Three, oh three, it's the magic number

Three is when I first fell head over heels in love with Lily. And now it is happening with Chloe too.

It is this magical time when children are somewhere between two worlds; they are babies and children all at once. They still like to be rocked to sleep; but can verbalize their (rather strong) opinions about everything ranging from milk to attire.

It is the magic number. When Lily turned three, Chloe was a newborn. Lily loved to snuggle with her mama; but also began to show her true self--a little spitfire ready to fix it all, help with her baby sister all while dreaming up fantastic art projects and imaginary friends.

And now Chloe is that magic age.

Chloe with her raspy Bea Arthur voice talks in her sleep about CoCo Chanel, Minnie Mouse and puppy dogs. Her dreams must be as vivid as her waking hours--when she shuffle-taps and twirls her way through the day. You can never, ever change her mind. It is focused, sharp as a tack. Chloe makes up new songs at the dinner table each night, usually centering around Minnie Mouse. She found her first best friend: Eloise, who we talk about non-stop. Chloe won't wear jeans (they are not pretty enough); prefers dresses to pants and carries no less than two puppies in her handbag. She loves a good steak. She has nicknames for everyone. She always has a story to tell--words pouring out of her like a waterfall. She eyes strangers with suspicion. She narrows her eyes at nonsense. Chloe will not smile on command; but when the mood strikes and Chloe smiles, her eyes sparkle like jewels.

And when she finds something she loves, Chloe, my daughter who taught me how to love wastefully, throws her full self into it. Lily Lou--her sister and her playmate; Eloise--her best friend; her Dad; her Grandmom; her Grammy, her Papa; her GiGi; and well, me.

When Chloe hugs me, she melts into me. She has this way of making herself heavy--she always has. When she was a mere three pounds and change, a little bit of nothing,  Chloe would melt her entire self onto me--making herself as heavy as my favorite down comforter. Chloe loves with her whole being--there is no halfway for Chloe.  To be loved by Chloe is magic--it is as if God's love is pouring through her eyes and arms.

It always reminds me that I am loved. That's my magic, beautiful Chloe: God with a raspy voice in tutu twirling through my living room.

Happy Birthday magical, beautiful Chloe. You are so loved. You are such a gift. And we love you, just as you are.

A Penn State Moment

I promised myself I would never write about Penn State (or all those what's-their-names) because, really, what more can be said? But, alas, I am constantly breaking my promises.

This morning, as I walked Lily into school and down to her Kindergarten classroom I witnessed what could be classified as "sort-of-a-fight" with a side of "school-teachers-and-staff-ignoring-yelling-students -and-a-parent" in favor of "talking-about-nothing-remotely-related-to-the-fight-happening-right-before-their-averted-eyes."

Here's what happened:

I walk Lily down to her Kindergarten classroom almost everyday.  As we got close to the Kindergarten hallway I hear two boys, arguing over the presence of the guidance counselor. It was a nine-year-old boy level debate.

Boy 1: He isn't here

Boy 2: Yes he is

Boy 1: No he isn't

Boy 2: Yes he is

Boy 1 was blocking the path to the counselor's office. Boy 2 wanted to get there. Pushing and debate continued.  I would characterize the incident not as being a fight deserving of punishment, but an opportunity to teach these boys the appropriate way to argue (i.e. you don't push each other and why aren't you in your classrooms?).

Alas, I witnessed the fight and I am not one to be quiet about anything, ever.  I told the teachers standing outside of the teacher lounge, right next me. I said:

Me: "There are two boys fighting over Mr. X"
Teacher: "Oh, I don't think Mr. X is here"
Me: "Yeah, THERE ARE TWO BOYS PUSHING EACH OTHER."
Teacher: muttered something and continued speaking to other teacher
Me: "Do you allow children to fight in the hallway? They are pushing each other"

The teachers ignored the boys and me.  I am fuming. Lily told me to count to ten. (She is like a little blood pressure cuff.)

It was a Penn State Moment--the moment when bad behavior is right in front of your face. You see it; you hear it; you've been told about it and you have to decide what to do with it all.

I could have just walked around those boys. No one was in danger. But, I have a big mouth and if those were my children, I'd want their teachers to teach them how to behave. To remind them that they are better than pushing and yelling.

