tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87598134970044095542024-03-13T22:56:14.912-04:00The Little GrapeObservations on urban motherhood, current events<br> and anything else that sparks my imagination.Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.comBlogger233125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-79551894718329783842019-04-01T13:58:00.001-04:002019-04-01T18:59:20.873-04:00An Open Letter to my Congressman about the Special Olympics<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">"Write Reps" appears on many voters' to do lists. Writing to Congress can feel like shouting into the wind, but congressional staffers track constituents' letters, and an avalanche of mail on a given subject will get noticed. (If you'd like to cut and paste from my letter to save time, please feel free.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have no personal connection to the Special Olympics, other than a stint I spent as a volunteer at Lift Me Up in Virginia during my student days. At the time, Lift Me Up helped a twelve-year-old girl with cerebral palsy who was training for the Special Olympics. Her time on horseback provided a bright spark of happiness amidst a grueling week of less pleasant therapies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;">Congressman Joseph Kennedy III</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">RE: Please introduce legislation to increase federal funding for the Special Olympics</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;">Dear Congressman Kennedy:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I live in your district, and my son attends a public elementary school in your district. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Last week, I was shocked to learn that the White House planned to eliminate funding for the Special Olympics. Though I believe the proposed cut was a stunt, designed to distract voters from other news of the day, I was still stunned to learn the Special Olympics receives a paltry $17 million a year from the federal government. I am writing to urge you to introduce legislation to increase funding for the Special Olympics, at least ten-fold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A budget, whether for a family or a government, is a statement of values. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">We should value the Special Olympics experience—an experience with a wide bi-partisan constituency, an experience that brings tremendous joy to thousands of children with special needs—at least as highly as we value a ten-pack of presidential golf junkets.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Since your late aunt founded the organization, I doubt you require a lengthy pitch about the worth of the Special Olympics. I’m sure you know that many parents of children with special needs face enormous financial strain, due to the costs of specialized education, medical treatment and various therapies for their children. Shouldn’t the federal government help bring these families a little happiness?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mari Passananti</span></div>
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Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-19996763201287775252018-06-20T17:00:00.001-04:002018-06-20T19:08:57.456-04:00A Bridge Too Far<span style="font-size: large;">A smiling neighbor here in genteel New England once informed my mother that she was "a desirable immigrant."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The same neighbor took a much dimmer view of my father, and explained that "we don't want your kind here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was six years old and I will never forget (nor forgive) that remark, though the man who uttered it is long dead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My mother is a blond from Finland. My father, however, comes from Italy. He arrived in New York after the war as an unaccompanied minor, sent to live with a paternal uncle. My mother first set foot in this country not as an immigrant, but as an exchange student. Her story is one about having a plan in life, and then having something else happen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Both my parents are U.S. citizens, but they didn't start out that way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If the American Dream has poster children, they are my parents. Mom and Dad not only managed to scramble aboard the new country carousel; they grabbed that brass ring like nobody's business.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The American Dream has never been about amassing a stack of money. It's about securing a good future for yourself and for future generations; a future that affords your children choices and opportunities not available in many corners of the world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Unless you live under a rock, you've heard <a href="https://www.propublica.org/article/children-separated-from-parents-border-patrol-cbp-trump-immigration-policy" target="_blank">ProPublica's horrifying recording</a> of a group of jailed children crying for their parents, who have been separately detained by Customs and Border Patrol for the misdemeanor offense of illegal entry into the United States. Many of these parents wish to apply for asylum. They're fleeing unspeakable violence. They have undertaken a dangerous and uncertain journey, because they have no better option.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their modest version of the American Dream involves, at least in the immediate future, working in a lousy job and not getting murdered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The so-called Zero Tolerance policy that rips children from their mamas is a bridge too far.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because I'm a very lucky beneficiary of the American Dream who happens to resemble my "desirable immigrant" mother, I feel a duty to use my privilege to condemn the dehumanization of today's immigrants. When people in power use words like "animals" and "infest," they rob these children of their humanity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because I'm a very lucky beneficiary of the American Dream, I've also got a dusty old law degree from a fancy pants school.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've signed up to use it to help these kids with an organization called <a href="http://raicestexas.org/" target="_blank">RAICES</a>. (As of this writing, their website has crashed due to high traffic, and they're working to get it back up and running. Please consider joining me.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm also researching other ways to help keep track of the imprisoned kids and help reunite parents detained at the border with their children before the government spirits them away to Lord knows where. RAICES is one of <a href="http://Several non-profit organizations are working to help reunite parents and children. Immigration lawyers and humanitarian groups are overwhelmed. Speakers of Spanish and Mayan languages are needed. " target="_blank">many non-profit groups</a> working on this disgraceful crisis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Even with many well meaning boots on the ground, some of the children will likely be separated from their parents permanently. If you read the HHS website, it's pretty clear they have no system for keeping track of the children and parents after separation. Thousands of children will be scarred for life by the trauma inflicted in the name of the American people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Only fascists and weird religious cults believe in taking small children from their mothers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don't bother writing to me to say we need this for "deterrence." If you're all right with jailing preschoolers in prison camps, the politest thing I can suggest is that you re-examine your entire existence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And if you think this calamity is good for national security, I've got a bridge to sell you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kids abused at the hands of our government seem quite likely to grow into adults who hate us. That's common sense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As is the fact that we the people should not tolerate child abuse in our name.</span><br />
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Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-61190357764085050032017-06-08T16:39:00.003-04:002018-06-11T11:37:29.071-04:00June: The Official Month of Teacher Revenge<span style="font-size: large;">One thing I've noticed, the school events requiring parent involvement come fast and furious at this time of year. So I've decided to dub June: The Official Month of Teacher (and School Administrator) Revenge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: Great news! Your child has been cast as_________ in the end-of-year class play! The class play will be held the day <i>after</i> tomorrow, precisely one hour and fifteen minutes following regular drop-off, which should be SO PERFECT for all you working parents! Please work with your child to create a woodland creature costume. As our artist in residence has not yet given me the assigned parts (between us, she seems a bit overwhelmed), I cannot advise which children should prepare which woodland creature costumes.Thankfully, this is your problem and not mine. Thanks in advance! Sincerely, Ms. Teacher</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: We need a volunteer to bake two dozen miniature, nut-free, gluten-free muffins for the class breakfast next week. Please make absolutely sure to bake the MINI muffins, and NOT the full-size muffins. We have an obesity epidemic in our country (so, so sad!) and we want to be EXTRA vigilant about those empty calories! So, 24 MINI nut-free muffins, <i>please</i>! Also, we need another parent volunteer to bring in 400 Dunkin' Donuts Munchkins. Maybe 500, to be safe! Also we might need a gallon of orange juice—I'll circle back on that later today, in a whole new thread! Thanks, all! Warmest regards, the Chairwoman of the PTA Breakfast Committee</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: I need a volunteer to bring in two dozen bubble wands (the kind that come with soap), no duplicates, please. I need a second volunteer to bring in four gallons of bubble soap (the kind that comes with the plastic bubble wands). Please DO NOT sign up for both slots. We need to give every parent a chance to contribute! All best, Your Field Day Coordinator</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: Can you believe it? Only one week to go until our school carnival! Please be advised that our principal—he's our PAL!—has once again volunteered to take a shift in the dunking booth (BRRR!). He respectfully requests parents to remember that the dunking booth is an activity for your children ONLY. If you could help out and spread the word that our principal does NOT dictate our school budget, that would be super-duper! In advance of the fair, please remind your cranky neighbors (you know who they are!) that the school fair dunking booth is NOT an appropriate forum for members of the Concerned Senior Taxpayers of Pleasantville to vent their frustrations. Things got very heated (well, not for the principal) last year, and we hate to expose our kids to that kind of neighbor-on-neighbor strife. Thanks so much and see you at the fair! The Fair Committee</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hola Mamas y Papas! I'm your child's Spanish teacher and I just realized my emails have gone to your spam folders all year, because apparently the Gmail spam filter doesn't like the upside down exclamation point I have been placing before the "Hola!" in my messages! Please note that this exclamation point is the correct Spanish punctuation and I've taken the matter up with Google. While I await their apology, please find attached the nine Spanish class newsletters you missed over the 2016-17 academic year. Gracias! Senora Spanish Teacher P.S. Please have your kindergarten student bring in his or her favorite animal on Tuesday for a very special vocabulary activity!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">VIA EMAIL [Timestamp 3:23 AM EST Tuesday] Dear parents: The Spanish teacher meant please send in A STUFFED ANIMAL. Please, for the love of God, DO NOT send your pets to school. We are NOT a doggie daycare, FFS!The second grade did this activity yesterday, and the unfortunate miscommunication caused some extremely tense moments involving a gerbil, a parakeet, and an exceedingly unruly Miniature Hypo-Allergenic Pug-a-cock-a-doodle, who is now in the custody of the Pleasantville Animal Control Officer. Thanks in advance for your cooperation. Best, Your Kindergarten Teaching Team</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">VIA EMAIL [Timestamp 6:01 AM EST Tuesday] Dear Parents: The Kindergarten Teaching Team meant to delete the expletives and ill-considered commentary about Doggie Daycare. The Kindergarten Teaching Team respects you and regrets this lapse in their observance of OUR SCHOOL VALUES. Please remember, pets are not allowed on school grounds during school hours, per Pleasantville Town Ordinance 54(b)(18). Thanks in advance, Your Principal</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: Your child has been assigned to our rainbow tie-dyed relay team! Please send in a colorful tie-dye T-shirt for Friday. Please, no drug references or dancing bears! Some parents have expressed concerns that tie-dye could stir depravity in our youth, but I think that's nonsense, and I'm frankly out of crowd-pleasing colors. Also the forecast calls for a low of 98 degrees in the shade, so we scrapped the black and navy teams, because heaven forbid we reschedule. I cannot believe I need to write a memo justifying what should be my executive decision on T-shirt colors, but here it is. Thanks so much, Your Field Day Coordinator (Who is retiring next week, so you can shove your OUR SCHOOL VALUES complaints where the sun don't shine! HAHA! Joking! Sorry. Not sorry.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: Please return all library books by Thursday, or your child will not be able to buy milk during the upcoming 2017-2018 school year. No, we are not joking. We regret this draconian measure, but do you have any idea how much money we lose on stolen books? Thanks for your cooperation, Your Library Team </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Parents: We regret to inform you that Butterfly Day is cancelled, because we didn't realize we had to feed the butterflies <i>after</i> they emerged, so they all died a slow death of starvation. Please take this opportunity to have a difficult discussion with your rising kindergarten student about the circle of life. Warm wishes for a great summer, Your Pre-K Team</span><br />
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Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-949781802867056852017-05-16T10:34:00.000-04:002017-05-16T10:34:07.831-04:00Loose Lips Sink ShipsWhen I was a kid, my dad possessed an immense fondness for the old World War Two slogan, "Loose lips sink ships."<br />
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Normally, our family didn't discuss matters of national security at the dinner table. We took the quip as an admonition to refrain from gossip, and Dad repeated the line so frequently, that we inevitably responded with the standard-issue sarcastic teenage eye roll.<br />
