What Was That Blog Topic Anyway?

I was all set to write my blog, but first I needed some breakfast.  I poured my signature bowl of Special K, sliced a perfect banana on top—not too green and not too ripe—and then dripped some milk over the flakes.  For years I ate my cereal dry, but I have learned to moisten it a bit with milk.  I use just enough dairy product to soften slightly, leaving a crunch in the bite and avoiding the pooling of nasty “dirty milk” in the bottom of the bowl.  Since childhood, I have abhorred the milky residue of the cereal bowl—warm milk polluted with crumbs and sweeteners, not to mention the telltale rainbow dyes of artificial food colors.  Over the decades I have evolved a precise and perfectly acceptable cereal presentation, provided that I complete it quickly without delay.

In just this amount of time I forgot the topic that had gotten me revved up into my daily dose of writerhead.  This is the scourge of the fifty-something.  I cannot remember what I meant to do for as long as it takes me to get to doing it.  Recently, I donned coat and scarf, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed out the door.  It took until I had carefully backed my car out of the garage for me to realize that I had no idea where I was going or why.  I searched the car for clues.  Had I put a bag of laundry in the trunk?  Was there a shopping list?  Were their appointments noted on my iphone calendar?  Embarrassed, I switched the car from reverse to drive and scooted back into the garage.

I am growing annoyed by this latest sign that the years are adding up.  I have a constant ringing in my ears of the message my daughter whispered to me as I dropped her off at college, “Don’t get old, mom.”  For her sake and for mine, I am doing the best that I can to avoid it.  I am already plagued by more arthritic joints than anyone should amass in a lifetime.  Please, G-d.  Don’t take my mind, too.

The other day, just for fun, I was dazzling my husband with the strength of my steel-trap memory.  I could recite the phone number from my childhood home, and even the long-distance number and address from when my grandparents lived in the Bronx.  I remember lines and lines of poetry I memorized in the six-grade poetry challenge (my favorite poem is still Ozymandias by Shelley, although sometimes I forget and think it’s by Coleridge).  In my heyday, I had as close to a photographic memory as I can imagine.  I could read a book for school and then find the quotes I needed for a paper by turning to the precise page almost instantly.  I used to memorize music almost instantly upon playing a piece for the first time.  I could remember what was taught in class without taking good notes.  Even when I began my professional career, I was capable of managing my business calendar without writing anything down.  I would show up at meetings and travel to clients, never missing a beat—and never writing down an appointment or a contact name.

Those days are long gone.  Now, I need alerts and a GPS just to find my way through the day.  My daughter gets impatient with me because I do not remember things she told me two months ago, or fifteen minutes ago.  I try to explain that while she is managing just her life, I function as mission control for the family, juggling four people to her one.  The administrivia of her life does not make my greatest hits list.  But she does not buy it.  She just calls me sad.

I refuse to give up or give in.  I am nothing if not adaptable.  And I have all the wonders of an iphone!  Now, I make lists using the Notes function, and painstakingly enter appointments on my Calendar.  It is a simple system that is nearly foolproof.  I only have to remember one thing—to look at my phone. 

I still cannot remember what it was I sat down to write.  Perhaps that idea will cycle back around in another day or so.  But it doesn’t really matter, as it seems that I have a blog fully written right in front of me.  I wonder when I did that?

Newtown Blues

Sometimes words fail. . .


Newtown Blues

The helplessness we feel is dwarfed by theirs

Whose cries are drowned by our collective gasp,

So young to be engulfed within cross hairs,

While innocence is stolen from our grasp.

As parents, we feel lacking to console,

Those whose pain exceeds our greatest fears,

It’s time to acquiesce to gun control

Before this violence drowns us in our tears.

Amendment two provisions can remain

A sacred right of freedom to us still,

But safety must be able to sustain

Against a world of crazies armed to kill.

When will we learn to love our sons and daughters

More than saving rights to guns and slaughters?

Momster Grows Up

[This blog was written before news of the Newtown massacre hit the airwaves.  Please honor the lost children by hugging yours extra tight.]

My daughter likes to remind me—with emphasis—that she is “all grown up.”  She wants to be treated like an adult.  She says she has demonstrated that she can handle her life.  She offers proof that she is responsible.  She wants me to “stop” asking her questions, “stop” reminding her about important matters, and “stop” saying things she doesn’t want to hear.  For years now, I have heard false claims that no one else’s parents call them, or have ever given curfews, or put restrictions on what they can do or where they can go.  Apparently, I am the only parent who asks who is going to be there, what time will you be home, or how much is it going to cost.  Parents no longer provide consequences for their children, I am told; nor are they permitted to weigh in on the appropriateness of activities that they are asked to bankroll.