It was a Penn State moment for those teachers. I have no idea what they were talking about. I don't care. All that I care is about is that unless they suffer from a hearing impairment, they could hear those boys arguing. They could hear me say, "They are pushing each other." But, for whatever reason, they chose the easy, non-messy, non-confrontational way of living:

Do nothing. Pretend it is not happening. Avoid the mess.

I know that two boys pushing each other in an elementary school is no where near the same thing as a boy being sexually assaulted in a shower. But, the lesson is the same: adults need to listen. Adults need to take the messy route when it means doing the right thing. Little things become big things. We teach with our action and our inaction. And all children are our responsibility.

We are the grown-ups, for pete's sake.

And the other lesson: As a mother I need to teach my daughter to tell the truth over and over and over again. I need to teach my 35-pound peanut, that she needs to use her loudest voice and risk getting in trouble to tell an adult when something dangerous or improper is happening. She needs to stand her ground always when she knows the truth should be heard. That no matter how big or little or dangerous or minor the incident is:

Do something. Speak loud, until someone listens. Don't be afraid to get a little dirty. Because often, adults don't listen.

You should know, that as the fight rounded into the kindergarten hallway, one of the Kinder teachers spoke up--without my prompting and sent those boys back to class. The teachers, who ignored the incident? Well---one took away a "responsibility point" (whatever this is) after the fact (in response to my refusal to move from the spot until they addressed me or the situation). 

So those boys will be fine. But what happens if the incident is bigger? What if a big mouthed lunatic like me is not there? What then? 

My MLK Jr. Resolution.

I don't know much about Martin Luther King Jr. I know the basics--the social studies and evening news version of his life. I can't quote him beyond, "I have a dream," without Google. And I can't say I am the daughter or granddaughter of civil rights protesters. I am certainly not qualified to tell my children his full story without the Wikipedia article open on my computer.

But, I do know one thing: Reverend King inspired people of all ages, races, religions and backgrounds to stand together. Every word of his mouth was a reminder that God made each and everyone one of us. It is a call to live life remembering that God loves us all the same. God  loves those we don't have the strength to love. God loves those who do evil, as much as those who do good. God loves us whether we are fat or thin or black or white or Jewish or Christian or Muslim. God loves us whether we win the game or loose miserably.

 And God asks us to do the same--love like it is going out of style. To love those we love and to love those we are called to love. It is one of the hardest pills to swallow as a human being--especially when people are irritating or do stupid things or behave in ways we don't like or do horrible, horrible things.

 But, it is also freeing. To love those who are unlovable by human standards--frees us up to love ourselves--even the parts of us we don't particularly like. It multiplies love--it is healing and gives all of us a chance to live knowing that we are okay, just as God made us.

During His ministry Jesus spoke to his disciplines and taught them, saying "The Beatitudes."

Here is a snippet:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.. . "

It is one of my favorite pieces of scripture. It is a reminder that we are loved and in turn, are called to love. That we are all blessed, just the same. We are all God's children. To quote MLK Jr,

"their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone."

This is the truth--whether speaking about race relations or playgroup relations. No matter who we are, we are loved. We are blessed. We do not walk alone.

Since I seem to like making resolutions on everyday except for New Year's Eve (see Chinese New Year), I have decided to make this year about walking the walk-teaching my children to love all and accept all.  This year, I will remember every time some steals my parking spot in the school parking lot that God loves them. This year, I will bite my tongue when someone irritates me. This year, I will open my heart, my home and my wallet to those who God calls me to love--whether it is someone in need of a meal or someone simply who needs a friend. This year, my eyes and heart will be open.

And when I fail, and I will fail (I seriously just called someone an idiot while writing this), I will start over. Because God loves me, even when I don't love everyone else.

And maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of MLK Jr's legacy will live on in my children, so one day I will know enough to tell his story, because it became a part of my own.


Happy MLK Jr. Day.

Ode to a Life: Farewell to One Life to Live.

Like my faith, I often hide my love of One Life to Live.

But, I am no longer ashamed. For all of my 34 years (ouch, am elderly), I have had One Life to Live playing in the background.