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I haven't written much about politics recently, but five minutes ago, I hung up with a nice young man who answered the phone at my Congressman's office.<br />
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I asked him, "What else can I do to make sure we get a <b>special prosecutor</b> to look into Russia-Trump collusion and Trump's Russian financial entanglements? A Congressional investigation no longer feels like enough, when we have a president who blithely compromises the lives of our agents and the lives of our allies' agents, along with the lives of any civilians inclined to help our armed forces abroad, to a <i>hostile world power</i>."<br />
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(Head desk.)<br />
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The young man in the Congressman's office said, "Ask your friends to call both their senators and their congressional representatives, and ask them to KEEP CALLING."<br />
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Congressional offices log constituent calls every day. Give your address. Make it clear you are a constituent, and you want your elected representatives in Washington to <i>demand</i> a special prosecutor. If they're already beating this drum, thank them. If they're hedging, urge them to put the republic over party.<br />
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Let's make their phones ring.<br />
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Russia is not our friend. This is not tricky math.<br />
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Russia guns down writers and political dissidents in the public streets. Russia jails protesters in Siberian gulags. Russia seizes assets of private companies whose executives piss off their dictator and then, often, Russia kills those business leaders for good measure. Russia poisons its exiled opposition leaders to try to silence them. Russia annexes land belonging to sovereign neighboring countries. Russia props up Bashar al-Assad and his henchmen, helping them gas children and bomb their country to kingdom come.<br />
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This latest aspect of the ongoing Russia Scandal makes Watergate look likes child's play, and unlike Watergate, where the <i>Washington Post </i>had the story months before anyone could corroborate the allegations, both the <i>New York Times</i> and <i>Reuters</i> had independently corroborated the details of the classified information leak by the president to the Russians last night.<br />
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Either the president is truly in Putin's pocket, or he's too stupid to understand the consequences of his boastful loose lips.<br />
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Either way, it's dangerous for the American people, our armed forces, and our allies. We all deserve so much better.<br />
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The traitor president's words might not sink an actual ship this time, but they could get our intelligence assets abroad beheaded, if the CIA and our allies cannot act quickly enough to protect their people.<br />
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Incidentally, I took a stab at writing political suspense once, involving collusion with the Russians, no less. I could not have made this level of crap up.<br />
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Why? Because nobody would have believed it, even in a fictional, chase caper/thriller context. What the <i>Washington Post</i> reported last night is just too mind-boggling to put in a contemporary novel.<br />
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So, Dad, I know you read this space. You were right: Loose lips do sink ships.<br />
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Please go call your senators and rep and remind them.<br />
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<b>United States Capitol Switchboard: (202) 224-3121</b>Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-19306809930375254832017-04-10T11:18:00.002-04:002017-04-10T11:18:48.357-04:00The Meaning of No<b>If we can't teach our sons, from a very young age, that no means no, do we really expect some half-naked sixteen-year-old girl, hormones raging, to explain it better in the backseat of a car?</b><br />
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My friend, D., mother of an eleven-year-old, posed this question at a recent book club meeting. Everyone fell quiet for a moment as we shared one of those rare moments of true epiphany.<br />
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All of us admitted, that at least sometimes, we have let our children use our "no" as a starting point for negotiations.<br />
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We have told ourselves it's okay; they're developing reasoning and debate skills.<br />
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Meanwhile, our kids have learned that "no" can sometimes mean "maybe," and that their repeated, pleading requests stand at least even odds of wearing us down.<br />
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The flip side, of course, is that we often say give the kiddos an offhand no, when the stakes around whatever they're requesting don't matter much. Then we backpedal, when we said have said maybe, or I haven't decided yet, in the first place.<br />
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None of this is okay.<br />
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It's not okay for any kid. We all pride ourselves on being egalitarian, and we teach children of both sexes that privates are private.<br />
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However, the realities of relative physical size and strength in male and female humans (after puberty) mean it's <i>especially</i> not okay for <i>parents of boys</i> to fail to teach the meaning of NO.<br />
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Cosmopolitan published an essay in its most recent issue: <a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.com/politics/a9192287/talking-to-my-son-about-sexual-consent/" target="_blank">How I Talked to My Son About Sexual Consent</a>. I read this the moment I saw it last week. So did countless other moms, because the editors blasted it out, using the creepy tagline "Every Rapist Is Someone's Son" as click bait. <br />
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I found it encouraging that at least some of us have begun, in the span of one generation, to move the conversation from, "If you love me, you will" to, "Are you sure you want to do this?"<br />
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The type of frank and honest discussion the writer recounts having with her teenager doesn't materialize from nowhere. She clearly laid the groundwork for that awkward interaction over many years. <br />
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Which means we should start young. Like elementary school young. Maybe earlier.<br />
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There was a great British public service video making the rounds, several months ago, that explained <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQbei5JGiT8&vl=en" target="_blank">sexual consent in the most civilized, G-rated terms</a> possible.<br />
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The video not only explains affirmative consent and the importance of no, it also illustrates the importance of recognizing when a person is too impaired to give consent: "Unconscious people don't want tea."<br />
<br />Every one of us women around the table that night was once a teenage girl, who at one point or another, told some teenage boy, "no," only to be met with "please, pretty please," or "come on, don't be a tease," or the slightly more dated, "if you love me you will," or a pseudo-progressive variant, "but I brought a condom, so it will be fine."<br />
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To borrow from the British PSA, we didn't want tea, or perhaps we wanted more time to consider the tea.<br />
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From where the boys were sitting, they stood at least even odds of wearing us down.<br />
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Those teenage girls said, "no," and the boys interpreted "no" as a starting point for more discussion.<br />
<br />
They heard "maybe."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-35586055658844320332016-11-18T10:49:00.000-05:002016-11-18T10:54:33.594-05:00Update to October Post: Life Isn't FairDear Readers:<br />
<br />
I'm reposting this update to my October 19th piece, <a href="http://thelittlegrape.blogspot.com/2016/10/life-isnt-fair.html" target="_blank">Life Isn't Fair</a>, as a new and separate post, to make sure it hits all subscribers' inboxes. If this update reaches you in duplicate, I apologize for the inconvenience.<br />
<br />
I am blown away by how many of you wrote, called, and reached out to me through social media, to ask how to send non-cash and/or holiday gifts to the girls. THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading and taking an interest in their story. <br />
<br />
There is now an Amazon Wish List, created with the help of some mom friends: C, H, and E. Thank you so much for your insights and suggestions. Thank you also to the readers of the <a href="http://www.greatthoughts.com/" target="_blank">Great Thoughts Book Club</a>, for the <i>avalanche</i> of fantastic book ideas, some of which I'm holding in reserve for now.<br />
<br />
Items ship directly to the
girls, who are now living a couple of hours away from us. Suggestions for additions and edits are most welcome (they are ages 8 and 10).<br />
<br />
Since many of you asked: basic clothing is <i>not</i> an urgent need, but as the girls are residing with childless relatives, all parents reading this will know they have some ramping up to do, in terms of toys, games, books, art supplies, outdoor/winter fun, and the like!<br />
<br />
A. is a voracious reader, and S. particularly loves arts and crafts, dolls, and imaginative play. They both like creative projects, as well as Legos.<br />
<br />
R., the Grape, and I miss the girls a lot, and it warms our hearts to know so many friends are rooting for them.<br />
<br />
You can view the list through this link: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/giftlist/CZSA48EWO95R/ref=cm_gl_huc_view">https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/giftlist/CZSA48EWO95R/ref=cm_gl_huc_view</a><br />
<br />
I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving, and safe travels to those hitting the road next week! <br />
<br />
With deep gratitude,<br />
Mari<br />
<br />
#GratefulMari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-10764471479171563052016-10-19T10:38:00.002-04:002016-11-15T12:43:53.427-05:00Life Isn't Fair<b>Update: There is now an Amazon Wishlist, because so many of you wrote to me and asked how to send holiday gifts. Items ship directly to the girls. Suggestions welcome. This is only a first attempt! Thanks, everyone. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/giftlist/CZSA48EWO95R/ref=cm_gl_huc_view">https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/giftlist/CZSA48EWO95R/ref=cm_gl_huc_view</a></b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/giftlist/CZSA48EWO95R/ref=cm_gl_huc_view" target="_blank"> </a><br />
<br />
Life isn't fair.<br />
<br />
Two little girls, friends of the Grape, became orphans last week.<br />
<br />
I won't identify them, as they are eight and ten years old; I'll call them S and A.<br />
<br />
Their mother had struggled for a long time with a chronic incapacitating illness, but her sudden death, by a brain bleed, I think the term is ruptured aneurysm, took everyone by surprise.<br />
<br />
S and A went to school and their mama had a headache. The next time they saw her she was in an irreversible coma in the Neuro Intensive Care Unit.<br />
<br />
Life isn't fair.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine their shock and heartbreak.<br />
<br />
The girls had lost their father some years earlier. The mother, an Ivy-educated physician, had been too ill for many years to work. The family lived in a subsidized apartment and scraped along, all three of them victims of a brilliant scientific mind imprisoned by illness.<br />
<br />
When the Grape first started having S over for play dates, I tried to befriend the mom. She politely but firmly put up barriers. All play dates were at our home, and she never set foot beyond my threshold. After a few weeks, I stopped asking if she'd like to come in for coffee or tea or wine, or if she'd like to stay for dinner with her girls.<br />
<br />
She always looked down on her luck, a wisp of a woman, bundled in all kinds of weather, because her disease interfered with her body's metabolism and temperature regulation. Sometimes, you might have been forgiven, if you mistook her for a homeless person.<br />
<br />
There was no family money. No adult child with special needs trust. No safety net beyond the bare bones the state of Massachusetts provides, and while Massachusetts provides more than most states, it doesn't provide quality long term inpatient treatment. No state does. And sometimes that means the state makes orphans. Life isn't fair.<br />
<br />
S and A had one regularly involved relative, a grandmother whose biweekly visits S and A recounted with huge smiles and sparkling eyes. <br />
<br />
The mother excelled at finding resources for her daughters: camps and art courses and donated clothes. She got them scholarships at a private school and took advantage of free events at the library and the art museum. She had the girls paired with Big Sisters. She did most of this from the computer at the library, because she didn't own one of her own. Nor did she own a smartphone. <br />
<br />
She did the best she could, but more days than not, those kids were hungry. <br />
<br />
As the girls grew, and her illness worsened, she occasionally admitted her task grew more challenging. Local charities like <a href="http://cradlestocrayons.org/" target="_blank">Cradles to Crayons</a> have a wealth of items for the baby and preschool set, but far less for kids in the middle to late elementary years.<br />
<br />
A few of us moms at the school noticed when they had no snow gear (in Boston), no Christmas presents, no school supplies. We tried to help discreetly, and quietly marveled that the school turned a totally blind eye.<br />
<br />
Life isn't fair.<br />
<br />
For that reason, I dedicate my No Trump Vote to S and A, because they are <b>orphans</b>, and Trump doesn't believe in any expansion of the safety net, or in expansion of universal healthcare to a single payer model.<br />
<br />
I dedicate my No Trump Vote to S and A, because they are <b>girls</b>, and no man has the right to grab them in the privates without their consent.<br />
<br />
I dedicate my No Trump Vote to S and A, because they are <b>black</b>, and I abhor the racist rhetoric of Trump's campaign. It smacks of fascism, as does his almost unfathomable threat to jail his political opponents. In America. In 2016. If a candidate in Africa or Eastern Europe said anything remotely resembling this, we would send election monitors.<br />
<br />
I dedicate my No Trump Vote to S and A, because<b> their mother was chronically</b> <b>disabled</b>, and Trump mocks disabled people.<br />
<br />
I dedicate my No Trump Vote to S and A, because <b>I want them to know ambition should not be a privilege reserved for well-to-do white men</b>. <br />
