This Blog is Moving

Hello Readers,

This blog is moving! I have gotten much feedback from my readers that they can't leave comments on my blog without first selling their soul to Google. I understand. I've sold my soul lots of times and I usually bitch about it for days--sometimes weeks.
The Google blog showed that I only had 4 followers. While I'm hardly a popular brand (yet), I am read by much more than 4 people and I would really love to track how many people are enjoying the blog. With my new blog location, you still have to whore yourself a little bit but not nearly as much. You can follow my NEW blog using only your email address. You can COMMENT on my blog by creating a simple USER ID. You won't have to complete a profile. SDC was my guinea pig and with minimally invasive pain, he was hooked up to the blog in a couple minutes and commenting like the adorable, sexy guinea pig that he is.
I am going to be moving over the archived blogs from Blogger to the new site and this may take a bit of time. If anyone has a pick up truck or empty boxes, that would help. Going forward, I will be posting exclusively to the new site.
So please add this new link to your favorites, it would do my sold soul good. If you are feeling generous, you could share the new link with your buddies. That would do my brand good.
Thank you so much for reading. Here is your new access. A simple copy/paste in your browser should take you right there:

http://janetessablog.wordpress.com/2013/02/03/ive-moved/

In the Spirit of Writing,
JT

Jacob, You Have 1 New Message

Whatever happened to the lost art of calling someone out on their bullshit? I see more and more people getting away with more and more things they should be ashamed of doing. Cutting in, bumping into, interrupting, complete disregard for Humankind and its personal space. I find myself apologizing when someone else bumps into me. 

We talk around one another. We don't listen to one another. We see through strangers like they aren't even there. And what's worse, we don't care that we don't care. Focused on the micro-screens of our tech-media, noses down, eyes crossed, thumbs at war, we just walk all over each other. Literally.

I just watched a video on Yahoo! of Jacob Rudolph accepting an acting award at his High School. As he stood on the bake-sale funded soapbox to make his acceptance speech, his proud father recorded the moment on his media device. However, the background chatter of the audience was so incessant that I could hardly make out what the young man was saying. The auditorium carried on with its personal conversations as if nothing else was going on. As if something positive and uplifting wasn't unfolding on the stage. As if a life wasn't changing. As if their life wasn't changing.

Had I been the parent in that audience, and my child's moment was going by unnoticed by a cafeteria full of his peers, believe me someone would have heard about it. This father did nothing. The administration did nothing. Everyone, did nothing. No one interrupted Jacob to shutdown the side conversations and call attention to Jacob where it rightfully belonged. The chatter,the laughter, the misguided hoots and hollers carried on.

Jacob Rudolph carried on.

Bravely clutching the podium, what followed was an act of valor so impressive many adults struggle to find this kind of courage. He came out. In his acceptance speech, he was the one looking for acceptance.

Ok. Coming out isn't news. I won't argue with that. But, coming out in an auditorium full of Haters is kind of a big deal. Ah, that got their attention. Kind of.

At the end of the video, Jacob claimed his voice and told the world that he wasn't going to stand for having to suppress that voice anymore. He was going to live loud and proud as he is, as who he is. Take that High School. Jacob gave a humble Nixon-esque wave and stepped back from the podium.

The audience rose to a standing ovation. The same audience who moments ago could care less that one of their peers had been recognized for academic achievement, suddenly really cared that there was a Gay among them. They cared so much that they set down their media devices so they could clap.

If anyone in that room besides his dad noticed that Jacob accepted an award that day, I hope they will find some time to text him and wish him, "Congratulations."

You Have My Full Support. Unless...

     Today I got an email from my son’s fifth grade reading teacher. The subject line was ‘Nonfiction Reading.” Eager to see what was in the queue of my son’s literary future, I opened the email and was shocked by what I read. The teacher, let’s call her Are You Kidding Me? was giving families a friendly head’s up that this coming Monday, the kids will be asked to select a partner-book to use in tandem with books they currently reading in class to supplement some of the broader ideas and subject matter. “Hooray!” I thought. “My tax dollars at work. Carry on, fifth grade Ambassadors of education!”

