered that way while living and once gone, then I, too, will have been a great success.

All that said, I will remember Steve Jobs, not only as our Captain, but mostly as a man -- the man who sat next to me in Fraiche, eating an order of oatmeal and blueberries, the same thing that I was eating, in companionable silence.  He took my oatmeal when it came up first, and I joked with him about it a bit.  With a twinkle in my eye, knowing full well to whom I was about to speak, I said, "hey you, you took my oatmeal," just as his (which became my) own order came up.  He apologized, also with a twinkle, and we complimented one another's great taste.  He sat, I sat, and there he was: the very skinny man in the St. Croix black turtleneck, old Levis, and New Balance shoes, the father, the husband, the friend, the Captain, eating oatmeal, just like me, thinking big, just like me, trying to make the world a better place, just like me, and mortal, just like me.  We were hungry; we were foolish.  We were part of this great place we call home, and it won't be the same place without him -- but we owe it to him to carry on and to dream big, to think big, and to create things we never imagined before.

May our Captain rest in eternal piece, and may his family be comforted in their time of loss.

* All photos above were taken on my iPhone outside the Apple store on University Ave. in Palo Alto.  We received a message from our daughter's school, where one of his daughters is also a student, that the family desires privacy; the road by their home has been cordoned off, and, though a memorial there is still forming much greater in size than that at the Apple store, I opted to steer clear and to take no photographs out of respect for their wishes.

Homework: A Play, with a Point

The Play

The Characters: Petunia, 11, 6th grade; Dash, 6, 1st grade; Mama

Act One:

Dash: "Mama, am I supposed to have Math homework?"

Mama: "No."

Dash: "I think I'm supposed to have Math homework.  The teacher is sending home math packets in my Friday Folder."

Mama: "That's right, the teacher is sending home Everyday Math homework sheets in your Friday Folder, but they're optional, and we're not doing them."

Dash: "Why?  Some kids are doing them and even handing them in, and sometimes the teacher mentions it."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama Does say: "Do you want to do math homework?"

Dash: "Not really."

Mama: "Okay, then, I'll check in with your teacher about that, but I also want to tell you that we're doing math when we play Monopoly City -- that's counting money -- or Yahtzee -- also counting.  When you grab the measuring tape at Ikea and measure things, you're doing math.  When we're working on your numismatism (side note: he loves that word)..."

Dash: "All that's math.  I get it.  So what's the deal with the homework?  Some kids need to do fun math instead of homework math I guess."

[end scene]

Act Two:

Mama: "Petunia, I'm going to back to school night!  Sitter Man is here.  See you in a few hours!"

Petunia: "Alright, Mom, I just started my math homework."

Three, almost four hours later:

Mama: "Thanks sitter man, I'm home!"

Petunia emerges from her room, bleary-eyed: "Mama, I'm still doing my math homework."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama does say: "I think I'd better take a look... (looks)... Umm, Petunia?  On each of these days, you're supposed to pick one of three assignments to do.  And since this syllabus covers the whole week, it appears that you've done every assignment on every day until ... wow, half of Thursday."

What Petunia does say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

Followed by: "Why don't they have a class on 'how to read a syllabus?"

Followed by: "Whooo-hooo!  I won't have any math homework all week now!"

Followed by: "And now I need to go to bed."

[end scene]

*****

The point

I am a bit disturbed that my son, Dash, at age only-6, and in only-1st grade, is feeling some kind of homework pressure.  Perhaps I could choose to look at it as him just "noticing" that kids are turning in work; but, from his facial expression, I could see that it was causing him a bit of anxiety.  He thought he was not doing something that he was supposed to be doing.  Even though the homework is optional, he's noticing that kids are doing it -- and that's bothering me.  Are parents billing it as "fun" to their kids?  Or, more likely, knowing my school, are they selling it as academically important?  The kids, according to my son, have a sense of accomplishment as they wave their little papers around saying "I did my homework!" -- so, in turn, my son is not getting that sense of "hey, I did something to please the teacher" and, thus, has all of the awkwardness that comes with that when one is only-6.  Since I was a vocal opponent of this math curriculum when it was adopted in 2009, I feel pretty awkward about it, too.  I feel like trying to engage the teacher in a discussion about it risks being interpreted as my ongoing defiance about the program instead of my concerns about the tenor of the classroom when it comes to optional work. In the end, I'm not really sure how I'll resolve that, but I do know this: I will not buy into academic competition when my son is 6.  He will learn reading, writing, and arithmetic, and, as mentioned above, there are some ways we supplement that work (Monopoly, etc.) that he doesn't even realize.  But there are parents sending their kids for math tutoring in 1st grade.  I put my foot down.  And, also, @#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!