<br />
I didn't plan to write about this election, because anyone who's read me once can deduce I'm a solid blue voter. <br />
<br />
I'm so tired of hearing about how awful it is that Clinton "wants to be President" and "She's worked at it for decades," and "She's too ambitious, not warm enough, too prepared, too thoughtful, not smiling enough."<br />
<br />
<b>I dedicate my No Trump Vote to S and A, because I want this glass ceiling to shatter. </b><br />
<br />
<b>I want this catch-22, that says women cannot be feminine, but also strong and ambitious, to end with my generation. </b><br />
<br />
Can you imagine anyone making similar criticisms of any male candidate for County Zoning Board, let alone President of the United States?<br />
<br />
I'm also tired of hearing about voters sitting out the election, or voting for third party candidates.<br />
<br />
I would strongly prefer a multi-party parliamentary system, but <i>in the system we have</i>, either Clinton or Trump will win the White House on November 8.<br />
<br />
Which means nobody hears your protest ballot. If Trump scares you, but you don't vote for Clinton, you are as culpable as the Trump voters.<br />
<br />
Before you cast that "I don't like either of them ballot," please think about the American military pilots under threat from Russian anti-aircraft artillery in Syria.<br />
<br />
Yes, that Russia. The one Trump holds up as an example of a well run country. To be clear: the only aircraft in the skies above Syria are American. ISIS does not have an air force.<br />
<br />
Clinton is not perfect.<br />
<br />
Life isn't fair. We don't get perfect candidates. S and A don't get a mom, let alone a healthy one.<br />
<br />
I am optimistic that the deliberative, thoughtful, highly analytical qualities that stifle Clinton's charisma on the campaign trail will serve her well as the nation's chief executive, and that her policies will benefit kids like S and A more than those proposed by her opponent. <br />
<br />
#ImWithHer #NeverTrump <span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">#<a href="http://dedicateyournotrumpvote.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">DedicateYourNoTrumpVote</a></span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-63115871853233107252016-03-24T10:33:00.001-04:002016-04-07T02:52:43.737-04:00Caught Between a Leprechaun and a BunnyI picked a grumpy Grape up from school on March 17th. As soon as he strapped into the seat, he demanded to know why "our Leprechaun" didn't leave him anything.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me? We don't <i>have</i> a personal Leprechaun." (?!) <br />
<br />
"Why not?"<br />
<br />
"We aren't Irish."<br />
<br />
"So?"<br />
<br />
I exhaled. Softball line of questioning. I could deploy the speech about why we don't receive Chanukah gifts with a minor tweak.<br />
<br />
I mentally prepared the standard "We can help our friends celebrate" spiel, this time filling the blanks with, "by wearing green and solving the shamrock-shaped maze your teacher printed out for you."<br />
<br />
I figured he doesn't need, at such a tender age, to know about green beer. Though why so many educated people think celebrating Ireland by mixing food coloring into Miller Lite is good idea remains beyond me. Shouldn't they be raising their pints of Guinness in the direction of the Emerald Isle instead?<br />
<br />
But I digress. Like I said, not our holiday. I thought we were done when the Grape landed his knock out punch.<br />
<br />
"[Kid in class]'s Leprechaun left him $100." The Grape paused for dramatic effect, before adding "And peed in his toilet."<br />
<br />
"What? How would you know if a Leprechaun peed in the toilet?"<br />
<br />
"He said it was green! Bright green!"<br />
<br />
(Glee and giggles rose from the backseat—delight he'd steered his Mamma into bathroom talk.)<br />
<br />
"That is disgusting."<br />
<br />
"Yeah. Why don't Leprechauns know how to flush? And why didn't <i>I</i> get $100?"<br />
<br />
At this point, I suppressed the urge to blurt, "Because Leprechauns aren't real!" and also, "Because some parents are overboard!"<br />
<br />
I stopped myself. I was not mentally prepared to field challenging inquiries about Santa whilst speeding along the Mass Pike.<br />
<br />
And if other families want to pour green food coloring into their commodes, I guess that's none of my business.<br />
<br />
Before you call me a hypocrite, let me state in my defense: Among Christians, practicing, cultural, and all over the spectrum in between, <i>Santa Claus has nearly one hundred per cent buy in. </i><br />
<br />
But Leprechauns leaving cash?<br />
<br />
This was the first I was hearing of it, and all I could think was: Does every small celebration need to be about cash and prizes for kiddies?<br />
<br />
Can't they draw a nice rainbow and shamrock picture and be happy?<br />
<br />
Leprechauns, if memory serves, are greedy little trolls. <i>They</i> stash <i>their</i> gold. They don't like sharing. (The only way to get their gold is to steal it. Stealing is wrong. Irish friends, let me know if <i>my</i> first grade teacher bungled it back in 1979, and I'll print a retraction.)<br />
<br />
This year, Easter arrives early.<br />
<br />
And it's come to my attention that "Our Bunny" is lame.<br />
<br />
Our Bunny traffics in chocolates and other sweets. It's fun, low key, easy.<br />
<br />
<i>Dare I say magical and sweet?</i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Axpe2rjcGQ8/VvP6g_5XH6I/AAAAAAAAAWU/PF0YKzlhpx8SrhVU3OujajPxZtzds_9Jw/s1600/IMG_0782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Axpe2rjcGQ8/VvP6g_5XH6I/AAAAAAAAAWU/PF0YKzlhpx8SrhVU3OujajPxZtzds_9Jw/s320/IMG_0782.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easter morning 2015</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We never speak of how the plastic eggs get on my mom's lawn every Easter morning.<br />
<br />
He's got to know adults put them out there, right?<br />
<br />
He's <i>seen</i> adults prepare eggs hunts in parks, every year of his little life. <br />
<br />
He <i>must </i>know. He's six. He fools himself, because it's fun. It's part of the game. Like when he pretends to hear the Tooth Fairy (whole separate post involving recent violent destruction of a sink trap). <br />
<br />
Yesterday, he asked me, his little face all serious, if it was "too late to write to the Easter Bunny."<br />
<br />
I was not about to be pushed down a slippery slope. "We don't write to the Bunny. He does candy. Santa brings toys. You can save your wishes for Santa."<br />
<br />
"If I asked for a play house for the yard would the Bunny bring one?"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
The Grape's face started to crumple.<br />
<br />
I tried to regain ground. "The Bunny doesn't have elves and a workshop. No transportation infrastructure. No fleet of sleighs. It's a one-rodent operation. <i>Nothing</i> like Santa. Besides, you love chocolate."<br />
<br />
"Fine," he said. "I'm going to write to [Friend]'s Bunny."<br />
<br />
If, next Monday, he comes home from school with reports of kids getting big ticket toys from Their Bunnies, I guess we'll have to spill the beans.<br />
<br />
There's no "we don't celebrate" speech to bail me out of the Rabbit Trap.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-15479846962792009212016-02-01T12:01:00.000-05:002016-02-01T12:01:02.281-05:00Selling Out: A City Girl Moves to Wisteria LaneA funny thing happened when I found myself with two days of free time right before Halloween.<br />
<br />
I found a house I liked in the burbs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eROrxp8dw3k/Vq-NC2jARAI/AAAAAAAAAVE/q1RK3e_DDhg/s1600/house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eROrxp8dw3k/Vq-NC2jARAI/AAAAAAAAAVE/q1RK3e_DDhg/s1600/house.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Old friends expressed shock—the pigs are flying and they're making snow in the fiery pits kind of shock—that I, avowed city slicker and nervous driver (but excellent parallel parker, if I may say so myself) would even <i>contemplate </i>such a measure.<br />
<br />
Most of my friends with children had made The Big Move. But <i>me</i>? With pickets and wisteria?<br />
<br />
Heck, yes. And a yard, and room for guests, and a great public school system. And (gasp) a playroom.<br />
<br />
Buying a house would mean selling the condo, which would mean showing it to prospective buyers. Which would mean we'd need to purge. <br />
<br />
R., thrilled at the prospect of an old house with endless projects, sprang into action and rented a storage unit, before I could wrap my head around the scope of the purge and change my mind.<br />
<br />
I spent a week boxing books, photos, and large or babyish toys for storage and donation. The Grape protested as I banished items he hadn't looked at for over a year. We sent the bikes and skis away, cleared out the crib. We wondered briefly why we stilled owned a crib. Or three strollers.<br />
<br />
I called the realtor. He came over. In the ten minutes it took him to walk from his place to ours, I realized my week-long purge wasn't going to cut it.<br />
<br />
Did I mention I wanted to list the condo the following week? We had to, or we'd miss the fall market and vanish into the Holiday Vortex of Sales Doom.<br />
<br />
I had a paper bag ready when the realtor rang the buzzer.<br />
<br />
If you're going to make a person hyperventilate, I figure you might as well be gracious about it.<br />
<br />
The condo was 1400 square feet, roughly 1375 of which were covered in toys, art projects, building blocks towering into cities with mass transit systems arrayed over days and weeks.<br />
<br />
The other 25 square feet were reserved for snow gear. This is Boston, after all. <br />
<br />
"You need to purge!" he decreed. "All the toys need to be out!"<br />
<br />
"All?"<br />
<br />
"ALL."<br />
<br />
I followed him around, made mental notes. "Everything off the counters, expect the Kitchen Aid mixer. That I will allow you to keep."<br />
<br />
Apparently potential buyers like to picture themselves baking cakes.<br />
<br />
"Move out the pets," he ordered. "Get rid of the nightstands. Rake the front garden. Touch up the paint. Edit the stuffed animals. Put something smart but noncontroversial on the coffee table: Georgetown magazine or National Geographic. Nothing political. Vacuum the common hallway. Wash the windows, inside and out. Remove the plants. It's like the little shop of horrors in here."<br />
<br />
"I like the plants. Plants are good for your health."<br />
<br />
"Get rid of them, and edit the books."<br />
<br />
"I already did. I sent nineteen wine boxes of books to storage."<br />
<br />
He rolled his eyes. "Send nineteen <i>more</i>." <br />
<br />
He marched around and pointed at photos and dishtowels and extra chairs. "This offends me, that offends me. That," he said, pointing at a scratching post frequented by Lucy the Kitten, "THAT I can't even talk about."<br />
<br />
R. rented a second storage unit. He moved the little shop of horrors to his office. I drove the fur kids to camp at my mother's. We washed windows. As the light streamed in, we wondered how we hadn't thought to wash the <i>outside</i> years before. What was wrong with us? <br />
<br />
"Everything must go!" I realized I sounded like a street hawker advertising a liquidation sale, as I rendered our closets avalanche-free.<br />
<br />
Prospective buyers apparently take a <i>very</i> dim view of suitcases falling on their heads when they open the alleged walk-in closet.<br />
<br />
Not that such a thing happened to the realtor during his initial visit. And if it did, I had the sense to offer him an ice pack before the lump on his head swelled too much.<br />
<br />
The Grape pouted about the temporary removal of his toys, but even he admitted in the end, "The apartment looks tremendous."<br />
<br />
It did look a lot bigger, with the 1375 square feet previously dedicated to toys freed up for adults to walk through. The realtor was happy. "The place looks great," he said, unable to hide his shock.<br />
<br />
Pleased with myself on the eve of the open house, I decided to tackle the last item on the realtor's list: touch up the trim.<br />
<br />
I ran around with white trim paint and made the baseboards sparkle. I consulted the clock. One hour to school pick up. Perfect. I could touch up the bathroom vanity doors. They looked a bit tired.<br />
<br />
I found the can in the laundry room that said "vanity." I dabbed a little on the largest scratch on the vanity doors. It looked kind of dark. Inexplicably, I kept dabbing. Maybe it would dry to match. I knew it wouldn't. <br />
<br />
Maybe it was the paint fumes, but I kept dabbing at dings and scratches with the wrong color until the darn thing looked leopard spotted. I had to leave to get the Grape. I left a frantic message with the painter, "I did a bad thing."<br />
<br />
I got lucky. He was in the neighborhood. After he was done laughing at me, he used his magic paint-color-matching computer gadget to determine the correct color. I spent the eve of the open house re-painting the vanity. Four coats. Okay, five.<br />
<br />
I wish I'd taken a photo of those leopard spots, but that's my sole regret about the process.<br />
<br />
The condo sold, to a lovely young couple with a dog. I hope they'll love the park across the street and the neighborhood and the restaurants as much as we did, but for us, it was time for a new chapter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-49416797080616476582015-08-31T15:07:00.000-04:002015-08-31T15:15:56.497-04:00Summer Camp Wrap UpEarlier this summer, we shipped the Grape to camp for two weeks. <br />
<br />
He would've stayed longer, but the camp books up in the dead of winter, and R. and I weren't going to pony up for more than the minimum stay, <a href="http://thelittlegrape.blogspot.com/2015/08/the-whys-of-summer-camp.html" target="_blank">before we determined</a> whether our cab-hailing, museum-frequenting kid did well in the wild.<br />
<br />
Or the water. (The thing that first caught my eye about this place was the fact that the kids swam twice a day, every day.)<br />
<br />
We wanted something out in the country, where he could swim and tramp through the woods—an old timey, totally unplugged camp experience, the kind of place where "indoors" means a covered porch. <br />
<br />
He was five, we couldn't very well send him to the woods of Northern New England armed with some stationery, a can of bug spray, and two dozen pairs of underpants with his name scrawled inside the waistbands.<br />
<br />
This meant taking a bus some twenty miles west of the city.<br />
<br />
"It's a reverse commute," R. and I assured ourselves. "There are three adults on the bus. He'll be fine."<br />
<br />
Making the bus meant leaving the house with a lot of gear, as well as a camp nurse approved lunch, no later than 7:10 a.m.<br />
<br />
In a few short days after school ended, the Grape had become accustomed to sleeping until almost nine. I had to drag his sleeping body out of the bunk every morning.<br />
<br />
It was a lot like trying to haul a fifty pound suitcase from an overhead bin, while standing on a ladder.<br />
<br />