     As I continued to skim the rest of AYKM’s email, a few unsavory words suddenly jumped off the screen at me:  Racism, WWII, Holocaust to name a few. Below is an excerpt from the actual email:

Many 5th grade students have read or will soon read books like Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry or The Watsons Go to Birmingham. Both of these books have issues regarding racism. So, I collected books that discuss the history of racism, including the KKK. Because the texts are historically accurate and include primary sources, the texts for this topic do contain the "n word". I wanted to make sure that you are aware of this before students select their topic on Monday.

     AYKM is preparing to offer books to the fifth graders covering WWII, The Civil War, and The Holocaust. The kids are to pick which topic they would like to read. Simply look at the cover and decide which horrible, hateful, vile, disgraceful act of violence in our Country’s history you would like to read about. Bonus points for how many times you can spot The ‘N’ Word in your book.

     Are You Kidding Me? 

     Look. I’m all about educating our children about the nation’s history. Even the dark, embarrassing, tragic parts of that history. But, I’m also about not asking 10-year-olds to read about The Holocaust. Let’s get them warmed up to the idea of cleaning their rooms, doing their own laundry or clearing the table before we take them on a literary journey through Auschwitz or introduce them to the KKK.

     Maybe I’m over-reacting. Maybe I’m not. When in doubt, I always ask mom, who is pre-programmed to always take my side.  Is it wrong of me to feel like it’s not AYKM’s job to talk to my kid about The ‘N’ Word? Is it naïve to think that 10-year-olds are too immature to handle that kind of topic right now? God, I’m 37 and I can’t handle it. Of course, I wrote AYKM back and said as much. My mother backed me up (good mommy) and informed me that in Germany, they don’t impart WWII history in the classroom until students are in 10^th grade and 16 years old. Sixteen!

     Below is an excerpt from my response to AYKM:

     I feel a bit unsettled about these book choices for children at such a young age. I have concerns around the level of the children's public awareness and their maturity about the subject matter, and I want to ensure that civil sensitivities are imparted to the kids about this era of our history.

     This is only an excerpt. I am open-minded. I will do my due-dilligence and review the material. I'm not about banning books or information. I want to educate my children and grow their minds as servants to their communities, their planet. I want them to be conscientious, contributing members of society. However,  I’m not oblivious to the fact that our children are growing up in an era that makes me afraid when I drop them off at school. I hug and kiss them at the car door because…what if?  What if I lose them to the gun of some crazed psychopath at their little one-piece school desk? It’s an awful reality. And someday, it will all be written as our awful history.

     So today, I just want my kid to be 10, in sweet, ignorant bliss of the horrors behind us and even ahead of us.  My kid's innocence may be all they have left soon. They have their whole lives to be disappointed in Humankind, so I won't apologize for wanting to preserve a few years of their innocence. Peace. Hope. 

     So, if keeping my kids in a bubble makes me a terrible citizen, person or mother; shoot me.

Calendar Chicken

     Today my writing coach asked the class to write down our quarterly writing goals.

“Goals, Shmoals.” I whined in my head. Isn’t it enough that I just committed to something that looks like a New Year’s resolution? Of course I’m only five days into my resolve to stop swearing and I’ve already cussed heavily twice as many times in as many days. Shove off, I’m trying.

     Intimidated, I stared at the Goal Contract and tried to think about how I wanted to do better. Learn. Create. I quickly overwhelmed myself with lofty, glamorous, unachievable goals sure to jettison me right past the NYT Best Seller’s list and into a wall of certain failure. Isn’t it enough that I get up and dress myself every morning? Isn’t enough that I can make it to this writing class? If I’m forced to manage a goal or be held accountable while in pursuit of some kind of transformation I’m likely to cut-corners somewhere else and show up in this class naked some day IF I come at all.