To a certain extent, she has a point.  She is now twenty, which affords her significantly more leeway than, say, seventeen.  On the other hand, she does not recognize that while she no longer feels like a child, I still feel very much like her mother.   Although I have eased up on the reins considerably, I cannot and do not want to stop thinking about her welfare or her happiness.  I refuse to believe that this makes me a bad mother.

This phase in our mother-daughter relationship conjures an image of the opening scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  Despite the trail of skeletons from those who have failed in their quests before him, Indiana Jones inexplicably reaches the prized golden idol.  To claim his treasure, which, to believe the evidence, must be harder to do than it appears, he realizes he must lift the idol while simultaneously replacing its mass with a counterweight.  The exchange of weight from one item to the other must be delicately choreographed.  If the first is lifted too soon, or the second applied too late, or if there is a mismatch in the weight between the two items, disaster is guaranteed. 

Motherhood is a lot like this.  We know we have to let go and are fully prepared to do so, but we are remiss if we withdraw too soon and we are overbearing if we linger too long.  It is not enough for our children to declare their adulthood; we must see it, feel it, and be convinced of it before we withdraw our scrutiny, our judgment, and eventually our voiced opinions.  What children do not realize is that their growth is not attained all at once.  A child who is brilliant academically may be a complete klutz in activities of daily life.  Or one who is acutely well organized may be an impulsive shopaholic.   When I look at my daughter, I still see shadows of a particular lapse fifteen years ago.  We were in the Boston theatre district on our way to see Blue Man Group.  She spotted the lights for the show and started walking toward them.  She walked right out into the middle of the busy traffic as a taxi cab sped around the corner.  I ran into the road after her—she was not tall enough to be seen by the driver—and plucked her off the ground just inches from the front grille of the cab.  Even to this day, she still retains elements of this split focus:   blisteringly insightful one moment and completely clueless the next.

I am nothing if not a good sport.  Although I have nightmares about the major Philadelphia streets she must cross several times a day, I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.  If I don’t hear from her, I have taught myself to check to see that she is talking to her friends on Facebook (an act for which she calls me a "stalker").  I can console myself from a distance that if she was in dire straits she would not be making small talk and posting concert photos.  When I see pictures posted of her with her friends, her beautiful smile tells me that she is happy.  Her eyes are bright and she is surrounded by people who love and respect her.   What more can a mother want?

There will come a time when she will not need me—not as a default fallback position, and not for financial support either.   I already know that she makes good choices.  I will be happy when she is financially independent because it is something that is important to her.  She has always taken pride in earning her keep and paying her way when she can.  But I also hope that when she no longer needs “things” and “stuff” from me, she will discover a new way to be my daughter, just as I have had to discover a new way to be her mother.  

When Sorry Doesn't Cut It

I hate to be a downer, especially so close to the end of my blog year, when I should be whooping myself into a frenzy of excitement.  There is just too much in the news to ignore.  Among these things is the recent tragedy surrounding the London nurse who was duped into providing medical information to crank caller radio DJs from Australia. 

I have always been a bit of a royal-buff, fascinated like many Americans by the monarchy that we banned from our shores back in the 18^th Century.  I have long followed reports on Prince Charles (as one who shares his birthday, I always felt somehow connected), watched live when he married Diana, and cried while glued to the television the weekend she died tragically.  The recent marriage of Will and Kate is a breath of fresh air in an otherwise gloomy world, their young love welcome as they parade their smiles and goodwill across the globe.  The recent news of their expectancy seems to play right into the hands of the British public, who react in such a proprietary manner to any and all goodness that emanates from the royal couple.

It all came to a halt with a crank phone call.  I have listened with amusement many times while radio DJs called various individuals during their 15 minutes of fame.  It is not unusual to try to reach out during a morning "drive time" to talk to a dog owner, or school administrator, or some other faceless person who was elevated from anonymity by a peculiar circumstance.   I remember, in particular, a DJ’s reaching out to a Midwestern woman who was sued ruthlessly by Donald Trump over the name of her small ceramic studio, “You’re Fired.”  They teased her for daring to cross “The Donald,” when in actuality she was a small business owner whose shop was opened before Donald Trump trademarked his catchphrase.   It was good fun.  But this Australian prank was another matter.  Although impersonating the royals can be inocuous, (and it often is) this act sought as its purpose to expose personal medical information to the public over a live broadcast.  It was ill-conceived and mean-spirited in every way. 