We would run, frantic, through the park and up the street and past the laundromat, exactly like the folks in the <a href="http://www.mowillems.com/" target="_blank">Mo Willems</a> picture book <i>Knuffle Bunny, </i>only with a greater degree of urgency, because if we missed the bus, I'd be in for hours of driving, and part of the point of this exercise was to secure a block of time to finish my third novel.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xYTyxcP26PY/VeSfuJP6fwI/AAAAAAAAAR8/7D_3v-jZ9fI/s1600/Sewataro%2Bgear%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xYTyxcP26PY/VeSfuJP6fwI/AAAAAAAAAR8/7D_3v-jZ9fI/s320/Sewataro%2Bgear%2B2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the utter lack of urgency on the part of the Grape on his way to the bus.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm proud to report we never missed that bus.<br />
<br />
But all this did happen:<br />
<br />
He almost capsized under the weight of his backpack the first day.<br />
<br />
When the dad who caught him mid-fall suggested I hang a counterweight on his front, I decided to nix the sweatshirt and sweatpants.<br />
<br />
The first two afternoons, he came home with both his pants and underwear on backwards.<br />
<br />
One of the moms at the bus stop told me that was <i>very </i>good. She explained that her kid wore his wet bathing suit all day, because he didn't want to change clothes. This particular child was signed up for eight weeks. I saw a lot of Desitin in their future.<br />
<br />
On the third day, the Grape wore his swimsuit home, having lost three full changes of clothes, who knows where.<br />
<br />
My repeated inquiries as to the location of his clothes and other swimsuit were met with an indignant, "It's not a cubby. It's a crate!" As if that was somehow the crux of the matter.<br />
<br />
I think that was the same day he earned an award in tennis, and I didn't believe him, because his school P.E. teachers claim he possesses zero hand-eye coordination.<br />
<br />
Moments after he convinced me of its probable existence, the Grape discovered the tennis award had <i>gone missing</i> on the afternoon bus.<br />
<br />
He nearly lost his mind.<br />
<br />
I had to call the camp and have the person in charge assure the Grape that he would be reunited with his <strike>ten-cent pin</strike> major achievement award.<br />
<br />
I know, I know. They need to learn to deal with disappointment, but maybe not at the same moment I'm about to receive foreign house guests.<br />
<br />
While I had the director of the little kids' section on the phone, I asked if the camp might launch a search for the Grape's three sets of lost clothes.<br />
<br />
"No problem," she said.<br />
<br />
They sent him home on day four bearing two <i>huge</i> plastic bags, full of the belongings of other children in his group (an assortment including a wet towel, a thermos, and a pair of brand new shoes).<br />
<br />
We continued in this fashion for the duration of the camp session. Exasperating? Mildly.<br />
<br />
Ultimately the little hassles didn't matter, because the Grape had the time of his life.<br />
<br />
The camp issued a shirt to be worn the first day. The Grape wanted to wear it every morning, because he was so thrilled and proud to be going to camp. Who wouldn't be? The place was a slice of kid heaven. He learned to swim (HURRAY!). He made new friends. He went boating. He climbed a rock wall. He even caught a fish. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4fm4oCWIaBQ/VeSeUcg7YUI/AAAAAAAAARw/P07oHgCHdLE/s1600/Sewataro%2Bfishing%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4fm4oCWIaBQ/VeSeUcg7YUI/AAAAAAAAARw/P07oHgCHdLE/s320/Sewataro%2Bfishing%2B2015.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Grape with his "lucky" rod and a perch (?). I suspect the campers have been catching and releasing the same fish for years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So I washed the shirt every night, and promised to sign him up for next year, even though the 7:15 to 4:30 absence every day had started to feel really long (to me—he was fine).<br />
<br />
He'll be a year older. By then I'm hopeful he'll remember that the flap belongs on the front of the underwear.<br />
<br />
And if he doesn't, who cares?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-39887262949420203782015-08-12T11:49:00.004-04:002015-08-12T11:57:10.043-04:00The Whys of Summer CampMama guilt drove me to do it.<br />
<br />
As a kid, I spent my early summers outdoors.<br />
<br />
We were either on the beach in Rhode Island, or in the woods behind our house, or at my mother's family's cabin, near Lake Saimaa in Finland.<br />
<br />
It was rustic. There was (and still is) an outhouse involved, and a well, where we kept things like milk cold in a bucket at the end of a long rope, because nobody wanted to mess with a gas refrigerator.<br />
<br />
We foraged for berries and mushrooms, and out grandfather set traps for lake fish, because that's what good Finns do in the summer. <br />
<br />
The road to the cabin featured boulders and compact car sized pits. If we had too many people piled into the car, a 1970 Skoda, it would get stuck.<br />
<br />
So my brother and I (and any visiting children past toddling age) were kicked out to navigate the last mile or two on foot.<br />
<br />
"Beware of moose! And poisonous vipers!"my grandmother would admonish, as we clomped away in our rubber boots, stamped "Made by Nokia in Finland" on the insides.<br />
<br />
My brother and I ran semi-wild, our feet always dirty, and our bodies always smelling faintly of pond water or salt or Noxzema, or some combination thereof. Many days, our swimsuits never dried.<br />
<br />
The Grape has none of this.<br />
<br />
Sure, being a city kid has its perks. He can hail a cab, and he handily navigates the neighborhood at rush hour on his bike. He's been to the symphony and various museums. He frequents playgrounds that would've blown my mind when I was his age, when I was easily impressed by a single swing hung from a tree limb. He can explain how to get from Point A to Point B on the subway, even if it involves changing lines. He sees and hears a diverse range of people every day.<br />
<br />
But one day last fall, after a soaking rainstorm, the trees on our street hung low.<br />
<br />
The Grape said, "It's just like the woods."<br />
<br />
Except it wasn't. These trees were in evenly spaced planting squares, and our feet were on the pavement.<br />
<br />
I hit the Internet and signed my city boy up for the campiest day camp I could find within a semi-reasonable driving radius of our home.<br />
<br />
I wanted the Grape to swim, and go boating, and tramp through the woods, and hang out outdoors all day, as far from a screen or a classroom as practicable.<br />
<br />
We went to an open house. It poured that day. The Grape wailed in the backseat that I was the meanest mother ever, and he could <i>not believe</i> I was doing this to him. "How can you just send me away with strangers in the <i>middle of nowhere</i>? What kind of mother are you?"<br />
<br />
He carried on as if I was about to abandon him forever in some Deliverance town.<br />
<br />
R. and I reassured him that we signed him up for the minimum time, two weeks. He could do <i>anything</i> for two weeks. Nine days, really.<br />
<br />
The Grape turned his gaze towards the heavens, or at least at the roof of the car, as if wondering how he received such clueless twits for parents.<br />
<br />
We pulled into the camp. The Grape saw the beach and the boats and the rock wall and the tidy rows of tents.<br />
<br />
His eyes boggled.<br />
<br />
"I get to go <i>here</i>?" <br />
<br />
R. and I exhaled. The place felt magical, like a throwback to an unplugged time, even in the rain.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWCPzLLWQbE/VctoX77V7UI/AAAAAAAAAQw/K7RFHGc1M0w/s1600/Sewataro%2Bpond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWCPzLLWQbE/VctoX77V7UI/AAAAAAAAAQw/K7RFHGc1M0w/s320/Sewataro%2Bpond.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A slice of kid heaven in Sudbury, Massachusetts, even in a downpour.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We took the now bouncing, smiling Grape on the tour. <br />
<br />
A little girl in our group asked the guide, a college age counselor, "Why is that pile of rocks over there?"<br />
<br />
The counselor looked confused for a moment.<br />
<br />
"It's nature," he said.<br />
<br />
"Not art?" the little girl pressed.<br />
<br />
"Nature," our guide said, more firmly.<br />
<br />
R. and I exchanged a glance: we were definitely doing the right thing.<br />
<br />
Or were we? It was twenty miles away. There was a bus to contend with, and we didn't have the most stellar experience with school buses last fall. There were so many belongings to organize, and the Grape's backpack nearly outweighed him.<br />
<br />
I didn't sleep a wink the night before his first day. What if he got bullied on the bus? Was he too little? Were we crazy to ship him so far away? What if he lost his lunch? What if he didn't make any friends?<br />
<br />
And in the darkest hours of the morning: GAH! What if he drowns?<br />
<br />
I did what any reasonable Mama in my position would do: I flipped on the lamp and woke up R.<br />
<br />
"WHAT IF HE DROWNS?"<br />
<br />
"He won't drown. These people know what they're doing."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. They would be out of business if they drowned people's kids. Now go the f--- to sleep. You need to get up and make the nut-free lunch in two hours."<br />
<br />
Next post: How it worked out...<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-43159138541012958272015-06-06T10:45:00.001-04:002015-06-06T10:45:41.120-04:00I Got Pantsed at the Grocery StoreThe Kindergarten teachers, like the preschool teachers before them, warned me this would happen. As the the school year draws to a close, the kids go "a bit berserk."<br />
<br />
Kids who normally cycle through the full range of human emotions every ten minutes accelerate that rate. The Grape can manage a full laugh-cry-meltdown-whine-bounce-off-walls-cackle-like-lunatic cycle that takes 90 seconds from start to finish. Lately this phenomenon continues on endless loop.<br />
<br />
The roiling emotions, I understand, may be coupled with whackadoo, out of character behaviors.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, the Grape <i>pantsed</i> me in the grocery store checkout line. (I guess that should teach me to appear in public in yoga pants.) <br />
<br />
Pantsing was so far beyond the Grape's normal repertoire of stunts that it took me a second to process what was happening, another second to re-cover my posterior.<br />
<br />
The cashier politely averted her eyes.<br />
<br />
Naturally, there was a college boy (also laughing) behind us in line. I could see the thought bubble over his head: <i>Which aisle for condoms?</i><br />
<br />
Unfortunately I couldn't stop laughing whole time I attempted to explain how wholly unacceptable I found the Grape's behavior. You try saying, "We do <i>not</i> ever pull Mamma's pants down in the grocery store," with a straight face.<br />
<br />
If the child is to change schools come September, the berserk level goes on steroids. Last spring, Kindergarten loomed like some inexplicable, ephemeral concept, like Heaven, for example. The Grape acted like a victim of demonic possession for months.<br />
<br />
At least this year, the Grape can trot down the corridor and peek at the brave new world of First Grade with his own little eyes.<br />
<br />
Fair enough. Many adults don't handle looming change and uncertainty well. Of course five-year-olds have difficulty processing their bittersweet emotions once the calendar flips to June. <br />
<br />
The Grape told me he was both happy and sad about summer vacation. Happy, because we get to go the beach with his cousins, and he can go camping with Grandpa. Sad, because he wouldn't see his kindergarten pals every day. He added that he'd miss the kindergarten teachers a lot, which tells me they've done a terrific job.<br />
<br />
I guess it's now up to me to do a better job wearing real pants with belts. Or longer tops.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-39804485214298766822015-06-04T15:00:00.002-04:002015-06-04T15:06:51.580-04:00The Most Dreaded Subject Line for Parents of Young ChildrenNo email subject line strikes fear in the hearts of parents of young children quite like "Head Lice."<br />
<br />
These emails invariably arrive late in the day—maddening in timing, ambiguity, and precision all at once. Also it's impossible to read one without feeling itchy.<br />
<br />
"Dear Kindergarten Parents,<br />
<br />
We have a confirmed case of Head Lice in the classroom. Please be aware our school has a no nit policy!<br />
<br />
Have a great evening!<br />
<br />
Best,<br />
Teacher"<br />
<br />
"Best," as Samantha quipped years ago on <i>Sex and the City</i>, is the worst. In this case, it means your evening plans are shot to hell. It means 837 loads of laundry and hours of combing.<br />
<br />
The first time one of the Head Lice greetings hit my inbox, I remained calm and called the school.<br />
<br />
And scratched my itchy head while I sat on hold.<br />
<br />
The Grape, they assured me, had checked out nit free.<br />
<br />
Which of course meant nothing, seeing as the whole problem with Head Lice is they <i>spread</i>. They've got strong little legs, and they lay eggs like it's their job. Which I suppose it is.<br />
<br />
To make matters worse, I'd just spent the day on a field trip with all 32 kindergarten students.<br />
<br />
I'd encouraged them to cram in closer for a group photo.<br />
<br />
I'd ridden the bus for forty-five minutes each way with these kids.<br />
<br />
I'd laughed as they literally piled all over each other on the playground. <br />
<br />
It was five p.m. when I saw the email. I'd arranged to meet an old friend for an early dinner. I was still dusty, sweaty, and utterly unfit to be seen in a nice restaurant. I'd banked on having thirty minutes to clean myself up.<br />
<br />
Now I had to de-louse the Grape.<br />
<br />
I did what any reasonable adult would do.<br />
<br />
I panicked. <br />
<br />
I procured the special shampoo and the evil metallic nit comb, forced the Grape to shed all his clothes on the patio, and refused to admit him to the house until I'd treated his head. (This all seemed reasonable at the time. In my defense, it was an extraordinarily warm spring day.)<br />
<br />
I asked Siri to find me a photo of a nit. I held the phone next to the Grape's head, barked at the poor little guy to hold still.<br />
<br />
There was something small and white. Dandruff? It really, truly looked like dandruff, but I wasn't about to take chances.<br />
<br />
I know about Head Lice. I got them at school (twice) at age five.<br />
<br />
The first time, I got shampooed with awful insecticidal liquid. It came in a brown prescription bottle, smelled like industrial solvent, and was dispensed to my frazzled mother by a frowning and judgmental pharmacist.<br />
<br />
I remember it burning.<br />
<br />
I had long hair. It took four hours to comb.<br />
<br />
The second time I came home with Head Lice, I got the horrible shampoo again.<br />
<br />
I also got a tragic home haircut and spent the rest of the school year looking like the Dutch Boy from the paint can—a drastic esthetic my mother inexplicably saw fit to commemorate with a Woolworth's portrait, which still, equally inexplicably, hangs in a place of honor in my late grandmother's living room. <br />
<br />
I was not getting a boy haircut, but I had twenty minutes remaining to get turned around and nit free.<br />
<br />
I hauled a bucket of warm water and the modern, pleasant-smelling special shampoo outside.<br />
<br />
The Grape went along with it all until he realized I was proposing <i>al fresco</i> hair washing. He started to whine. He appealed to logic. "My teacher didn't see any on me!"<br />