I  grew up on a steady diet of Sunday school, the Brady Bunch, Legos, playing school with the neighbor kids and watching One Life to Live (OLTL). The Buchanan and Lord families were practically my own (and just as interesting as the Carrington's and Cox's). My mother would shoo me out of the room during "love" scenes; I'd hide at the top of the stairs and listen. I would love half days and summer days--2 p.m. EST could not come soon enough.

In junior high, I spent many days watching OLTL and then about three hours on the phone with my best friend Karen discussing Todd, Vicki and her personalities and whatever intrigued us, enraged us or made us laugh. I delighted in the stories of multiple personalities, tried to make sense of rape plot lines and wept as women lost babies and lovers.  I remember when Jessica had a Canadian accent and then finally had some voice lessons and sounded like she was actually from Llandview.

In college, I planned my class schedule around the show. At my internships and first jobs, I read the recaps and spoilers on SoapCentral.com during my lunch break (alright, while I was working). I discussed the show with my Aunt Barbara Ann and kept my Mom up to date (she had to work). I taught Mike the names of the characters and their back story.

And then I met a work colleague and good friend, who shared my love. We spent hours rehashing the show, catching each other up (we had TiVo and Soap Network to help us keep up) and recapping history.

When I gave birth to my girls--there was OLTL on the hospital TV at 2 p.m., waiting for me, like an old friend--a distraction from it all.

It has always been there, when I needed an escape. Chloe and Lily know the theme song by heart. And even when I find the plot line unwatchable, I still watch, because OLTL and I are family.

Today, One Life to Live airs its last episode. And that is it--the end of one life.

Here are my favorite, favorite things about One Life to Live--and scoff if you want, but you know you love it and if you never watched, you would have loved it.

• OLTL made being two or more people okay through its multiple personality disorder coverage.  I loved Nicki/Vicki and the most incarnated Jessica/Tess (Tessica for short). This stuff is ridiculous. It is also TV gold. 
• It taught me forgiveness and, somehow, the writers have made me fall in love with a former rapist (Todd Manning).
• It made me laugh with David Vickers and Dorian Lord. The original Summer-Winter romance between a giglo and a society lady.
• It made me realize that even the most desperate housewife can wear a ball gown on a Tuesday afternoon while fighting over the affections of the police commissioner with her archrival who is in the midst of a personality crises and also her aunt and half-sister all at once.
• And finally, who knew that paternity could be such a complicated matter? It seems everyone has a lost heir. It gave me hope that I might find my real family someday and that they are rich and own a desert island and a newspaper.

But, my favorite thing: we all shared One Life to Live together. All of us, even those of us who are still in hiding.

Jesus and Those Blind People, Part 1

 Jesus heals eight blind people in the Bible. Plus there are all those other lepers, heathens and other undesirables that He saves with His miracle, healing touch. The hand of God placed right on your decaying body and voila: you can see. you can walk. you are healed.

When I was a kid these stories always seemed completely bizarre to me--it reminded me of those exuberant televangelists that convinced my Grammy to send them all her money.  Jerry Falwell, Oral Roberts, Jimmy Swaggart and the Bakers booming on the TV, healing, saving and praying--if you emptied your old lady handbag into their hands. To me, Jesus healing people was old news--any real life healing was a lie. Jesus--He was dead, even though He was "alive" in heaven with God the Father. He was not here--He was not here for healing.

We were left on our own.

I believed, sort of.  Or so I thought.  I didn't really fully believe. After all, my mother and father prayed their hearts out--prayed until their knees bled for my brother to be healed. David was six months old when his world changed--an allergic reaction to a vaccine and voila: he can't talk. he won't ever live on his own. he won't ever be healed.

So, yeah, I thought Jesus and his healing was history.

Then I became a mother--in a dramatic, terrifying night--Lily born 11 weeks too early. She is sick. I am sick. And I have nothing. There was nothing for me to hang onto--but hope and prayer that we would be healed.

And we made it through. And yeah, Jesus did not swing into the NICU and say: "Rise up Sister you can breathe." But there were these incredible doctors who saved my baby's life. There was my doctor who saved us both with an emergency c-section. And yeah, my minister Bill Getman, swung into the NICU--putting on scrubs, washing his hands and prayed with us. He reminded us that Jesus is not dead. That Jesus is in his hands. Jesus is in the doctor's hands and Jesus is in my hands.

