Support the Public Option

Another cut and paste from MoveOn.org; please join me!

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After months of delay, the full Senate is about to debate and vote on landmark health care legislation. But first, Senator Harry Reid and Democratic leaders have a big decision to make:

Will the Senate consider real health care reform with a public health insurance option, or a watered-down compromise full of giveaways to Big Insurance?

I just signed a petition asking Sen. Reid to include a strong public health insurance option in the Senate's health care bill. Will you join me at the link below?

Click here to sign the petition!

Thanks!

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It Must Be So Easy to Raise French Children

Today, I asked my three year old to put away her bowl and spoon.

"No" is what I got in return. That and these gems: "I'm not gonna." "La la-la la-la la, you can't make me." "I hate you." Lots of these responses came from an upside-down mouth, as she repeatedly stood on her head (on the couch cushions), and bounced up and down like a crazed squirrel.

There must be very few vocations that require as much on your feet creativity as parenting does: I had to work hard to come up with new and effective ways to get her to carry her bowl and spoon into the kitchen that did not involve using a choke hold, damaging my vocal chords, or promising her a pony.

It was not easy. 15 minutes of my life are now a foggy, misty blur because I sacrificed them to the intense concentration necessary to get what I wanted from her while avoiding the aforementioned prohibitions.

The bowl and spoon ended up where they belong, and I lost minutes off of my total life span for the grief and suffering I endured along the way. I have no memory of what finally did it, what wore her down.

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Cut to dinner time. Once again, dishes needed to be cleared away. It so happened that I served dinner to my three girls (it was a ladies night at our house) with a French accent. The three of them thought this was pretty funny, and kept asking for "That French Guy." Apparently, I can do french, but it's a masculine french.

Anyway, I braced myself for the clean up resistance, also known as the Toddler Liberation Front. But the most amazing thing happened. I made my request in a french accent -- "Pleeeeeze, put zee deeshes away in zee keetchin, mon chere!" -- and the previously recalcitrant three year old complied with glee. She even asked me to ask her to put something else away!

So I guess I will have to get used to sounding like a french dude, if I am to ever get what I want from her. Might be a little strange in public, but if we skirt the whole tantrum thing and I get to keep some of those bonus minutes at the end of my life, I'm all over it.

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Not My Path to Sainthood

Judging by the intense resentment I feel for every single one of my offspring today, laundry-as-devotion will never be my entre into beatification.

But then again, how is it that I can have so little gumption, so little courage, that when I face a day determined to conquer the laundry and the dustbunnies that I last until just after lunch before giving up completely?

At least I lasted until 3:47 before I cracked open a cold one. That has to count for something. Probably not towards spiritual enlightment, but maybe towards being a more bearable mother?

I'll take it.

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Unlikely Blessings

I have a friend who once told me that she sees laundry as a spiritual exercise.

Yes, you read that correctly.

This comes from a mother of four young boys, who most certainly has a larger-than-most-families laundry case load. And she's not some rose-colored glasses, put-a-happy-face-on-everything mom. She's real, she's gritty, she yells as much as I do, she loses patience like we all do, and she loves her kids truly, madly, deeply.

I think about her laundry prayer often when I am faced by incomprehensible piles of clothes, colassal mountains of dirty dishes, and family life detritus on every conceivable surface. Keeping up with this household feels so burdensome at times.

But I aspire to my friend's brand of devotion to taking care of the things that take care of everyone else. The tasks are truly thankless and never-ending. And yet, they are vital to everyone in the family. If I can do them with some semblance of grace, patience, devotion, presence...maybe they can come to mean more than drudgery.

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I'll let ya' know how that goes.

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Just Wait

Just wait, you brand new parents, traveling through Safeway in your new baby fog. Just wait until that mushy little bundle is 5 years old and demanding sugar.