    Alas, despite being easily intimidated, I’m also ridiculously driven to over-committing myself. What’s one more resolution? So driven, I confidently filled out my Goal Contract. “I commit to writing once a day for thirty minutes. I commit to dedicating time on my calendar to write, just like I plug-in time for the gym.” It’s that important.

Stop swearing and write more. A lot more.

Shit.

     As I drove home from class, I felt the familiar angst of desperate timelessness. “How will I find the time? Between the gym, the kids, schools, meals, the market, the gas, the bank, the incessant driiiiving…!” My lists got longer, my window got smaller. So small, I could barely see a glint of light through it. But, there was light nonetheless.

     Upon arriving home I was instantly sucked up into the vortex of childcare. Guiding my misdirected ex-husband, tripping over the dog while putting laundry in the dryer, greasing an 8x8x2 pan for the cornbread batter I was now preparing to serve with dinner, which also had yet to be made. Simultaneously, I readied one child to leave with said misdirected ex-husband. I think I packed her laundry with one hand and stirred chicken with the other. My calendar lay flaccid on the counter, defenselessly absorbing the splatter of pan fried chicken. I got so angry at my calendar that I tossed it into the growing heap of garbage on my desk, where I have not even sat for three weeks.

     Tears welled up. Is there no end? I wondered. The rest of my family came home. Nope. I set the table.

     Today is an anomaly. The house is oddly quiet and still. No one is tugging on me, hollering at me from upstairs or downstairs, knocking (or not knocking) shouting through the door while I pee. The dog is asleep in his kennel. The calendar has some dried grease stains, but ultimately no worse for wear. Alone with nothing but my thoughts, I can do anything I want for an hour and a half. Clean my desk? Put away the dishes uninterrupted? Get dressed for the gym? Make my bed? WATCH AMISH MAFIA??? And then I remembered: Goals Shmoals and I wrote. 

     Without swearing.

The Stan Space

I've been trying to cry for three days. Emotionally constipated with worry, sleepless nights and far too many to-do’s; my elusive tears have left me gasping for breath, restlessly aching for that leg-up, pacing around in circles looking for more time, understanding and patience. But at last, a phone call to my Gran was the catalyst that launched my resistant tears.

Gran’s 92 year old boyfriend, Stan, passed away this morning. 92! As I reached out across the phone line, Gran reached back with a tired and trembling 88 year old voice, reassuring me that she would be ok.

 With a smile summoned from her Grandmotherly reserves she reminded me that Stan had lived a full and long life. She comforted me when I told her that I felt so sorry for her pain.

 “I don’t know what to say, Gran. I’m so sorry for your heartache.”  It was weak, but honest. 

 “What can I do? I wish I could stay the night with you.” I pleaded from three states away.

“You are so, so dear, you sweet Angel.” Through her stoic, sad face she reassured me until I stopped crying. And I’d never even met dear Stan. Even in the spotlight of her own grief, Gran was lovingly comforting someone else.

 “Who was it that said, ‘Don’t cry because it ended, smile because it happened’?” She asked. I admitted that I had heard it before, but I didn't know who was wise enough to think that was a good idea. I kept crying. Some help I am for the grieving. 

But, despite her bravery, Gran’s sadness soon bullied its way into her optimism.

“It was so sudden,” she said after a long pause. “Monday he drove himself to the hospital. Wednesday I learned he was sick, and Friday…well…” Her voice trailed off just as she started to get into the meat of how she was really feeling.

“I met his daughters for the first time at the hospital. They told me that he had spoken of me and told them he was seeing ‘a younger woman’!” With that, she laughed, but even her laugh dripped with the tears of love lost. 

“I had no idea he had told anyone about me. I certainly didn't see him as an older man. He was the same age your Grampy would be.”