What makes it even sadder is that an exemplary employee became collateral damage.  There was no thought of the consequences to employees who might have been unwittingly caught up in the scheme.  Hospitals today take patient confidentiality very seriously, handling breaches unforgivingly and with dispatch.  In this country, patient confidentiality is the law of the land.  Computer systems keep an audit trail of access to information with date and time stamps.  There are “compliance officers” who are responsible for certifying the policies and procedures that protect patient data.  Information in a medical facility is as protected as funds in a bank.

Now, the Australian radio station is trying to demonstrate an appropriate level of responsibility and remorse, suspending the morally bankrupt DJs “temporarily” and offering to donate advertising revenue through the end of the year to the nurse’s family.  The British authorities, however, are not buying it.  They find these actions to be token efforts at best.  Without a legal means by which to hold the station and the DJs culpable in the nurse’s death, they are calling foul for not issuing formal apology letters to both Kate and the nurse’s family and for deciding unilaterally that half a million dollars is reasonable compensation for a life tragically lost.

I remember as a child learning two very important lessons about responsibility.  The first was to say “I’m sorry.”  It is difficult for a kid (and many adults) to utter these words because it is natural to want to skirt the blame.  Many people issue veiled apologies.  When you listen carefully they are paying lip service to the expected contrition without actually admitting guilt.  We hear, “I’m sorry you got hurt,” as opposed to being sorry for committing the act that did the hurting.  As a kid, I learned to blurt out “Sorry” as a reflex.  I was always being accused of one transgression or another and I hoped the word would shield me from punishment.  But my father, shrewd as he was about crime and punishment, would always force an allocution.  I once made the mistake of offering the childish gem, “I’m sorry for getting caught.”  Needless to say, the idea of responsibility for my actions was a hard-learned lesson.

The other aspect of responsibility that I learned as a kid is that “sorry” does not erase the crime.  I remember my mother’s dramatic recitation:  “If you crash someone’s car, sorry doesn’t fix it.  If you shoot someone dead, sorry doesn’t bring them back.”  The point she was making is that there is a difference between a mistake and an irrevocable deed.  If you make a mistake or have an accident, a heartfelt apology can be just the ticket.  But when you do something deliberately that you know is wrong, an apology is not only inadequate, it is unacceptable.  You cannot be “sorry” for robbing someone’s house, kidnapping their child, or violating their civil rights.  You can only show remorse.

I’m afraid we have reached a point in society where the lines of right and wrong have become so blurred that we can no longer mediate our own behaviors.  Insult comedy, in particular, has changed the canon of what is acceptable and proper.   Seth MacFarlane can represent Sarah Jessica Parker as a horse and it is okay because it’s “comedy.”   It’s no wonder that members of Congress think they can heckle the President during the State of the Union. 

The more our world operates at an arm’s length through invisible and anonymous global wide communication, the less responsible individuals feel for their own actions.  I have seen people shamelessly trashing their Facebook “friends” for having different opinions.  It is so much easier to be callous, insensitive and cruel when you do not have to look someone in the eye.   I feel that society should brand such behavior as cowardly—like shooting someone in the back. 

None of this, of course, will help the family of the poor nurse who answered the phone while on duty and did her job.  Or the princess, whose personal medical report was broadcast halfway around the globe.  I am with the British officials who think that crying on You Tube is not punishment enough for two professionals who used their positions and media credentials to hurt others, knowing that they had no standing to attempt access.  And even though the tragic fate of the nurse was an unintended consequence, it does not exempt the DJs from responsibility for her death.  This was a reckless crime involving an over-reach of power and demonstrating a wanton disregard for privacy and decency.  It may have been perpetrated across a phone line, but it is a line that should never have been crossed.

Jury of My Jeers

Today was to be my easiest blog.  I was notified months ago that I would be spending 12/12/12 fulfilling my obligation to serve at the invitation of Middlesex County.  Jury duty is an inconvenience, but it is also filled with anticipation.  You never know if you will be impaneled.  There is something evocative about sitting in the quiet waiting room.  Everyone is occupied with a hobby of choice:  a good book, an ipad, an ipod, knitting, crocheting.  The linoleum floor makes the room seem especially lifeless as footsteps and movements echo in the space.  On the monitor’s table is an old, retro phone; it’s occasional ring cuts through the silence and grates against the spinal cord.