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The other day, I took my 4 (almost 5) and 2 year olds to Safeway for a little shoppin'. It was the night before Samuel's birthday, and around here, birthdays are an occasion for sugary cereal. We don't buy sugar cereal except when we have a birthday, and then, the person of honor gets to pick one. He picked Fruit Loops.

So there I was, in the produce section of Safeway, with IT and OTHER IT, who were both, at 5:30 in the evening, a tad wild. Along came the new parents. Mom, looking all glowy and soft, like a clean, downy pillow that has just been punched, fluffed, and smooshed into maximum comfortability. Dad, wearing the baby sling, with Newborn Miracle snuggled contentedly inside. The two (or rather three) of them were strolling through the veggies and fruit, doing that slow, ethereal walk one does when the very miracle of life coming forth is ever present in one's mind and walking through the grocery store feels other-worldly. They had that look.

Plus, they looked clean, if sleepy, and wore that distinctly Berkeley uniform, the one that says "We are progressive, enlightened, comfortable, and organic. We wear 100% cotton, and these shoes are really expensive, but no animals were harmed in their production."

My little girl-terrors love babies, so I pointed out the newby, which elicited the expected cuteness reflex. Then they started running all over the produce section and screaming like banshees. I had one of those moments where you realize that your kids are behaving exactly in a way you thought you'd never tolerate. You balance this with the fact that you're quite happy they haven't upended the apple display. You finish off the musing by calling the excursion successful, so far.

The new mommy and daddy smiled at them. I could be projecting, but I think there was a tinge of "We'd never let this little miracle run rampant like that. Now, where's the organic locally grown celery?"

There was quite a bit of smiling back and forth; their baby was completely adorable. I got lost in a little moment of nostalagia, made more potent by Sam's birthday, the 11th anniversary of my first foray into that squishy pillow stage of new motherhood. My revery was interupted by It and Other It chanting: "FRUIT LOOPS, FRUIT LOOPS, FRUIT LOOPS!" Translation: "Let's get the hell away from all these vegetables and find the freakin' FRUIT LOOPS!"

So off to the cereal aisle. To our great fortune, it turned out Fruit Loops were on sale, and therefore, on an end cap of one of the aisles. With a family of seven, I knew I was basically committed to two boxes of pure HFCS. So when Elizabeth saw the Fruit Loops, started panting and frothing at the mouth, and said: "Can we get two boxes!?!?!?!?!? One for breakfast and one for lunch?!?!!?!", I was ready to say yes.

As luck would have it, cute little ethereal organic newborn family was strolling by right at that moment, in time to hear my crazed daughter ask for two boxes of sugar AND my willing agreement. They floated by the sugar cereal, as I did 11 years ago, certain, I am sure, in their resolve to never, ever buy cereal loaded with HFCS and all manner of crappy crap.

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Time does change things, doesn't it? The best laid plans of mice and moms meet reality as their children grow up and demand Fruit Loops. I remember that lazy, foggy walk through the grocery store of new parenthood. I'm pretty sure I thought I would raise kids without Fruit Loops.

And in reality, it physically pains me to purchase Fruit Loops. But it also gives me great delight to be able to offer my 11-year old the forbidden fruit of sugary cereal on his important day. That's the stuff I didn't count on 11 years ago, the power of making your kid happy.

I couldn't resist. Before they were out of earshot, I said to the girls: "Why don't we go for the trifecta and call it dinner!"

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Tallulah-size

Who needs jazzercise? Who needs step aerobics? Who needs a personal trainer?

Not me! I got Tallulah. All 29 pounds of her. Wrestling her into her carseat EACH and EVERY damn time I run errands renders me sweaty, sore, worn out, and definitely ready for a full body massage.

It is something to behold. She screams loud enough to mobilize CPS workers around the nation. She stiffins her body with such severity that it takes super human strength to fold her bottom into the car seat. She holds onto any and every thing within reach -- the seat in front of her, the other seat's seat belt, the edge of the car door -- with a super-glue grip. I've even tried pouring a dissolving agent over her hands to pry them loose. When I start to get the upper hand, she bites, scratches, pulls my hair, pinches my arms, and flails like a lunatic. I put her arms in the straps 10-15 times before I am able to make them stay that way.