We totally thought we were home free. Then, 14 months later, a brain tumor for Lily. And I spent days on my knees. First, I cursed God out--I did. Then, I begged. Then, I bargained. Then, I had nothing, again.

When I was at the point of rock bottom, when I thought I was actually in Hell,  Pastor Bill walked in, closely followed by the CHOP hospital Chaplin. Both men just showed up. I had asked the nurse to get me pills--lots of good drugs that would make me forget I was in Hell. But God had other plans. He listened--he knew I needed something concrete.

And with Lily lying in her hospital bed, fighting to survive--we all prayed. And this time, I felt it: the hand of God placed right on my shoulder and voila:

I was saved. I was healed. I had the strength to make it through for Lily.

"Jesus and Those Blind People," is Part 1 in a series in Yoke on my Faith. I realized that while my heart believes and I try to remain faithful, I don't share my faith enough. And for me, a writer, that is akin to hiding in a closet. So, here it goes. I hope God is good with it all.

Chest deep.

I am chest deep in procrastination.

my own personal swamp

It is like wading through a pit of mud and muck, and well, my desk looks like a swamp.

And the procrastination is so thick, that I have neither the resolution nor the energy to perform simple tasks like dialing the phone or charging one of my fifty i-products. In fact, I had to chug 16 ounces of coffee just to have enough strength to turn on the computer.

This has been going on for three days.

On Monday, I thought, well this is what the Monday blues feel like.

On Tuesday, I thought, well maybe, just maybe I am suffering from some sort of seasonal mood disorder. Yet, I lacked the self-concern to Google the symptoms or actually contact a medical professional.

And today, my husband asked me if I was applying to be on Hoarders.

While I secretly would love to be considered for a reality program showcasing insane people, I am just procrastinating; avoiding several elephants in my room that need peanuts or that little spot behind their ears scratched. It is the start of a new year--which means new projects, old projects and just projects. The list contains no less than 553 items. Nothing is crossed off. And everything takes more than five minutes to complete. Everything is as big as an elephant and just as stinky.

And I don't want to do anything.

That list is heavy. It weighs me down. It is like wearing a pair of cement shoes in a hot tub--you cannot get out, yet you are not really in danger of drowning; you are just getting all pruney and sweaty.

I hate prunes. I hate that list. I hate procrastinating. And I actually hate Hoarders.

So, enough with it all. No more pruney fingers. No more lists.  I am burning my to do list. (figuratively, I am actually just not going to look for it in the piles on my desk. Me + Fire= the fire department).

I am going to start with three goals a day--no more, no less. If all I do is three things, so be it. If more gets done, I'll make my children throw me a parade. Bonus points if I manage to switch the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer.

It's been a while since I've had a good egg roll: the book.

Always talking that one.

When I set my Chinese New Year 2012 book deadline way back in the good ole days of 2011,  my father was not dying nor was he dead, as he finds himself now.

Don't you love a little frank morbidity at the start of the year?


All funeral dirges aside, y'all should know that while my handsome and tolerant husband has always been my very noisy cheerleader, my Dad was my quiet, yet most loyal supporter. I always thought he wanted an architect for a daughter (that was my first major at Temple). I always thought if that did not pan out that he would want a mathematician or engineer (we shared a certain love of a good puzzle and numbers). What I failed to realize, is that my Dad just wanted me--plain jane or fancy shmancy with a side of glitter-- just me.

And while I will not devote the rest of my life to mourning him--that would indeed be ridiculous--I have reached a certain clarity in my life. This clarity only came through truly realizing the inheritance my father gave me--his second, yet if I do say so myself, most interesting child. He gave me the gift of gab--the gift of filling the world with words--good ones, sometimes very bad ones and sometimes funny ones. He gave me verbs and pronouns and expletives. He gave me plots and conflicts and resolutions. I've inherited scores of characters, motivators and epilogues.

My inheritance is burning a hole in my pocket.

I have 20 days until Chinese New Year. I am terribly behind schedule. But, a deadline is a deadline, right? So if you don't see me or I seem distant or I seem stranger and more anti-social that usual--apologies, I've got an inheritance to blow.

Happy 2012.