<br />
Lila the Dog and Lucy the Cat wandered onto the deck to see what the fuss was about.<br />
<br />
"Siri!" I demanded, as a fresh terror gripped my soul. "Can dogs and cats get head lice?"<br />
<br />
It took her a minute, but she was certain they could not.<br />
<br />
Thank God.<br />
<br />
The poor, naked Grape protested, cried that he wanted to come indoors. He was so very tired and he didn't like all this combing, and he was so, so, so hungry, too. And the towel I had wrapped around him was soaking wet.<br />
<br />
"STAY ON THE PATIO! I WILL GET YOU A CRACKER!" I yelled. "NO! YOU CANNOT COME IN THE HOUSE AND MOMMY IS LATE AND STILL NEEDS TO SHOWER AND PUT ON MAKEUP AND YOU HAVE <i>NO IDEA</i> HOW BAD IT WILL BE IF LICE GET IN OUR HOUSE! YOU STAY OUT THERE OR ELSE! AND BY THE WAY, THIS SHAMPOO ISN'T <i>NEARLY AS BAD </i>AS WHAT MOMMY HAD TO ENDURE AS A KID, SO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST WORK WITH ME HERE!"<br />
<br />
The Grape burst into tears. Loud tears. It was not a proud parenting moment for me.<br />
<br />
My neighbor, an innocent and childless bystander, who happened to be walking his dog in the alley below, heard the whole exchange. He gave me a strange look. He didn't appear concerned enough to call social services, but I got the distinct impression he walked away thinking we might deserve a reality show.<br />
<br />
I decided I had to cancel on my friend at the very moment a text arrived from her: "You won't believe the day I had. So happy to be going out. See you soon!"<br />
<br />
I couldn't bail. I hate when people bail.<br />
<br />
I texted back: "Head Lice. Need Wine. 15 minutes late. So sorry!"<br />
<br />
She responded immediately, offering to cancel. Nonsense, I told her.<br />
<br />
R. arrived home. For twenty minutes, I combed what I now believe were pieces of the Grape's scalp through his wet hair while R. examined mine, strand by strand. We probably looked like an ape family picking at each other. Every stitch of clothing the Grape and I had been wearing went into the washer. R. and I congratulated ourselves on dodging a bullet. I told R. I probably should go apologize to the neighbor, explain it was a louse emergency. He advised leaving well enough alone.<br />
<br />
I made it to my dinner, half an hour late, with wet but (hopefully) nit-free hair.<br />
<br />
My friend declined to hug me.<br />
<br />
We got the Head Lice email again this week. <br />
<br />
By now, the parent community has enough louse-based war stories that everyone has a suggestion.<br />
<br />
"Drench your hair with olive oil and sleep with a shower cap over it," is the best one I've heard. "It suffocates the buggers."<br />
<br />
That's hot, right?<br />
<br />
It's not like there aren't a million blogs bemoaning the fact that adult time becomes non-existent in households with little kids.<br />
<br />
Now we are supposed to sexy ourselves up with shower caps?<br />
<br />
I'm going out right now to buy them for all of us. Just in case.<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-41480000931938724842015-05-18T10:03:00.002-04:002015-05-18T10:03:59.632-04:00The Red Shirting Question ResurfacesHere were are again, like our own family's version of <i>Groundhog Day</i>.<br />
<br />
The end of the academic year looms and we are faced once again with the breaking news that the Grape is the youngest kid in his class.<br />
<br />
His teachers probe our opinions carefully, as if fishing for a splinter with a needle.<br />
<br />
We sit around the tiny table in the tiny chairs. They lean across the thoughtfully curated spread of art projects and barely whisper: "Do we want to 'loop' him?"<br />
<br />
The Grape is scheduled to enter first grade at age six years and three weeks.<br />
<br />
There are no other Boys of Summer in his kindergarten class. In the kindergarten class across the hall, there is one. Perhaps two, but I think only one. <br />
<br />
The kindergarten girls have more widely distributed birthday demographics than their male classmates, but they're all older than the Grape, too.<br />
<br />
This data point interests me, because it's the girls with whom the Grape has forged deep friendships. One of his besties will actually celebrate her seventh birthday in June. So what we have is a young boy who plays best with older girls.<br />
<br />
The Grape likes the "girl" games: elaborate, often drawn out, imaginative play scenarios and role plays. They build little worlds in their corner of the classroom or recess yard. He's got laser like focus and a marathon attention span for this type of play.<br />
<br />
Whether at home or at school, he still lives very much inside his imagination—something I'm in terror of stifling with too much didactic learning.<br />
<br />
I cringe when the handwriting sheets come home, and in fairness, our school doesn't do a lot of this.<br />
<br />
Apparently I'm not alone.<br />
<br />
The <i>New York Times</i> ran <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/17/opinion/sunday/let-the-kids-learn-through-play.html?emc=eta1" target="_blank">a brilliant piece yesterday by David Kohn</a>, singing my song: Send children to school young. Very young. But don't make them do much in the academic sphere except learn through play and natural exploration until age seven or eight. Because it's going to backfire. Not for everyone, but for too many of them.<br />
<br />
I firmly believe that if you crush the love of learning early, you will almost never be able to rekindle it, especially with the limited resources available to most public school teachers in this country.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid that the national conversation about universal preschool (VERY GOOD) will lead to younger and younger children bent over desks, resigned to dull tasks, as if they're some sort of midget medieval scribes (VERY BAD), instead of socializing, playing, imagining, exploring, reading, running in circles like banshees outdoors, and resting. <br />
<br />
The article didn't open the attention deficit can of worms, and I'm not a pediatrician.<br />
<br />
But to me, it's common sense that if a significant number* of otherwise healthy kids need to be drugged to get through an elementary school day, <i>the problem isn't with the kids, it's with the structure of the school day.</i><br />
<br />
I, for better or worse, can't decide national education policy. I can only decide the Grape's plans for next year.<br />
<br />
The Grape hangs in there with the older kids on the more academic side of kindergarten. He loves "making books" and he likes math. He likes exploring new subjects like nature and the solar system with his classmates. He loves music and art and going to the library. I'm certainly not against academics; I just believe they shouldn't make up the bulk of a young child's day.<br />
<br />
The class hosted a sweet event this winter, where parents came in and everyone made a book with his/her child. The Grape came up with "The Dog Who Wanted to Ski." I admit I helped draw the dog's crossed skis, but the rest is all Grape:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IwjkxuaHKjI/VVnrBFoYmzI/AAAAAAAAAO0/q6ZFdIKM3MY/s1600/IMG_0786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IwjkxuaHKjI/VVnrBFoYmzI/AAAAAAAAAO0/q6ZFdIKM3MY/s320/IMG_0786.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"They went to the green circle but the dog's skis got tangled."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
He got the thing done and turned in on time. From that I infer his attention span for a high-focus task is the creation of four pages plus a cover. Seems reasonable to me.<br />
<br />
Most importantly, the Grape wants to go to first grade.<br />
<br />
That's where his friends are headed, and we've explained that there's more writing and reading and less free play (though thankfully first graders go outdoors for recess twice a day).<br />
<br />
He claims to understand, but I'm skeptical.<br />
<br />
But not as skeptical as I am of keeping him back.<br />
<br />
In my book, the only thing worse than more didactic learning is a re-run of the past year's didactic learning.<br />
<br />
We aren't "looping" (or red-shirting) him this year.<br />
<br />
I'm sure we'll have to field this question next year. I have no idea how we'll feel about the jump from first to second, but my thinking is that we keep him with his class as long as he's happy and keeping up.<br />
<br />
If and when he asks to be kept back, or he cannot handle the material, we'll "loop" him then.<br />
<br />
What I'd really love to see is all the little ones freed from their desks for most of the school day. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the Let Them Play More trend has about as much chance of catching on as our dog has of learning to ski.<br />
<br />
* <span style="font-size: x-small;">The actual number of kids on drugs for "attention disorders" is hard to nail down. Various sources use various methods and yield various stats. But all sources agree the number of cases is trending steeply up.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-58247746829135465322015-05-05T09:21:00.000-04:002015-05-05T11:03:26.111-04:00The Mouse Sees and Hears AllThere's something creepy afoot in Disney World, and it's got nothing to do with classic cartoon villains.<br />
<br />
It's common knowledge that Disney employees an army of logisticians, consumer analysts and transportation engineers, to track its customers and facilitate movement and control of crowds. We expect security cameras everywhere.<br />
<br />
But Disney's facial recognition software veers too far from Disney Magic and too close to Big Brother. And the eavesdropping is off the hook.<br />
<br />
The U.S. military, the most powerful military on the planet, <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/this-is-how-we-know-that-the-shocking-revelations-about-trapwire-spying-are-true-2012-8" target="_blank">wants to buy Disney's spy technology</a>. So basically the Mouse has better capabilities than the CIA. Or at least the Pentagon.<br />
<br />
The Grape, luckiest kid on the planet, recently returned from his second trip to the Mouse Empire.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zKRMHLwNT40/VUjbgbES9vI/AAAAAAAAAN8/9QR7TdiFmhw/s1600/photo-12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zKRMHLwNT40/VUjbgbES9vI/AAAAAAAAAN8/9QR7TdiFmhw/s1600/photo-12.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Innocent magic rodent? Or an agent the envy of spy agencies worldwide?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Thanks largely to <a href="http://yourfirstvisit.net/2013/12/08/2015-weeks-to-visit-walt-disney-world-ranked-in-order/" target="_blank">David Shute's AMAZING crowd calendar</a>, the Grape had a ball, and we adults had the most stress-free trip possible (which to Disney novices, still feels crowded, crushed, and costly).<br />
<br />
I noticed two things on this trip that I didn't fully process on my first.<br />
<br />
They are always <i>watching</i>—at least on their newer attractions.<br />
<br />
On our last morning, we went straight to the very popular Mine Train ride, stood in minimal line, and rode the newest coaster. At no point did anyone in my party scan their band. We didn't have fast passes for the ride.<br />
<br />
Yet, two days after we returned home, Disney sent us a video of us on the Mine Train. It came in the same email as several stills from Buzz Lightyear and Expedition Everest. Note that this also means they presumably sent pictures of us, including the Grape, to the people who happened to ride with us.<br />
<br />
Possibly creepier: They are <b><i>listening</i></b>. (?!?!?)<br />
<br />
It was the post fireworks rush from the park at the Magic Kingdom. The Grape was cooked. We stood in line on the dock to take the Disney water shuttle back to the hotel.<br />
<br />
The gentleman behind us in line (a party of two adults and two kids) struck up a conversation with R.<br />
<br />
"It's all for the kids," we agreed when he expressed that sentiment. "And it's all VERY expensive for what you get, especially in the restaurants and hotels."<br />
<br />
Our new friend agreed effusively. "Five star prices for three star food!"<br />
<br />
"But we know that coming in. Again, it's all for the kids. They love it."<br />
<br />
We pointed at fake Tahiti (Disney's Polynesian Resort) across the man-made lagoon.<br />
<br />
"If we didn't have kids, we could go to real Tahiti!"<br />
<br />
"Or real Paris! Or real Venice!"<br />
<br />
And so forth. The boat began loading. The Disney employee allowed R., the Grape and me to board then abruptly cut off the line. He physically blocked our new friend from taking another step.<br />
<br />
Plenty of room on the boat. Maybe a dozen seats left. Literally two hundred people on the dock.<br />
<br />
Coincidence? <br />
<br />
Survey says: Doubtful.<br />
<br />
We all accept that the Magic Band, which enables park, room and Fast Pass ride admission, contains a computer tracker. Fine.<br />
<br />
Call me old fashioned, but I see a world of difference between tracking guests' choices in attractions and shopping, and actually listening to their conversations and <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2012/aug/15/new-totalitarianism-surveillance-technology" target="_blank">snapping candids without consent</a>. <br />
<br />
I'm sure Disney doesn't care what I think—as evidenced by the behavior of their front desk staff and their maddening restaurant reservation rigidity.<br />
<br />
My kid loves the place, and he's in the prime window (I'd say the prime window opens at age four and runs into the early teens—a perception Disney works hard to dispute).<br />
<br />
Despite this newish ick factor, and the highly disturbing tolerance by Disney of <i>rampant</i> abuse of its wonderful handicapped accommodations, we'll likely return at some point.<br />
<br />
Ultimately it's academic; I don't do or say anything in public I don't mind repeated.<br />
<br />
So yes, Disney, I'd rather go to real Paris than your Paris, and I don't care who knows that.<br />
<br />
All I'm saying is it would've been nice to be forewarned of all this surveillance that makes the Pentagon swoon.<br />
<br />
Even George Orwell's characters knew that Big Brother's telescreens could see and hear them at all times.<br />
<br />
And maybe they could tweak the Mouse Club song:<br />
<br />
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-K-G-B<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-64797241712833547642015-03-27T11:58:00.002-04:002015-03-27T11:58:50.933-04:00Put a Woman on ItThe <a href="http://time.com/3747908/the-campaign-to-get-a-woman-on-the-20-bill-is-picking-up-steam/" target="_blank">campaign to boot late President Andrew Jackson</a> from his position of honor on the twenty-dollar-bill is rightly starting to gain traction.<br />
<br />
It's high time we banished that brute's likeness, and replaced it with a portrait of an American woman.<br />
<br />
Predictably, many names have been floated. Without ANY searching, I've seen petitions for Rosa Parks, Gloria Steinem, Susan B. Anthony, and Eleanor Roosevelt cross my social media feeds.<br />
<br />
I think the honor should go to Emma Lazarus.<br />
<br />
Yeah, the writer/child of immigrants casts her vote for Team Poet/Child of Immigrants.<br />
<br />
Shocking, I know. But hear me out.<br />
<br />
First, I admit I could be <i>very easily</i> swayed to the Sojourner Truth camp. <br />
<br />
Okay, I could be swayed to most any of these camps, and I have to say, I find it depressing that we're only considering <i>maybe, possibly including one</i> woman in the American billfold.<br />