It can take up to 10 minutes for the entire process, at the end of which I am too worn out to even remember where I was going in the first place. The other children wait patiently, looking like they'd like to be swallowed up by the earth instead of enduring this dance between the youngest and the mama. Usually, one or two of them actually apologize to me. They feel pity for me.

We've talked with her about it, in a nice reasonable, "teachable moment" kind of way; we've had more forceful talks as well; we (the whole family) have encouraged her to "be good and get strapped in;" we've done time outs; we've done rewards.

Since she turned three, the severity has increased. I utterly dread the act of getting her in her seat. Today, I've had to do it three times already, with a minimum of two more in front of me.

It's a waiting game. She won't be doing this when she's in high school, right? It will end eventually?

Although when that happens, I'm going to have to find a new work out regimen.

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Kidding about the dissolving agent.

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Job Opening

Today I was thinking about writing. I do this frequently, in lieu of actually writing. So I was pondering the problem that writing presents which is basically this: you have to tell the truth. You can't hide behind much of anything at all, or what you write will be boring at best and bad at worst.

And bam: there in my head was a Marine Corps Drill Sargeant Type, standing over me and shouting:

"You've got to stand somewhere! This writing thing, this writing happens in the most uncomfortable room you've ever been in, sister: no comfy chairs or couches, no blankets or pillows, lady, nothin'! Nothing to get comfortable on, so you've got to stand up or you're gonna fall down on your ASS! You a little uncomfortable??!? Good! That's exactly where you should be, or your should get your ass out of this house!"

OK, so maybe I don't need quite that level of animosity clamoring down on my head, but I do need that drill sargent pushing me to stand up. Writing isn't for the weak, and it's not for those who would prefer sitting somewhere comfortable, sipping on a Mint Julep. (Of course, a writer can take a much-deserved break to do such things...in another room, where cushions actually exist.)

So, I'm in the market for a drill sargeant.

Job Qualifications: Ability to speak Truth to Weakness. Experience yelling the following:

You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!

Desired, not required: Proficiency in making Old-Fashioneds. Ability and willingness to change diapers. 10+ years of experience simultaneously being threatening and pumping sunshine.

Anyone out there want to be my motivational, life/writing coach, drill sargent, and personal bad ass?

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Tell Me Why

I have been thinking about health care lately -- go figure -- and I cannot for the life of me figure out why a person would be opposed to universal coverage for all.

I suppose I sort of get it, if you are happily covered by good insurance that you've never really needed. And I understand (although disagree with) the fear that insurance provided by the government would be inefficient at best and corrupt at worst. And I am familiar (although in disagreement) with objections based on opposing social entitlements. We've heard quite a few voices against the public option citing these and other concerns related to covering everyone.

As an aside, since our country already has a public, albeit not universal,option --Medicare -- we can see evidence of how it works. My own family was recently the beneficiary of the public option: Last Spring, my father, who has a private plan but also has Medicare because of his age, was in a serious accident while riding his bicycle. He was able to receive the care he needed without going broke. Had he needed to rely solely on a limited private plan, severely breaking his pelvis, which was already ordeal enough, could have been financially catastrophic for my folks. What I really want to know is, who could object to that protection?

But here's who I want to hear from: the uninsured, or underinsured, person, who has gotten sick, who is unable to access care because he or she cannot afford it, and who is physically suffering and may even die from a lack of medical care that would otherwise address their health issues...and who is opposed to universal health care. And if you exist, please, please, explain to me why you oppose an option that would enable you to recover from your illness and live a healthy life. Or if not that person, then someone who loves that person, and is still opposed to universal health care.

What do you say to counter the notion that no one should die because they can't afford care and no one should go broke because they get sick?