I felt a little embarrassed that we were having a rob-the-cradle conversation about 88 and 92 year olds. But, it seemed to be a pleasing distraction for her, so I silently blushed and wept as she shared some thoughts about love and death.

“You make room in your life for people, in your heart. And when they go, they leave a hole where they were. It feels like I have a Stan shape in my heart. I don’t know what to do with that space now. How do you repair a hole in the middle of your tapestry?”

I've wondered the same things about the holes in my own heart.

I expected she would follow this question with some of her own spiritual advice about how God mends us, stitches our hurt. I expected a comforting verse about death, Heaven, His abiding love. Something. But she didn't cling to any of that. She didn't even reach for it. She simply sat on the line, sadly, with a Stan-shaped hole in her heart. While I couldn't relate to the pain of my lover dying, I could certainly empathize with the pain of wondering, “what now?”

“I don’t know, Gran. Maybe we just meet that space gently and sit quietly in it.” Easier said than done, I have found.

“He had the twinkliest blue eyes! And you should have seen his hair, the most beautiful white hair and beard. He had these fine wrinkles around his eyes, and when he winked at me –oh- I was toast!” I heard the smile in her voice again, and I could sense that she had her hand over her racing heart as she swooned under the memory winking back at her.

“I’m sorry I never got to meet him, he sounds like a special man. I’m so glad that you found each other and had this time together.”

“Me too.”

“You know, he is so lucky that he had you at the end of life. I’m so happy that he had the joy, and the sweetness of your love. Even though it feels like it was short, it was such a strong and comforting end to a long life.” I made myself jealous with that one… I hoped that I would have my love beside me when I am very old and leaving life. Gran has lived long enough to have many places in her heart where love has lived; and gone. Many of those places are soft and still hurting, like the Stan space. Many are old, puttied and scarred but not forgotten. I often wonder if my heart will look like Swiss cheese or a hand-made paper snowflake when I am old, or if it will be stretched to capacity with love given and received. I pray for the latter. I wished I would die old, with love squeezing my hand.

She asked about the kids, and reminded me to savor the noise, and the hard days. She told me about a day she threw herself face down on her bed and sobbed, “I can’t do it anymore!” after her houseful of 4 teenagers had driven her to the edge. I imagined my Gran crying into her pillow, broken down. She talked to me about taking her daughter to the emergency room with cuts and scrapes after a fall. “I felt so afraid, terrified. I felt so guilty, like the worst Mom on Earth.” She reminisced. She sounded like a worried mother. A tired mother. A mother doing the best she knew how to do.

She sounded like me.

As we finished our call, she was laughing and smiling with sincerity. She talked to me like a woman talking to her friend. I recognized the emotion in her voice. I recognized that my Gran is a woman who melts at the wink of a handsome eye, has been fed up with kids and scared in an emergency room. I felt thankful that Stan had happened to my Gran and I recognized that I have felt those same fears, surrender, love. The kind that will leave a hole in the middle of your tapestry.

“I think it was Mark Twain who said it.” She added at last.

And then, I smiled.

Now Landing, Gratitude

I heaved the shopping cart around the market last night for over an hour. By the end of that hour, I gave serious thought to texting my husband and telling him to come help me tow the load to the checkout. I was exhausted. With two cases of water weighing down my painfully full carriage of groceries, I had lost my momentum and was now leaning into the load which was creeping towards checkout at a rate of 1LSPH (Linoleum Square Per Hour).  This is shopping for a family of 6 and 1 dog.  I felt like a Toyota pulling the space shuttle.  

I docked the space shuttle at lane 4. The nice young man bagging my order asked me three times if plastic was ok, and three times I said, “yes.” The nice young man asked me three times if I found everything I was looking for tonight. “Yes,” I replied three times as if my bulging cart wasn’t indication enough that I had found all that I hoped for and more. He continued bagging at a rate of 1BPH (bag per hour) while I multi-tasked between watching the register screen for accurate pricing and intermittently cherry-picking the delicate items being carelessly tossed down the conveyor by my cashier (serving me since 1983). Yes, I’m that lady.  