<br />
Like that's somehow fair.<br />
<br />
I suppose it's only money; if I had to choose I'd rather see no women on the bills, and five or six women on the Supreme Court, and 52 in the Senate, and so forth.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
I like Emma Lazarus because she penned the most recognizable articulation of this country's moral mission, immortalized on that most iconic of our monuments, the Statue of Liberty:<br />
<br />
<i>...Give me your tired, your poor,<br />
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,<br />
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.<br />
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,<br />I lift my lamp beside the golden door!</i><br />
<br />
A child of immigrants, reminding us once again at this highly divided time, that the United States is, was, and ever will be a nation of immigrants, an exceptional case among the countries of the world.<br />
<br />
What's more perfect than that?<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-78645240831907140312015-03-05T12:40:00.001-05:002015-03-05T12:40:57.547-05:00What I Learned from Binge Watching ScandalI had walking pneumonia last month, which in my case was basically a First World
Problem, albeit one that came with much hacking and wheezing. I felt winded if I stood up. I had the plague for a good three weeks.<br />
<br />
I'm most
thankful that I didn't have to drag my tail to a "normal" job. I remember corporate America well. Sick employees face a Catch-22: Your boss and colleagues hate you for coming in sick, and they hate you for taking sick days. I
am also deeply grateful for my mother and sister-in-law, who took the Grape
off my hands for the lion's share of the February school break.<br />
<br />
I convalesced by discovering and binge-watching <i>Scandal</i>.<br />
<br />
Some friends say the writing has gone over a cliff (wink) in terms of credulity, but I <i>love</i> a
good caper, particularly this one, with a smart woman at the center of multiple dark conspiracies.<br />
<br />
Well done, <a href="https://twitter.com/shondarhimes" target="_blank">Shonda Rhimes</a>.<br />
<br />
Luckily we writers can chalk up excessive TV viewing as a learning exercise.<br />
<br />
The main downside to watching so much <i>Scandal</i>: I kept wondering whether my suspense thriller, <a href="http://maripassanantibooks.com/" target="_blank"><i>The K Street Affair,</i></a> should have been farther fetched.<br />
<br />
While writing early drafts, I decided my scheme (wherein corporate titans
from around the globe conspire with top elected officials and those charged to protect them to perpetrate major crimes, because they are Greedy and Insatiably Power Hungry) would need to be really complicated.<br />
<br />
Watching all that <i>Scandal </i>taught me that fast paced writing will make the audience come along for the ride—and they don't need to see every nut and bolt of a conspiracy to believe it. They will accept that their fellow humans will do <i>anything</i>, when driven by lust (whether for power or flesh or cash, or any combination thereof). <br />
<br />
At some point, around my seventeenth draft of <i>K Street</i>, I decided that it was too remarkable for my smart but civilian heroine to remain
alive through the terrifying events that befell her. I toned down some big events in the book. Mistake? Hard to say<i>.</i> It's that credulity thing again: it's awfully fun, as a writer, to dance as close to the edge as possible.<br />
<br />
In sunnier news, I'm confident, after watching all this <i>Scandal</i>, that putting two hot, imperfect men in my novel was <i>absolutely</i> the right call.<br />
<br />
Everyone loves a love triangle, and I suspect many fans love Ms. Rhimes for bucking the big screen trend: Olivia Pope gets lots of woman-focused sex.<br />
<br />
Aside: While watching this love triangle, I have also contemplated what it means for my psyche that I hope Olivia chooses Jake over Fitz. Or at least chooses herself. <br />
<br />
<i>The K Street Affair</i> is a quirky book: a woman centered political and spy caper that doesn't fit neatly into any of the spaces on the bookshelf. It was fun to write, at times scary to research, and ultimately the novel I wanted to publish—a misfit, nerdy sort of book. Kind of like its author.<br />
<br />
Because <i>K Street</i> was a quirky novel, I never shopped it* to major publishers, a <i>huge</i> mistake I realized too late.<br />
<br />
Precise moment of my epiphany regarding how badly I screwed up: Thanksgiving, 2012, when Barnes & Noble selected <i>The K Street Affair </i>for their General Fiction Book Club for January 2013, and I had no distribution network to get books into their 700 stores, or any mechanism to take back unsold copies. That was an enormous missed opportunity for me as a writer.<br />
<br />
I'm thrilled by the success of <i>Scandal</i>. It means I'm not the only woman writer who's tired of seeing the guys have all the fun, and that audiences agree. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Full disclosure: A few agents saw, years earlier, a very rough draft of the book that would become <i>The K Street Affair </i>(2013). After several of them advised me to shelve it for a while, and write something more "mainstream," I listened and wrote <i>The Hazards </i>(2011).</span><br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-92174815690670728442015-02-23T09:41:00.000-05:002015-02-23T09:41:17.322-05:00Snow of DoomBack when I lived in DC, I used to marvel that a dusting of powder would create gridlock worthy of a National Guard call up.<br />
<br />
"In New England, they know how to deal," fellow Northeastern expats and I would smugly assure each other, as we watched one of the capital city's two tiny truck plows push a path down M Street. "Snowmaggedon, or whatever this one is called, would not happen in Boston."<br />
<br />
I'm ready to cry uncle.<br />
<br />
Because in Boston, there is only The Snow.<br />
<br />
The Snow has rendered our already dour winter population cranky. Local commutes rival work days in length, and our parking wars make<a href="http://dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2958743/Parking-Boston-SNOW-joke-motorists-battle-elements-space-cars.html" target="_blank"> shameful international news.</a> (Though I admit some of the photos in the space saver article score high marks for creativity.)<br />
<br />
Note to neighbors: It is not okay to vandalize your neighbors' cars.<br />
<br />
Special aside to the old-timers who argue that they "own" public parking spaces: please look in the mirror next time you feel like spouting about entitled students. <br />
<br />
Boston resembles Arundel without the magic. <br />
<br />
I freely admit to <a href="http://thelittlegrape.blogspot.com/2015/01/making-memories-in-park-after-dark.html" target="_blank">loving the first storm</a>, but things have gotten out of hand, even for snow lovers like the Grape and me.<br />
<br />
Our family has snow induced First World Problems:<br />
<br />
The Grape is stir crazy. He hasn't had a full week of school since December. When he does have a full week of school, he will have forgotten what that feels like, and he will burn up on re-entry like a cheap Soviet satellite. It will be like September, but with the added locomotive challenges posed by The Snow.<br />
<br />
R. got dirty slush all over his new jacket. Why? Because he went outside to help a cop who'd gotten his cruiser stuck in 18 inches of slush in the alley, and who thought the answer was to floor the gas.<br />
<br />
While his Dad pushed the car with another neighbor, the Grape advised the cop "to be more gentle with the car." It was moderately embarrassing, because the five-year-old was right. <br />
<br />
Our roof sprung a leak, and the dripping sound as it hits the bucket near my bed is making me twitchy. The water stain on ceiling spreads like mold in a petri dish, and presently resembles an obscene gesture.<br />
<br />
My book club has been cancelled seven times. <br />
<br />
Instacart is more like Day After Tomorrow Cart. <br />
<br />
I have walking pneumonia, and feel winded whenever I stand up, let alone stand at the school bus stake out for forty-five minutes.<br />
<br />
I realize these issues are nothing, compared to the stories of misery reported by low wage employees trying to navigate The Snow. Or the ones about little kids stuck on school buses for three hours, because The Snow causes unprecedented, twice a day, absolute standstill gridlock.<br />
<br />
Why does The Snow do this? This is Boston. We should be able to deal.<br />
<br />
The Snow has our number this time, partly because the city government made the stunning decision to allow street parking on major thoroughfares while the snow piles remain two stories high.<br />
<br />
Picture this: Cars parked in the travel lanes, because the street parking lanes are full of snow. Which means you have one lane of travel in each direction on major roadways. Totally avoidable. Maddening, really. <br />
<br />
Our crosswalks remain terrifying, and every time I have to make a turn in the car, it's a blind move of faith, because nobody can see over the aforementioned two-story snow piles. People are walking in the streets, dodging sliding cars, because the sidewalks still aren't cleared. Here's a picture of our school bus stop:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B5S7J73PZcM/VOs27IFlm4I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/uzEQyWmVtEc/s1600/bus%2Bstop%2Bsnow%2Bpile%2BFebruary%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B5S7J73PZcM/VOs27IFlm4I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/uzEQyWmVtEc/s1600/bus%2Bstop%2Bsnow%2Bpile%2BFebruary%2B2015.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intersection of Columbus and Holyoke, Boston's South End, 2/11/15 (no change as of today)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last time I was at the grocery store, the bleary-eyed clerk told me it took him three and a half hours to get into work from Brockton (a town south of the city). This is <i>two and a half hours each way</i> longer than normal. The bone tired guy bagging purchases related a similar story from a northern suburb. Their commutes have been this way since the first storm, almost a month ago. <br />
<br />
Again, why?<br />
<br />
For starters, our city has a rickety old transit system from the 1960s that loses any shred of its (highly debatable) charm as soon as the weather turns foul. <br />
<br />
There's no plan on the horizon for meaningful investment in the T, as we call our subway and bus system. Maybe we should rethink that, because I don't buy the hype that this winter is an anomaly.<br />
<br />
Is The Snow of Doom our new winter normal?<br />
<br />
Winter, as we nostalgically recall it. might be kaput, because polar warming sends the arctic weather our way. I hate to be a buzz killer, but we may need to contemplate the possibility that this trend won't magically reverse. The bitter Arctic Air that keeps the snow from melting between storms feels unlikely to self deport.<br />
<br />
Consider: The neighborhood kids are <i>tired of sledding</i>.<br />
<br />
When I was a kid, I may not have had to walk uphill to school through the snow both ways, but I <i>never</i> got tired of sledding. We'd get a big snowfall, we'd enjoy the sledding and snowmen for a few days, and it would all melt too soon.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R4D5yGG3PpY/VOs48iIP2-I/AAAAAAAAAMg/dQq8OMbO4OU/s1600/kids%2Bbored%2Bof%2Bsledding%2Bfebruary%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R4D5yGG3PpY/VOs48iIP2-I/AAAAAAAAAMg/dQq8OMbO4OU/s1600/kids%2Bbored%2Bof%2Bsledding%2Bfebruary%2B2015.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual children bored with sledding: an unprecedented complaint from the kindergarten set.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Each storm wouldn't pile onto its predecessor, because in the 1980s, the New England climate didn't resemble Siberia's.<br />
<br />
With everyone punchy and frazzled, it's uplifting to remember that The Snow has beauty. Unfortunately you need to leave the city to find it. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pZYv1mKcNT8/VOs7ZHRhRiI/AAAAAAAAAMs/47QPoj8chV8/s1600/snowy%2Bwoods%2BFebruary%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pZYv1mKcNT8/VOs7ZHRhRiI/AAAAAAAAAMs/47QPoj8chV8/s1600/snowy%2Bwoods%2BFebruary%2B2015.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening, February 2015</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-41960743373212952015-01-30T10:40:00.000-05:002015-01-30T10:42:08.905-05:00Making Memories in the Park After DarkI was five when the Blizzard of 1978 shut down Rhode Island for several days. My father got stuck at his office in Providence, for days that eventually morphed into weeks in family lore.<br />
<br />
Everyone lost power in our coastal community. My mother, two-year-old brother, and I trudged a couple of blocks in the dark to camp with neighbors who had a wood stove. Cross country skis were involved. (My first ones were made by Karhu, of wood, and they were red and schlepped from Finland in hand luggage.) My brother sat in a sled and held a flashlight.<br />
<br />
(I have many childhood memories of my brother holding a flashlight. It was his lot in our family life before he grew and graduated to carrying heavy items.)<br />
<br />
That was the storm during which people became disoriented in their yards and died. And got trapped in their cars and died on the interstate.<br />
<br />
I'm not certain 1978 was the one from which we learned to shut down cities <i>before</i> a major storm hits, but it at least got people thinking about common sense planning: travel bans and parking bans and emergency plans to get hospital staff to work.<br />
<br />
The Blizzard of 2015 was kid stuff in comparison to 1978, but it gave the Grape two days off from school, and inspired a cooking frenzy in my kitchen.<br />
<br />
Tuesday we racked up almost two feet of fluffy powder, but the winds weren't blowing anywhere near the forecasted "DOOM" levels here in Boston. So we logged many hours on the sledding hill.<br />
<br />
But the best part was when the whole family trooped outside for a walk and some after bedtime sledding.<br />
<br />
Boston looked like Finland Tuesday night, before the plows got any roads cleared down to pavement, and I wanted the Grape to see.<br />
<br />
"We're making memories," I assured R., who very briefly questioned whether a <i>fourth</i> full-family trek into the storm was absolutely necessary.<br />
<br />
I can't remember the city being so quiet. Even the bars and liquor stores were closed. Everything had stopped, except for the plows.<br />
<br />
The silence of the stores reminded me of the way holidays used to be, before the big box stores set out to ruin Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the department stores followed suit.<br />
<br />
The Grape kept marveling at the snow covered, empty streets, and saying, "It's so beautiful." The snow was still coming down at this point, the travel ban still in place. Lila the Dog bounded ahead and we pulled the Grape in his sled. "It's like magic," he said.<br />
<br />
I marveled that he was the only little kid out there taking it in, climbing the snow mountains to stand next to the stop lights and street signs while no cars skidded below.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3urImIU6_94/VMufNG60vjI/AAAAAAAAAL0/JCUCCb9pelI/s1600/photo(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3urImIU6_94/VMufNG60vjI/AAAAAAAAAL0/JCUCCb9pelI/s1600/photo(1).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"Take it in now, because it will all be salted and plowed away tomorrow," we told him.<br />