When it comes to Petunia, my commentary is more general.  Wow, does she ever have too much homework.  She's hitting her stride when it comes to math now, and she's figured out how to read the syllabus, but there is so. much. to. organize.  Binders and books and papers and files and sports equipment and gym clothes and one very cumbersome trumpet.  The Guv is bothered that she's not biking to school, and I'm trying to invent a UHaul bike trailer, 'cause that's how much crap she takes back and forth.  I finally bought a second math book (used, $16, whoo-hoo!) to leave at home, but that doesn't take care of the rest of the stuff.  When I was in 6th grade, I had little if any homework, a desk in which I kept my papers, and I didn't change classes.  Petunia has two lockers (one for books and such, one for gym) and changes for every class.  Her backpack is too heavy with no signs of lightening.  Perhaps because she's in private school, she has 2x the homework any of her public school friends have -- AND, unlike them, she doesn't get a packet on Friday that she can start doing over the weekend (apparently, that Friday Folder thing continues for public school kids, and the work in it isn't "optional" later on).  So she lugs stuff after sports practice (her self-proclaimed "release") every day at 5:15, all the way to my car, 'cause it's too heavy.  They have four no-homework days per year.  She is living in a halfway place, perfectly balanced between being happier than I've ever seen her at her all-girl school and more stressed than I've ever seen her or than any sixth-grader should be.  I wonder: is it worth it?  She'd say yes.  The reasons we put her in this school, most especially the all-girl thing, are still the most important ... but I have to wonder: is this much homework at age 11 necessary and important -- or possibly detrimental to her overall wellbeing, even if she's not staying up to do four hours of math per night as she already once did? 

I have no answers, just a bit of vexation, for I've heard that the bigger kids get, the bigger their problems get, and I'm having an inkling of that from both kids.  Somehow, without all of that work they're doing, starting "optionally" in 1st grade, I still ended up with an Ivy League diploma on my wall.  I didn't have much academic stress, ever, and I'm not that much smarter than them, if at all. 

As their mom, I can say "no" to the optional work, and I can make Petunia turn off her light, go to bed, and encourage her to not see grades as the be-all and end-all (and make sure that we're reflecting that in our reaction to bad ones) ... but no matter how much I do for them, I wonder: how did we get to this point?  Is it good for our kids?  And how would we ever change it now?  Are there schools out there (middle school and high schools, esp.) that have NO homework?  Do those kids get into Yale too? 

Something seems very wrong, here, with this homework business.  I smell a rat, or a ruse, and I suspect the problem is not with our kids at all and maybe not even with their teachers but with Other Parents making their kids do more, better, faster, higher-level, etc.  That scares me more than the federal deficit or war or poverty or hunger because here is something we can control, and we've made it it's own out-of-control thing.  How do we get back to an age of reason?  Is it too late?

Eleven

Today, my daughter, Petunia, turned 11, though we kicked off the celebration yesterday at 9:17 p.m. PST, which is equivalent to 12:17 a.m. EST, which is when she was actually born.  (Follow that?)  That 17 minutes made the difference in my ability to stay in the hospital with her a whole extra day, so I'm pretty glad that I was on EST then.  Since that was my first baby, I wanted that extra day of hands-on help from a lactation consultant, especially, and I'm grateful for it, even though Petunia was nearly two weeks overdue and should've been home already.  And come home, she did, on September 26, to a tiny little one bedroom apartment in New Haven, Connecticut, where she lived her first nine months smack dab in the middle of us -- the Guv, a b-school student, and me, a b-school admissions officer, and about 200 of our closest friends who were always holding Petunia. 