In a place such as this we are not individuals.  We are not expected to make friends or socialize.  We are merely numbers, sitting in the shadows waiting for ours to be called.  Even then, you do not know whether the call to attention is good or bad.  Some are sent home; others are sent into chambers.  In my case, this is as far as I have ever gotten.  I have never seen the inside of a courtroom.  Nor have I been sent home early.  I am the lucky/unlucky individual who does not get picked but also must sit out the day to the bitter end, getting stiffer and crankier by the hour in the hard institutional seat.  I do not even qualify for the generous $6 compensation that my state offers for my time.   I am somewhat assuaged by the fact that I am not alone in my experience.  All over the country others like me are rounded up for similar duty and face similar fates.  It is small consolation that this is one of the trappings of a free and democratic society.

I like to imagine what it would be like to face an actual voir dire proceeding.  Specifically, would I be able to maintain my own personal bent against the questioning?  If so, which way would I bend?  I am torn about whether or not I wish to be selected.  It would be fascinating to participate in a real-life trial, which I am assured is somewhat less dramatic than what I see on The Good Wife, or Law and Order.  On the other hand, I fear getting caught up in a lengthy, publicized trial where jury tampering and vengeance might come into play.  I fear the glint in the eye of a murderer.  I fear falling victim to talented attorneys who advocate so zealously for their sides that it is impossible to draw the right conclusion when it matters most.

I am not one to be played; I want to fight against the manipulation of it all.  So do I dress the part of a responsible citizen, wife and mother?  Or do I feign a hipster appearance and make them work to discover my home address and my educational background?   I love to watch a prosecutor and the defense attorney wage battle, wagging their tongues at each other like medieval knights rattling their sabres before a duel.   I have imagined my own interrogation many times. 

“What is your favorite crime drama?”  My response: “The Merchant of Venice.”

“The defendant is being charged with the brutal crime of rape and violence.  Are you able to weigh the evidence objectively in order to come to a just decision?”  My response: “Anyone who preys on women should be hanged and eviscerated in the town square at noon.”

“Do you believe in the death penalty?”  My response:  “Yes.  Kill me now.”

But this was not to be.  Yesterday at 4:30pm I was unceremoniously dismissed by official email.  My services would not be required.  And despite forgoing a trip to San Francisco with my husband because I honored my commitment, I would not be granted immunity to jury duty for the next three years.  I have not served my duty, the email underscored.  I get no credit for my time spent as a bureaucratic placeholder.  I will not pass go or collect six dollars.  Instead, I should expect another such invitation in the near future.

I can hardly wait.

Where Have You Been?

Most of us spend our lives looking forward, planning for the next big job, or vacation, or holiday.  I have always been obsessed with looking backward.  I like to ask, “How did we get here?”  Even in the most simple of tasks, like taking a walk, I enjoy gazing over my shoulder to take stock of where I’ve been, appreciating the consideration of trajectory and effort at least as much as the destination.

I am very amused by the occasional Facebook post that crosses my News Feed containing a photo of some formerly ubiquitous relic.  I am old enough to remember dial telephones, sewing machine treadles, hand-crank egg beaters, and rabbit-eared televisions that stood on feet in giant furniture boxes.  I remember Smarties, Dots, and Mary-Janes.  I remember when gasoline was $19.99 per gallon and a Hershey Bar, which contained individually molded squares that spelled out H-E-R-S-H-E-Y, was only a nickel.  When I finished high school, the graduation gifts of choice were a portable Corona Electric Typewriter with removable correcting cartridge, and a Texas Instruments calculator with trig functions.  Each came with a price tag in excess of $200.

During our formative years, we never questioned the need to learn math the hard way—suffering the discipline of long division and adding infinite columns of multi-digit numbers.  I remember that the first problems on the SAT test were computational—just straight arithmetic.  These days, our children begin with calculators somewhere around the sixth grade.  They learn all advanced mathematics with special “graphing calculators,” which are permitted at all exams, including the dreaded SAT.   This allows them to travel a farther intellectual distance in the same number of years.  After all, there is more to learn, right?

I suppose a child who grows up today in a world where everything is digital and wireless will be more likely to imagine the next arrival point on the technology spiral.  Without the ancient paradigms of their parents stuck in their heads, they are free to envision grander solutions.  Perhaps tomorrow’s television has no physical body at all, or synchronous telephone communication will be proven unnecessary.  Maybe Jury duty will be served at home over Skype.  Perhaps local supermarkets will be replaced by online ordering from regional warehouses.  Elementary school teachers will preside over decentralized, remote classrooms with more advanced tools for personalized interaction.