The nice young man was so far behind on bagging that my items were crunching, crushing and colliding into one another as they backed up into a mountainous, heart-breaking  pile. Finally, the cashier had to stop the belt and help him bag. I helped him bag.  I gave him the requisite stink-eye as I reached into the bottom of the mound for a bag of chips which was now certainly a bag of birdseed.

I resisted a second urge to text my husband. Help me.

When the nice, egg-breaking, chip-crushing, card-smashing  young man didn’t offer to help me out to the car, I tearfully dragged my cart through the black, crushed snow in the dark parking lot.  Bumping, skipping, sinking, and trudging through slush, the cart’s wheels became wedged with chunks of ice and I had to carry the cart on my back the rest of the way to the car. One of the bags broke under the weight of three bottles of sparkling cider and 9 cans of canned chicken.  Chicken bounced off my bumper and plunged with a splash into the melted slush between my freezing feet. Sparkling cider rolled to a stop against the tire of the parked car beside me.

I was instantly relieved the young man hadn’t helped me to the car or I might be shoving his body into my trunk along with 9 cans of dirty, dented chicken. Parked in my garage at home, I teared up at the tasks ahead of unloading and sorting my haul. Luckily, the husband could see it on my face that I had to sacrifice a courtesy clerk just to make it home with my eggs in-tact. He helped me unload and put away my freezer goods in the garage. Never mind that in the house, I had about two weeks of crusty Thanksgiving  left-over’s, uncovered, wilting fruit, and spoiled eggnog to dispose of before any of my new items would fit in the fridge. Every year I excitedly buy eggnog like it’s some kind of interior fridge Christmas décor and every year it sits front and center, untouched on the top shelf.

*toss*

By the end of my herculean grocery effort, I had convinced myself that I probably have some kind of blood disorder which is rendering me this fatigued.  “I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m tired all the time. I can barely lift my arms.” I whined in my head.  I suppose it has nothing to do with hauling the space shuttle around King Soopers for over an hour.

 Alas, I know I don’t have a strength-sucking disorder.  I’m just a busy, tired mommy.  I was tempted to reach for a crushed bag of birdseed chips and collapse on the couch with marathon episodes of Amish Mafia. Instead, I kissed the husband and surrendered to the day’s demands. I crawled into my freshly washed, freshly made, deeply warm and widely comfortable bed.  I was thankful for my bed. I was thankful for the sound of football on TV in the living room below. 

 As I fell asleep safe and sound, I was even thankful for a space shuttle full of groceries for my family.

Women Who (Still) Do Too Much

     It's not usually like this. It's just been a hard week, a lot going on. I've been so busy. The excuses pile up like so much laundry on the floor.
     Before bed last night, I rummaged through an ecclectic assortment of laundry, hair product, a spent coffee cup and an empty Kleenex box on my bathroom counter top to find my toothpaste, which had been squeezed to the end of its useful life because I haven't had time to go to the Market. After I faux-brushed my teeth, I hop-scotched across still more laundry, a phone charger, and ironically, a stack of Market ads from Sunday which now had collected a silt of dust. My eyes were puffy, new wrinkles had etched their way across my face and my thinning hair looked unbearably thinner.For extra self-loathing, I squeezed my fat roll. Ugh. 

      I hopped into bed and knocked over two empty water bottles on the nightstand while frantically looking for my insomnia meds. Unable to identify what pills I had accidentally co-mingled in a nameless pile on the nightstand, I reached for three random pills of various sizes, cut one in half (to reduce the risk of overdose, of course) and hoped sleep would find me. It didn't.
In the morning, I navigated my way backwards through the same impossible gauntlet of my room, all the way  down to my *still* empty toothpaste.