Now, I have a theory on the effect of that crowdsourcing of child-holding on Petunia's nature: it made her love the world.  She never has friends who are just like her.  She has friends from every walk of life, of every color, of every faith, of both sexes, from every imaginable kind of home, from all around the world ... friends who are rich, friends who aren't, friends with disabilities, friends to whom she's their only friend ... she just loves people.  And she loves them for who they are, for all the good things they have inside them.  And she'll find that good in just about anybody.  She even finds that good in people she shouldn't, but I'm probably never going to try to fix that because I don't think that's a broken thing.  If I add up all of those 200 people who were holding her for her first year of life, I can see what they gave her: the man who really wanted to be a dad, who carried around Purell in his shirt pocket just so he'd be ready and clean if she came around (even though I was never that disciplined about carrying Purell myself!), gave her the sense that people that weren't family could care for her.  The girl who had never held a baby before, who was so nervous when she held Petunia -- Petunia helped give her confidence, and she gave Petunia the sense that not knowing your way is okay sometimes.  The coworker who I really wasn't sure whether or not s/he liked me (I have to be ambiguous here) was among the first to show up at my house with food for me and gifts for her -- showing Petunia that help can come from unexpected sources.  All these people together, and many more, taught our whole family that it the best way to raise a child is in a village.  And in that village, we were all loved -- but most of all, Petunia was.  She was everyone's baby, and she was all good, all easy, all smiles.

And she has stayed exactly the same for 11 (actually, beginning the 12th!) years. 

Our first family village is back in New Haven this weekend, celebrating their 10th b-school reunion.  The Guv opted to stick around here in NorCal, not wanting to leave Petunia on her birthday, even with her blessing.  I'm bummed for him -- for all of us, actually, 'cause those are some good friends -- but I know they understand.  But to that village, I offer a humble note of thanks, because they are part of what made our kid what she is today.  I appreciated the many gifts they gave to our family that year.

And to the kid who, due on 9-11, arrived 13 days late, on 9-24, I offer these special thoughts as she embarks on her 12th year of life:

Petunia, never forget that you are part of something bigger than yourself.  You are growing into womanhood and, with that, developing some skepticism, even some cynicism at times, about some big topics like war and government and what "rights" are fundamental for people -- and how those views vary from person to person.  You're coming to realize that there are a lot of things on which people don't agree, and some of these may be Big Things.  You may feel you have to make a choice or take a side -- and, with that, it may feel like your Village is not so Whole after all.  But, actually, I hope you'll go back to the Village from which you came to pick up on those simple lessons: people can be from very different walks of life, but they can still hold you, they can still feed you, and they can still help you to find your way on this crazy path of Life -- even if they're very different from you.  What makes those differences okay is your acceptance of them, which is something that has always been central to your life.  In this world that is divisive, you are inclusive.  It is a real blessing for you and for all who know you.

As you embark on your 12th year, my wish for you is simple, though it is actually a very Big Wish for a pre-adolescent: just be who you are, for who you are is a beautiful young woman who brings so much happiness to her Village.

Love you - Mama xo

 

So, the thing about parenthood ...

Someone recently told me that I'm not writing enough about my kids anymore.  Yeah, so, about that ... two words: Middle School, and one more: Dash.

When I think back to 6th grade, it was the last grade of elementary school where I lived, not the first year of junior high (which, where I live now, is called middle school).  So it wasn't a big deal, except for me, because my parents sent me to a Catholic school across the river that year.  It's not that I'd been rotten or anything; my siblings were in school there, and it was an opportunity to be in a different social situation.  It was also an opportunity to eat the world's best grilled cheese and tomato soup on Fridays as well as an opportunity to realize how very un-holy nuns can be.  (I know, God strike me down for saying that, but, really, they actually did rap knuckles, including mine, once, for taking out my retainer without permission.) 