I don't think anyone else could ever convince me that an argument against universal health care even makes sense; I have yet to hear, in all the cacophony of fear and confusion, a single good reason why citizens in the richest country on earth should suffer and even die because they cannot afford insurance in a system whose costs are out of control, artifically high, and ass-backwards. If you suffer under the current system and still have rational reasons for opposing the public option, then YOU are the person I want to talk to. You are the person who might help me understand this debate.

I'm 100% certain you will not convince me to change my own mind, but I am desperate to gain some insight into what the other side could possibly be thinking.

Are you out there? Tell me why.

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Primary Colors

Green.

Cool, lively, abundant, growing. Crisp and clean, like her smooth skin. The color of her eyes and of her temper.

Blue.

Bright sky, field trip days, really good music. The color of her hugs and of her imitating dance moves from Dancing With the Stars.

Yellow.

Pure fun and sun, laughter, goofy-ness. The color of her giggles and her endless Knock Knock jokes that are not funny but are because she loves them so.

Red.

All things fancy, all things special, fierce love. The way she grabs life by the, um, horns, dives right in and makes everyone she meets a fast friend. The color of her enthusiasm, her strength, her energy, her volume.

She is my primary color girl, my girl who can combine and create a million different colors from the palette at her disposal: she is sweet, exasperating, generous, mean, strong, fragile, hilarious, sharp, tiny and larger than life. She is the girl she draws over and over, filling up paper after paper, the happy one with the crazy hat that has flowers and sparks and rays of color shooting from its top. She is too little to be in school, but she is way too big to be anywhere else. She takes an extraordinary amount of grief, and still sees the world as one never-ending debutante ball: hers.

I look at her in complete amazement: this came from me? How the hell did that happen? Who is this wild child? What laws will she one day break with abandon? But really, where on earth did she come from?

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Take It On Faith...

..take it to the heart...the waiting is the hardest part.

Someone please tell me that having my daughter do the dishes is worth it...even if I have to do them over again.

Someone please tell me that encouraging my son to "take pride" in doing a chore well is worth it...even if he rolls his eyes so hard he can see the back side of his skull.

Someone please tell me the whining and shrieking and bickering will pass....even if they're all past 30 when it does.

Someone please tell me that the seeds I sow today will someday grow into strong plants, because frankly, I am aware only of weeds and the stench of manure.

Which leads me to this one: someone please tell me that the youngest will someday not wear diapers.

Just took a 30 minute break from this post while handling 2.5 full blown melt downs. One homework induced...one push pin in the hand induced...one-half other people melting down induced.

I am waiting, waiting, waiting for the back-breaking, bone-crunching, body-wearying work to pay off.

This. Is. Impossible.

Take it on faith, because there is absolutely, positively nothing else on earth that makes any of this make one iota of sense.

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From His Perspective

Mom puts sinaman in our french toast. She also calles dad hony or rick. She is the one who atwase cooks. She goes to IDS for her work. She loves to sing. One of her favorit music is the fore seasons. She saports all of us in scool. She likes spending time with one of my siblings.

So, apparently, she should be spending a little more time supporting them in spelling, specifically, but otherwise? This was pure golden to stumble across. We have a kajillion notebooks in our house, in our car, in our two trucks, in purses and backpacks, because drawing, writing, and coloring have always been our fallback activities to keep squirrely kids occupied. I never throw them away, and this is why: what if I missed this? What if I tossed this small little apple-shaped noteboook, most of the pages of which have meaningless scribble, into the trash, and never saw this little reflection on "Mom" written in careful, newly-learned cursive?

He's right! I do love to sing, I love Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and I do love to spend time with each of my kids alone...although I hope and trust he knows that he is one of those siblings I like to be alone with.

I never know how much of me gets through to them; they can ignore me, disrespect me, wish me away, beg me for mercy and beg me for candy. I'm clear on all of that, and some days, it seems that's all I'm good for. But sometimes, I guess, they also see me. And this little essay reflected me back pretty well.

Could it be? Dare I imagine it? Might I be doing something right?

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