     Eager to escape the melee of my bedroom, I dressed in the same sexy yoga pants, tired and torn t-shirt, and very fashion-forward Powell Middle School hoodie I have been wearing for the last four consecutive days (coincidentally,  the same day I ran out of toothpaste). My husband hasn't complained yet, so I chipped away at something crusty on my pants, tightened my drawstrings and began my day. Even though I left chaos in my wake, I walked into the rest of the house with a sense of satisfaction and peace because I knew everything else in my house was perfect. Sort of.

     The dishes sat sparkling in the enclave of their sanitary dishwasher. The laundry was clean and tightly folded in neat stacks by size, color and alphabetically by brand. (ok, no.) Perfectly arranged, the ornaments on the Christmas tree spun and glittered in the glow of the porch light which was being snuffed out by the rising sun. The tables were clear and clean, the napkins perfectly angled on freshly-pressed linen placemats (again, no).
     The point is, my house is in perfect order. I know where every backpack, pen, movie blanket, remote control are. I can tell you without looking where to find your favorite coffee mug, the book you were reading for homework last night and how many chewy fruit snacks are left in the third drawer of the storage pantry. Everyone is well-provided for, maintained and in good working order. Not a worry, not a care.I take care of the cares.  Every need, every demand, every clean pair of jeans placed neatly at the foot of your crisply made bed.
     My mom used to float a book around my childhood home titled, Women Who Do Too Much and I used to think to myself, "Why would anyone in their right mind do that?" And now I know. I even know why someone wrote a book about it. Because we are women, that's why. Hear us pack lunches, volunteer at school, buy, sell, mop floors, run errands, run to the mailbox, walk the dog (and go to the gym, wrap gifts, write checks, refill toilet paper and wipe out the sink while we're at it).
     As a result of my doing-too-much-edness my bedroom is a disaster. I'm a disaster. I'm a woman who Does Too Much. I'm officially my mother.
*lets head fall back painfully with exaggerated sigh* Well, that's not so bad. At least I recognize that I'm doing too much. The problem is that I recognize it, and then I do more.

     I sat bedside in the pediatricians office this morning while my son had his cast removed. He reclined on the crinkling paper, and moaned that his stomach was hurting. "It started this morning," he said when I asked when he began feeling that way. He should stay home today. I will have to call school, I will have to cancel my class with Deb. I wonder if the Dr will check his stomach if I ask. After all, we are only on the docket for a cast removal not a check-up. They may charge me. How much do I have in the checking? I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten yet, have I? No...
     "The Doctor is running late, he should be here in about 15 minutes. I apologize." Said Nurse Crazy-Scrubs. I closed the door behind her and flipped off the obnoxiously bright florescent lights.
The early morning sun crept in through the blinds, casting an easy, soothing, dark blue glow in the west-facing room.  I put my head on the edge of the foam-filled table and listened to my son breathe. Slowly. Quietly. The generator outside stroked the office walls with a hypnotic vibration. Forgetting about school, my appointment, the office bill, I listened to the quiet. I sat still. I closed my eyes. I checked-in with myself, reminding me that I'm ok and it's ok to just sit still. It's ok. I felt my body melt like hot lead into the plastic chair. I visualized warm, yellow lights swirling through my body, top to bottom.
     I rested. Hard.
     It was the first time in 13 years I was blissfully relieved to be waiting in a doctor's office and I welcomed his tardiness. I wished he would never come. I wished they would forget that we were even in there. Welcoming a few stolen moments of ridiculously precious solitude, I didn't open my eyes until the rushing Doctor flung back the door, stared questionably into the darkness and flipped the lights awake. "Good morning, so sorry to keep you waiting." He smiled, and held out his hand to shake as if he hasn't seen me at least once a quarter for the last thirteen years. By now, I think we should hug. Instead, I shook his hand, took renewed breath, smiled and told him, "It's ok."