So, anyway, besides my being in a different school whose motto was "grilled cheese with a side of corporal punishment and Eric spitting out the sacrament and learning what a visit from the holy spirit really meant" ... 6th grade wasn't such a big deal.

But now, Petunia has started middle school, at a new school -- at a new all-girls, seriously academic school -- and whooo-eee, do I miss Sister Mary Beatyoulikeadrum, 'cause that was easier to deal with than this homework.  And sports schedule.  And "Mom can I study in the library 'cause I want to be gone from 7:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. everyday" schedule.

Petunia is happier than she's ever been in her life.  She's working harder, and I actually heard her say the words, "I don't know why, but I'm actually excited to do my homework tonight!" last Thursday.  There must be something in the water at that magical school, or maybe that's the place on which Hogwarts is based.  Anyhoo, she's happy, she's working hard, and she's gone.  G-o-n-e.  When she is home, she's working, and if we squeeze in an hour of family time each day during the week, we're lucky.  It is what it is.  She's growing up, quite well, and she even has a weekly grilled cheese and tomato soup lunch without the side of yardstick across her knuckles.  Girl doesn't even know how lucky she is.

As for that other kid, the dementor Dash, there is First Grade.  He has the teacher he hoped for, declaring her "the nicest."  But he pretty much hates it.  He's reading Harry Potter at home; he has no patience for Chrysanthemum.  He does not feel he needs to write, or write neatly, because, as Petunia has shown, in 6th grade, he'll have a laptop.  So who cares about his stupid penmanship?  He's going to be an archaeologist someday and needs to know hieroglyphics.  What is the point of first grade, anyway? He's not thrilled to be there, and he's also not eating his lunch, again.  Since the school day is longer than it was in kindergarten, when he could eat a Luna bar and be content, this is a big deal.  It is an even bigger deal because some little asshole girl told him that Luna bars are made from luna moths, so he's been eating bugs for a year.  Since he can't take almond butter with honey -- total peanut and tree nut ban in effect -- he's been experimenting with starvation.  One day, he'll eat a cheese roll; the next day, he'll declare the same thing inedible.  Then he'll eat plain ravioli; the next day, nothing.  It's a stop-and-start experiment that is failing.  On the "nothing" days, he comes home angry.  As I sit him atop the kitchen counter, forcing him to remain there until he's eaten a healthy mini-meal, he screams things at me like, "Mom, you're ruining my happy life," or worse, "I won't starve to death, and I'll prove it."  (Oh, but he will.  He is the kid who would rather starve than eat, and we're sooooo not going there.)  After he finally does give in to ingesting a modicum of food, twenty minutes later, he finds me (usually curled up in a ball in my closet hiding from his fury) and apologizes.  "Must've been hungry," he says, as he hugs me.  "Love you mom."

So, the thing about parenthood, is that it's hard.  In times like these, it's hard to write about.  To my friends who have not yet entered preadolescence, to my friends who don't have a child with an eating disorder (which is what it is), they don't get it.  I get useless advice like "just make him eat."  Or "have you tried...?" which sometimes leads to a great suggestion but, usually, is just someone trying to prove me wrong -- that, actually, my child does eat enough to live, even if it's only a few things, not understanding that he won't even eat those few things consistently so, therefore, it actually is a crisis.  Every other day.  And that's hard.

Parents of newborns?  You have it easy.  Your colic, witching hour, sleepless nights ... that's the easy stuff.  Just wait until they grow up and you have bigger problems.

See why I haven't been blogging?  It's not nice for me to say that.  And frankly, it's not nice to my kids, who are both, in the end, doing wonderfully.  Petunia is happy, and Dash thinks he's going to Hogwarts in sixth grade.  I'm just very, very tired and in need of a week in Hawaii with no one demanding anything of me except the pool boy, wondering if I'll have a pina colada, a lava flow, or a strawberry daiquiri.  Decisions, decisions...

So that's my parenthood update for this week.  Another one is coming soon, because oohhhhh boy, Petunia is turning 11.  I can't handle the truth. 

Where's that daiquiri?