I am enough of an antique to believe that the smell of chalk is an important part of the educational experience.  But my real lament is not for the nostalgia of it all.  I am sad that today’s kids do not gaze upon their pretty toys with wonder.  My father became an electrical engineer in the 1950’s when electronics were large enough to see and wire by hand.  He was on the front lines when integrated circuitry entered the fray.   Having once built our family a stereo system from a mail-order kit, he had a keen understanding of the quantum leaps achieved in electronics in his own lifetime.  When he held an ipod in his hand, he truly understood what a marvel it was.  It wasn’t because of the cool neon colors of the cases; he was well aware of how many bundles of achievement were necessary to bring that single product to market.

There are few discontinuities in technological advancement.  Like evolution, the toys and tools we use are the products of small, incremental steps.  Just like we can connect the modern bluebird to prehistoric reptiles, I would bet that we could draw a straight line from Gothic cathedrals to those weightless laptops and tablets we carry.  Digital technology is not a new idea; it harkens from mass production techniques deployed during the industrial revolution.  While it is true that someone from my generation could never have invented Facebook, would Mark Zuckerberg have worked so painstakingly on his social network had he not experienced personally the limitations of Harvard’s Freshmen Facebook?

Technology is only one example of how we enjoy the spoils of change without an appreciation for the struggles that preceded it.   Recently, my husband and I joined some friends to see the movie Lincoln.  This film (I was not aware until it was over that it was a Steve Spielberg film, but then it was like—of course!) takes place during a very small window of time between Lincoln’s re-election and the end of the Civil War.  It focuses on the struggle to pass the 13^th Amendment to the Constitution, which abolishes slavery.  It highlights the interesting political tug-of-war that takes place in Washington, as Lincoln believes that once the war is ended, there would be no imperative to pass the Amendment.   Additionally, it is believed that the Amendment would thwart efforts to end the war.  That ticking political time-bomb gives the film its suspense, as a war-weary South begins contemplating options of negotiation and compromise.

Of course, we know from history that both the Amendment and the end of the war come to pass.  What is not well taught is Lincoln’s own role in making this happen, and the extent to which he sacrifices everything for the passage of an Amendment that he believes so fundamental to our existence as a nation.  There are points of history worth noting:  that the Constitution was ratified without addressing the issue of slavery, and that the 13^th Amendment is the only place in the Constitution where the word “slavery” is mentioned.  What this film so artfully underscores is that while many in Congress thought slavery abhorrent, they resisted voting to abolish it because they could not fathom the downstream social and economic consequences. 

There are many living in today’s world who believe that we have equality and freedom because the Constitution says so.  It is no truer today than it was in 1865.

The Family You Choose

There is a wonderful new sitcom on television called “The New Normal.”  It is a not-so-subtle commentary on the shifting fabric of the American Family.    Although I was raised in the “blood-is-thicker-than-water” school, I have come to realize that the rich tapestry adding color to my life is woven from friendships cultivated in school, college, work, and the community.  As one TV character emphasized, “there are relatives, and then there is the family you choose.”  When I remember the most important days of my life, the faces I see next to my husband’s and children’s are the dear friends with whom we have shared the joy of life and with whom we have weathered life’s greatest storms.  Those time-tested friendships are priceless—meaning far more to us in their deliberate cling of support than any random genetic accident.

The most important thing we seek from our relatives is acceptance and unconditional love.   In some families, this gift is simply not forthcoming.   It is impossible for some people to overcome preconceived notions when children transition to the independence of adulthood.  Many people cannot cope with the success of others, or with choices that they do not understand or sanction.  Others only want to get something in return, hoping for flattery or looking for validation of their own lot in life.  It is unfortunate when those who are inherently rigid or narcissistic cannot bend to appreciate the beauty of the unexpected and original.  Life must be horribly disappointing to those who must have everything line up according to such narrow specifications.

I am blessed with a wonderful “family” that has never failed me.  Our table is full at every holiday with bright and happy faces while warm and intelligent conversation flows freely over a bounty a food.   I am never without an ear that is ready to listen or a shoulder on which to lean.  Together, we can ponder politics, literature, music, business, or science--all without disdain or disrespect.  We are equals—respectful humans who look forward to our time together.  We cheer each other’s successes, lament each other’s tragedies, and support each other unconditionally.  Isn’t that what family is for?

So let me take this moment to give a shout out to Susan and Jamie.   To Donna and Chris.  To Young and Mo.  Where would we be without Jane and Paul?  Or Flo and Paul?  Or Jane and Todd?  Or Andy and Betty?  Or Erik and Terri?  And all the beautiful and talented kids that come along with all of you.  You are the souls that fill us with friendship and happiness.  You elevate our lives.  You enrich our experience on this planet.  Without you, life not only wouldn’t be extraordinary; it just wouldn’t be “normal.”