<br />
After our walk, we went sledding in the park in the dark. It was a little before 9 o'clock and he was the only kid on the hill—the same hill that had been jam packed with his friends six hours earlier.<br />
<br />
I thought it was a shame that no other little ones were out there to see the magic, the snow flickering against the streetlights for one rare silent night.<br />
<br />
When something this special happens, bedtime can wait.<br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-85181413400388612102015-01-13T10:37:00.001-05:002015-01-13T10:37:49.709-05:00Happy. Smiling. In Control. Or Not?While sitting on a chairlift last Saturday afternoon, I overheard a ski instructor telling his middle-elementary-age charges, "We're happy. We're smiling. We're in control."<br />
<br />
You could tell by the tone of the guy's voice that he'd had a long day.<br />
<br />
But I thought, <i>Fantastic. New family motto. </i><br />
<br />
Who cares if it's ten degrees out? We have appropriate gear, and we, by which I mean the Grape, should be grateful we get to go skiing in the first place.<br />
<br />
I chanted the ski school guy's words at the Grape for the rest of the afternoon as he zipped down increasingly steeper slopes with grinning confidence. "We're happy, smiling, and in control." <br />
<br />
Control is a good thing, R. and I agreed.<br />
<br />
Which reminded me of one terrifying challenge looming: the Drop Off Play Date.<br />
<br />
I'm a control freak who tries not to over-parent.<br />
<br />
I let my kid climb trees. I let him ride ahead of me on his scooter or bike, because I trust him to stop and wait at intersections. I let him play in suburban friends' backyards with other kids, without an adult out there. <br />
<br />
I've taught him to be as street smart as possible.<br />
<br />
Not to trust cars to stop for us. <br />
<br />
To avoid touching needles, broken glass, shit (human and canine), half eaten candy bars, realistic looking toy assault rifles, and condoms—all items he and his friends have encountered in the otherwise lovely playground across the street.<br />
<br />
To respect unknown dogs. <br />
<br />
To give space to the visibly mentally ill and to drunks passed out on benches. Particularly if they have their pants down.<br />
<br />
All necessary city skills.<br />
<br />
I've also taught him the manners necessary to be a good guest.<br />
<br />
He knows to say please and thank you, to flush the toilet, and remove his shoes when asked. He understands that he is not to jump on furniture, and that he's definitely not to use any rude language.<br />
<br />
I still get hives thinking of the Drop Off Play Date. <br />
<br />
The kind where the kid's parents aren't in my social network. (I'd have no problem whatsoever dropping him off with a mom I know.)<br />
<br />
There are the two key differences between preschool and kindergarten: you no longer have any vote in selecting your child's friends, and you don't meet the other parents twice a day, every day. <br />
<br />
We hosted a Drop Off Play Date last Friday. The Grape and his friend, a child from the kindergarten class, had a blast. <br />
<br />
But I was surprised that the mom, whom I couldn't confidently pick from a crowd, allowed me to pick her kid up in a car, and keep her kid at my house for four hours.<br />
<br />
This is evidently what we're doing now.<br />
<br />
I invited another new friend of the Grape's to come over, with her mom, whom I also don't know. The mom thanked me for the invite, but said she'd drop the child off for a couple of hours. She wrote, "It's time to let her spread her wings a bit."<br />
<br />
These moms don't know me and we have no friends in common. <br />
<br />
<i>But am I the weird one? </i><br />
<br />
I could be drunk all day. I could keep a loaded gun by the door. I could leave the kids in front of the TV and go get a massage. I could send them to the playground unsupervised while hosting a tryst.<br />
<br />
The playground is, after all, visible from my bedroom window.<br />
<br />
It's obvious <i>to me</i> that I don't do any of the above, but why is it obvious to a complete stranger?<br />
<br />
Or do normal brains just not go there? Is the fact that we were all admitted to the same private school supposed to suffice? Because I'm pretty sure private school parents can be bad apples just as easily as public school ones.<br />
<br />
I get angry with myself for thinking this way. It's paranoid, unattractive.<br />
<br />
It does take a village, and at some point, we need to trust the village. Which is a hard thing for a control freak to do. <br />
<br />
Even though I understand that the village self polices, to a point. If a child goes home and reports weirdness, I presume that reduces the chances of a repeat visit.<br />
<br />
I've asked the Grape if he wants to go on a Drop Off Play Date, and so far, mercifully, he's told me, "When I'm six."<br />
<br />
At which point, he probably won't receive any invitations, because he's declined too many.<br />
<br />
I keep reminding myself: He is a full year younger than just about everyone else in kindergarten. A year is a huge deal at this age.<br />
<br />
Maybe when he's six, I'll be ready to relinquish a little control.<br />
<br />
I'll be more like these other moms, gushing, "Thank you so much for taking him off my hands for a few hours!"<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-19568075110244345782015-01-06T12:40:00.001-05:002015-01-06T15:19:21.948-05:00Santa, Report Cards, and the Chinese Nativity SetThe Grape's school provides a detailed report card at the end of each semester. It rivals power point presentations from my distant past, in terms of weight and thickness.<br />
<br />
His contained no surprises, though one line item concerning library skills needled me: "Differentiates fiction from non-fiction."<br />
<br />
The librarian, quite rightly, marked this as a "developing skill" for the Grape, which I interpret as progressive school speak for a C+.<br />
<br />
I love libraries. I get that children need to learn to navigate the library. I just hate the timing of this curriculum point.<br />
<br />
Why? <br />
<br />
Because of Santa, and his magical team of elves, reindeer, and mind-bending transportation logistics, all of whom stand solidly in the non-fiction category in our house.<br />
<br />
The Grape likes categories, and like lots of little kids, sees things as black or white. Watch gangs of little kids play. They never incorporate nuanced villains or flawed heroes. It's good guys versus bad guys. Period.<br />
<br />
The Grape came home from the school library and set to work organizing his books into fiction and non-fiction piles. The fiction pile towered high.<br />
<br />
He held up one of our family's inter-generational favorites: <a href="http://maurikunnas.net/books/picture-books/santa-claus/?lang=en" target="_blank">Santa Claus by Mauri Kunnas</a>.<br />
<br />
We read it in Finnish, but it's available in English and other languages. It has gorgeous illustrations and painstakingly detailed explanations about how the whole Santa Enterprises situation works: the post office and translation department, the stables, the airfield, the toy workshops and warehouses, the support staffing, the elf schools, the espionage, elf downtime.<br />
<br />
It's all depicted as a culture of generosity, cooperation and friendship.<br />
<br />
Kunnas writes with nearly Rowling-esque detail, and I highly recommend the title for any child who loves Christmas and picture books.<br />
<br />
"Non-fiction," I proclaimed firmly, with only small pangs of guilt sticking in my gut. No protest from the Grape. He placed the dog-eared copy at the top of the non-fiction heap with visible relief on his face. <br />
<br />
I do not know whether there is a God, but I love my kid's faith in Santa.<br />
<br />
For every thing of wonder and beauty in this world, there is also tremendous cruelty and suffering on a scale impossible for most of us to comprehend. Santa fits with my philosophy of letting the Grape be little, unaware of the real evil in the world, for a few precious years.<br />
<br />
Santa represents the best of childhood: magic, innocence, generosity without agenda. He shows up whether you remember to leave out cookies or not.<br />
<br />
Despite what his detractors argue, Santa need not be about capitalist excess. In our house Santa brings gifts few in number, though admittedly high on wow factor. Santa dazzles; relatives provide.<br />
<br />
I felt unprepared to fight back when moments later, the Grape declared <i>Frozen</i> to be non-fiction, too. "Because Princess Elsa, the real one with powers, came to my cousin's party."<br />
<br />
I asked if he was sure. He said yes, while conceding she did not, in fact, use those powers to transform the premises into an ice castle.<br />
<br />
I dropped it.<br />
<br />
We have, at best, two years of the Santa magic left. I refuse to do anything that could jeopardize that beautiful, pure childhood wonder. I can deal with the Princess Elsa issue around Valentine's Day.<br />
<br />
Just when I thought we were clear of this perturbing question, we reached the stickier wicket of Baby Jesus.<br />
<br />
R. and I are not raising the Grape in the church, but we want him to be
culturally literate, which in Western civilization, includes Biblical literacy. The stories inspired much of the world's greatest art, architecture, literature, and music.<br />
<br />
I love Christmas music, though only after Thanksgiving. Most of it is religious, and it rings through our house for a month. The Grape and I know most of the words. I've never seen this as an issue.<br />
<br />
I've also got nothing against Nativity sets; I came
close to buying one when we were in Naples. It was gorgeous and fragile,
and represented many weeks (months?) of an artist's labor.<br />
<br />
It also looked tricky
to transport intact while traveling with a two-year-old. Next time, I
told myself.<br />
<br />
Mistake. Big mistake. <br />
<br />
This year, without warning, we found ourselves in receipt of the world's most garishly painted Nativity set, undoubtedly made in a Chinese sweatshop (like most contemporary American holiday decor), and addressed to the Grape.<br />
<br />
"A barn!" the Grape proclaimed happily, and set to work arranging the
figures. He decided the set needed some color, so he festooned a rainbow
lei on the roof. <br />
<br />
The angel looked like a vaudeville performer. Or a drag queen who didn't quite bring it.<br />
<br />
The latter makes more sense. If I recall correctly, the Bible's angels were all men. <br />
<br />
The shepherd was dressed in something resembling a mini-skirt, paired with gladiator sandals. "He looks like he's going to the Pride Parade," the Grape observed.<br />
<br />
All the human figurines had blushing peaches and cream complexions you'd never see on any native resident of the Middle East. <br />
<br />
After watching him play with the barn for a while, R. and I explained the characters in the scene, to be met with the inevitable question: "Baby Jesus. Fiction or non-fiction?"<br />
<br />
"Fiction based on non-fiction," I said firmly. "Like a legend."<br />
<br />
The Grape frowned. "Isn't Christmas Baby Jesus' birthday?" <br />
<br />
"Most likely not. It's Jesus' birthday observed. Emperor Constantine picked the date."<br />
<br />
"Way too much information," R. hissed at me.<br />
<br />
I tried to redirect. "He had a strong willed mother. Kind of like you. The date worked for many reasons, and she wanted a big birthday celebration for Baby Jesus. She really liked Baby Jesus. So yes, Christmas is pretty much Baby Jesus' birthday."<br />
<br />
The Grape smelled uncertainty. His eyes narrowed. He picked up one of the wise men. "Which one is Constantine?"<br />
<br />
"He came later."<br />
<br />
He dropped the myrrh man and held up the (very strangely diapered) Chinese Baby Jesus figurine."Is this the same Jesus they kill at Easter?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"They killed a baby?"<br />
<br />
"No, it's another observed date. Jesus was older then."<br />
<br />
"Easter is in April!" the Grape screeched. He counted the months on his fingers.<br />
<br />
"Yes." <br />
<br />
"Fiction or non-fiction?" the Grape practically howled.<br />
<br />
"Fiction based on non-fiction," I repeated, with confidence. <br />
<br />
"They killed a baby? A BABY? Why didn't his family protect him?" The Grape was incensed. "Families. Protect. Their. Babies."<br />
<br />
At this point, I felt way out of my theological depth and called my mother, who didn't have a good answer, either.<br />
<br />
"That's a <i>fascinating</i> question from a five-year-old," she said.<br />
<br />
"No kidding. Why do you think I was trying to kick this whole conversation down the road a few years?" <br />
<br />
Our household is culturally Christian—a notion I borrowed many years ago from Jewish friends who celebrate many of the holidays and traditions with which they grew up, but don't consider themselves observant.<br />
<br />
(I know lots of people in this boat. I've got a whole post ready to go on what that means for us. It's too much to tack on here.)<br />
<br />
"Is the Baby Jesus story fiction or non-fiction?" the Grape bellowed, for what felt like the hundredth time.<br />
<br />
"Ask the librarian when school starts again," I said. "Ask her whether the Bible is in the fiction or non-fiction section."<br />
<br />
My hunch: it's shelved with mythology, a topic covered in later grades. I'll report back.<br />
<br />
It was a cop out, but bedtime was approaching and I wanted to get back to the safe territory of dancing sugarplums and flying reindeer.<br />
<br />
The Grape put the animals from the Nativity safely into their barn, and told me "the people should go to a hotel."<br />
<br />
I snarfed mulled wine.<br />
<br />
R. remarked we needed to do better.<br />
<br />
We put the Grape to bed and I stayed up late, re-considering when we ought to introduce the concept of Biblical literacy.<br />
<br />
I'd wanted to wait until the Grape saw the world in a more nuanced way. For him to be old enough to challenge the idea that groups with differing beliefs are all good or all bad, and to be wary of exclusionary, judgmental spiritual outfits.<br />
<br />
To understand that religion and morality are vastly different things, and that one does not necessarily flow from the other—though sometimes they're related, like when the church across the street gives away a grocery store's worth of food to the people lined up outside. Or when my mother spends a day at her church, peeling potatoes for the homeless (true story, many potatoes). <br />
<br />
Other times, they are not. Like when we deposit new toys at the police station for Toys for Tots, or buy coats for the school coat drive. We help because it's right, not because our church commands it.<br />
<br />
We already point out the good and try to teach him gratitude. But we've been shielding him from the bad and the ambiguous. Maybe that's okay. At least for one more year.Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-64841621885899341702014-12-09T11:34:00.000-05:002014-12-09T11:38:48.787-05:00It's Creepy but We've Learned to Love ItThis year, I caved. We have one of those creepy and weird Elf things.<br />
<br />
All the Grape's friends have had personal stuffed elves for years. I figured we'd missed the window when we failed to jump on the <strike>bandwagon</strike> shelf during the preschool years.<br />
<br />
But then the Grape stopped buying my assertions that Santa's tiny agents of espionage were:<br />
a) everywhere,<br />
b) all the time, and<br />
c) way too fast for children's eyes.<br />
<br />
He told me he "didn't care if Santa's elves could see and hear him or not."<br />
<br />
R. and I had to take drastic action to re-assert control over the deteriorating situation.<br />
<br />
Our Elf appeared, swinging from a chandelier in the Grape's room, while we visited relatives in Connecticut over Thanksgiving. <br />
<br />
"Magic!" the Grape gasped, before declaring the thing scary.<br />
<br />
He tearfully demanded it be banished from his room.<br />
<br />
I excused myself to the bathroom for a brief moment of near hyper ventilation.<br />
<br />
I know dozens, if not hundreds, of little kids. I've heard precisely zero reports of objections to the appearance of an Elf on the Shelf.<br />
<br />
Our Elf held its ground, as did R. and I.<br />
<br />
I paid fifteen bucks for that thing. Besides, R. and I had high hopes its presence would inspire angelic behavior.<br />
<br />
There was no way we were going to allow the Grape to put the kibosh on the game. At least not at the get go.<br />
<br />
Then another worry struck.<br />
<br />
Is my five-year-old gullible enough to believe the Elf (from which, in our haste to exit the house in the predawn hours of Thanksgiving, <i>we'd neglected to remove the tags</i>) has powers?<br />
<br />
Yes and no.<br />
<br />
The Grape absolutely believes in Santa. <br />
<br />
As for his silly little stuffed helper: I can't figure out if the Grape believes, wants to believe because his friends do (or pretend to), or whether he wants to hedge his bets, on the time honored theory that Those Who Believe Will Get More. <br />
<br />
Whatever the reason, he seems to have faith in a cheaply made-in-China toy that stirs lust in the eyes of Lucy the Cat and Lila the Dog alike.<br />
<br />
Due to this sky-high level of four-legged interest, our Elf prefers a little altitude.<br />
<br />
If R. and I leave him below six feet, he'll be shredded in seconds, his magic demolished in a drool soaked trail of red felt and white poly-fill.<br />
<br />
He'd stand a better chance in the blender than between Lila's teeth.<br />
<br />
The other issue with our newest holiday tradition is that R. and I stink at remembering to move the elf.<br />
<br />
And whoever started this thing decreed, Thou shalt move thy Elf <i>every</i> night to keep alive its magic.<br />
<br />
(For the uninitiated, the story goes that the Elf magically flies home to relay the behavior report and any new wishes to Santa every night. He's supposed to return to clock in for the morning shift <i>before </i>his charge wakes.)<br />
<br />
So far we are ten days in.<br />
<br />
On the fourth night, I woke in a cold sweat at 2 a.m. yelling, "We need to move the elf!"<br />
<br />
R. and I have each nearly broken our necks at least once, whilst jamming downstairs ahead of the Grape, in order to relocate the thing before dawn.<br />
<br />
Because of our negligence, the Elf scoots back and forth along the top of the kitchen cabinets a lot.<br />
<br />
The Grape thinks it's because he can see the entire downstairs from up there. Whatever you say, kid.<br />
<br />
The Grape wants to believe, and despite my past disdain for the Elf on the Shelf phenomenon, I've realized it's all good.<br />
<br />
Childhood is short enough. If some of the magic of the holidays comes in the form of a flimsy, mass produced, smirking plaything, we'll take it.<br />
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<br />
As long as we can keep it out of the dog's jaws. <br />
<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-77429588822017989352014-11-25T09:48:00.001-05:002014-11-25T12:37:41.544-05:00Dinner with the Family: Barolo, Opera, Pasta and Arranged MarriageThree nights ago, a routine Saturday family dinner party around my brother's table: Opera floating from the speakers, Barolo flowing freely, the children eating fat tubes of ziti off their fingers, and my dad holding forth on which individuals in our acquaintance pool "could benefit from being sent back to the Old Country for arranged marriage." <br />
<br />
My sister-in-law, flailing baby on her hip, five heaping plates of food balanced on her right arm (in a move that could secure her employment in almost any restaurant in the world) agreed with Dad, and dared me with her eyes to jump in with some feminist objection.<br />
<br />
None here. I was laughing along with everyone else at the sheer joy of discussing such an un-p.c. concept.<br />
<br />
Let's be clear: Dad was <i>not</i> talking about fixing up teenagers before they got up to their own ideas regarding romance.<br />
<br />
He meant consenting adults.<br />
<br />
The kind who have extreme difficulty navigating the dating waters, the type who fall apart emotionally after every date that ends without a marriage proposal, the ones who tell their troubles to virtual strangers at the gym, sobbing and spluttering snot on the elliptical trainer, because they cannot hold in the grief.<br />
<br />
The kind who want nothing more in this life than the security of married coupledom, but who seem unable to get there without a little help. The individuals who have spent decades weeping in therapy. Who need to get off the couch and just get on with it. The ones who have exhausted the potential fix ups in their own circles.<br />
<br />
The kind who turn forty without ever having sex.<br />
<br />
I thought such folks were the stuff of urban legend, but my relatives swiftly set me straight on that point.<br />
<br />
What are these souls, the ones the Victorians called spinsters, supposed to do in the age of Internet dating? Because if these women are getting their hearts broken by Match dates, Tinder will shred whatever remains of their dignity to smithereens.<br />
<br />
Would it be so bad to bring back the elderly village matchmakers? At least they wouldn't prey on women's hopes for ungodly sums of money, like some personal dating services.<br />
<br />
The tradition certainly persisted in post WWII Italy, Greece and Armenia—the countries to which Dad suggested shipping these acquaintances for advice from elderly aunts and uncles.<br />
<br />
The matchmaking tradition is also alive and well in some Jewish communities, as well as in India (where I know social class has a lot to do with whether the woman can, or is old enough, to consent).<br />
<br />
Probably lots of other places too, but I can only speak to the hill towns of the Southern Mediterranean.<br />
<br />
Dad started listing people we knew who had successful arranged marriages. "It's great for some people!" (Someone steered the topic elsewhere before Dad started listing all the "love"matches in our circle that ended in divorce.)<br />
<br />
My mother kept pace as Dad warmed to his topic. She pointed out which examples are now dead.<br />
<br />
I certainly recall, as late as the 1970s, talk of cousins of various degrees of removal flying home to Italy to find Holy Matrimony. That practice has all but vanished, as the potential old country wife pool have found careers and (rightly) balked at ironing and cooking all day.<br />
<br />
I'd be lying if I said it didn't rankle me (a little) that my male second and third cousins set off in search of wives, like conquering knights, bearing new riches from the new world, while the women apparently require shipping and handling. But really, what's the harm, if all parties consent?<br />
<br />
We ate our dinner before it became clear whether Dad would offer to broker any trans-Atlantic matchmaking.<br />
<br />
The subject was dismissed as he held up a bite of food and asked, "Can this be Thanksgiving? I think these meatballs have turkey in them."<br />
<br />
My sister-in-law confirmed the presence of the suspect fowl.<br />
<br />
Dad shot a glance at my still splinted dominant hand, and added, <i>sotto voce</i>, "Since Mari can't cook."<br />
<br />
Nobody in earshot objected. My brother poured more wine. We clinked glasses and said, "Happy Thanksgiving."<br />
<br />
A few chairs down, R. sat and wondered how a thirteenth generation Connecticut Yankee managed to drop into this tableau, with its retro solutions to timeless problems. That and whether my dad was serious about the Thanksgiving remark.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://thelittlegrape.blogspot.com/2011/11/turkey-italiano-and-grape-shops-for.html" target="_blank">It's never been our holiday</a>.<br />
<br />
Though I have come to own it since the Grape arrived.<br />
<br />
While Dad despises turkey, a meat about which I'm ambivalent, he loves what I've done with the rest of the meal, if I may be so bold as to say so myself. But since I'm a cripple this fall, I'm not whipping up artichokes and oysters and squash with south Asian undertones and three kinds of stuffing and various pies.<br />
<br />
This Thanksgiving I can bow my head, and be grateful that neither my sister nor I were mentioned as a candidates for arranged marriage in the Old Country.<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-26614119806782419302014-11-17T09:41:00.001-05:002014-11-17T09:42:02.734-05:00All the Grape Wants for Christmas is a Little SisterThis is the second year in a row the Grape (age five) wants to ask Santa for a little sister.<br />
<br />
It's always a little sister.<br />
<br />
Even last year, I think he intuited that a younger brother could constitute some kind of direct and unwelcome competition.<br />
<br />
Last year I told him Santa doesn't traffic in human children.<br />
<br />
He seemed okay with that answer.<br />
<br />
This year he's not buying it, and he's so insistent, he's making me cry.<br />
<br />
"But why?" he wants to know.<br />
<br />
I've explained more than once that Mamma's belly is broken. He accepted that response until last week. More than once, I've heard him explain his status as an only child to his friends in these terms.<br />
<br />
But I knew he'd eventually do more math.<br />
<br />
"But you had me," the Grape said Friday, on the way home from swimming lessons.<br />
<br />
"I did, but I had lots of very big problems. The doctors—many doctors—and Mamma agreed that Mamma's belly shouldn't make any more babies."<br />
<br />
The pregnancy and its aftermath were so bad, that I knew, from about month five, that I would never go through that again.<br />
<br />
I never pictured myself as an only child kind of mother, but if a second meant another ordeal like the first, I was going to be grateful for my one healthy kid and call my family complete.<br />
<br />
For years, I was content with my decision, not least because it was based on the advice of multiple doctors.<br />
<br />
The Grape folded his arms over his chest. "Get another opinion. That's what you did with your hand."<br />
<br />
He paused to think. "And that's when your hand started getting better. Look. You can even drive now."<br />
<br />
I turned and gaped at him, smugly strapped in his car seat, clutching a juice box, brimming with confidence.<br />
<br />
He yowled at me to watch the road.<br />
<br />
He's not wrong. I've got a new hand doctor, who issued a smaller, tighter fitting brace, along with a shot of cortisone. My hand does feel a whole lot better.<br />
<br />
A surgery exists today, a procedure that did not exist five or six years ago, that could fix my major medical issue with pregnancy—the one that triggered everything else that went wrong.<br />
<br />
Unsurprisingly, one of the handful of doctors doing the procedure is here in Boston.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to go into an analysis of my medical records—I know lots of writers do, in painstaking clinical detail. That's fine, but that level of sharing doesn't feel right for me.<br />
<br />
My basic conundrum boils down to this: Even if I have the surgery, I am likely out of "time," which is a euphemism used by endocrinologists to mean "good eggs."<br />
<br />
In this I'm no different from tens of thousands of women in their early forties.<br />
<br />
I'm a terrible sleeper, but I don't lie awake at night wondering why I waited so long.<br />
<br />
I waited so long because my mind was made up. No more hellish, dangerous pregnancies. Period.<br />
<br />
What keeps me up is that suddenly the entire game changed.<br />
<br />
For me, it probably changed too late.<br />
<br />
Either way, the Grape isn't getting what he really wants from Santa.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Not this year.<br />
<br />Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759813497004409554.post-9156347805456082352014-10-31T11:14:00.001-04:002014-10-31T11:20:31.958-04:00The Invisible Identity CrisisMany of my mom friends and I found ourselves with kids in school full time for the first time this fall.<br />
<br />
Trigger massive identity crises.<br />
<br />
Compound with the old trope that a woman turns forty and becomes invisible.<br />
<br />
It's true. I'm 41. When I walk around the hood with Julian and/or Lila the Dog, dozens of neighbors say hello, stop to chat.<br />
<br />
If I leave the house solo, I might as well be wearing some king of magic invisibility cloak. I can slip past the very same neighbors, totally under the radar.<br />
<br />
Once in a while someone will actually do a double take, and say, "Oh! It's you. I didn't recognize you without your entourage."<br />
<br />
Female friends of similar age report near identical experiences.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, if I'm in a hurry, it's not so bad. But usually it's demoralizing.<br />
<br />
Some of my friends experienced a back-to-school season panic along the lines of: "Oh my God, I need to get back into the career I ignored for ten years." MUCH easier said than done.<br />
<br />
Others wander around looking shell-shocked by the sudden block of unstructured time during daylight hours, and throw themselves into charities and cooking and re-decorating their homes.<br />
<br />
A couple of women I know were smart enough to see the problem coming, and nimble enough to react. They had so called "luxury babies," infants they never originally planned on, but decided they wanted as their little ones grew past preschool age.<br />
<br />
There's a plus side of full time kindergarten for me: more time to write, which I'm putting to good use. <br />
<br />
And still. I can't help lying awake at night and thinking BIG midlife crisis type thoughts.<br />
<br />
Should I have another baby (if that ship hasn't sailed)?<br />
<br />
I know I should have contemplated a second kid sooner, but I've spent five years with some version of medically induced PTSD from the hellacious pregnancy and aftermath that produced the Grape. <br />
<br />
And honestly, until right before he turned five, I was content. One happy, healthy child is more than many people have, and I am grateful every day. Maybe he was my one good egg. Maybe the fact that I almost died should give me pause (it does).<br />
<br />
Or should I get new boobs? Nothing crazy. Tasteful C's.<br />
<br />
Or is the fact that I'm contemplating the new baby versus new boobs question in the same breath an indication that what I <i>really</i> should do is have a glass of wine, book a nice beach holiday somewhere, and get a grip?<br />
<br />
Do I get points for self awareness? I mean, at least I recognize a midlife crisis when I have one. That should count for something.<br />
<br />
Oh, yeah. Happy Halloween, all!<br />
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Mari Passanantihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06899493114555183048noreply@blogger.com0