End of the Month Controversy: Change the Mascot

Jim Thorpe- one of the greatest athletes of the 20th century. Professional Baseball Player, Professional Football Player,
Olympic Gold Medalist, and Native American.

This being America, you can tell the change in the season by what sports are on television.

In March, that first time I'm flipping through channels and see baseball, it's like the first time the sun has ever shone. I cry, most years. That's not an exaggeration. Because baseball means spring, and dear lord are midwestern winters long.

So I know it was just around the twins' birthday, when baseball was lagging and football only just getting started again, that my husband narrowly avoided having a very uncomfortable conversation with his children.

M loves sports. And, poor guy, he loves his home teams. So he lives in a perpetual state of nervous disappointment, half heartedly hoping that the Vikings will actually lose every single game so they get the best draft picks, while genuinely wanting them to win. And, poor guy, he's also a Twins fan. So these past few years have been rough on him.

A part of our national culture, identity, and heritage

Nothing, not even the colossal failures of his favorite teams, could keep him from sharing his love of organized sports with his children. And his children, being inquisitive and intelligent four year olds, want to sit with him and quiz him about the games, as they understand them.

And so it was, not long after their birthday, that he sat watching football with his children, and found himself answering questions about the teams.

"What is that team wearing orange pants?"
"Those are the Broncos. They're from Denver."
"Is Denver on my globe?"
"Sure is."
"What's a Bronco?"
"It's a name for a horse. See the picture of the horse in the corner? That's a Bronco."
"What's the team wearing yellow pants?"
"Those are... that's the team from Washington."
"Like where Aunt Something Funny lives?"
"Yes, exactly. They play where Aunt Something Funny lives."
"We have a book about Washington!"
"Yup!"

I could see him breathe more easily. He thought he'd avoided the worst of it. But no.

"Daddy? What are their names?"
"That guy's called RG3! Isn't that a funny name?"
"But what's the TEAM named?"
"They're called the Redskins."

He said it so calmly, as though if he completely ignored it he'd just be able to gloss it over. And then he waited.

He waited because he knew she was going to ask him, "What's a Redskin?" and he'd have to answer. He'd have to come up with something to tell her a "Redskin" was that would still let her know that it's not okay to reduce people to racial slurs.

We live in a very diverse city. A diverse neighborhood. Heck, a diverse building. And one of the best parts of living somewhere with a culture of diversity is that it's nearly impossible to avoid learning to be respectful and sensitive of people's differences, and of thoughtless offenses people make against them.

I would be pissed as hell if somebody used a racial slur to describe my neighbors. I should be pissed as hell whenever anybody uses a racial slur of any kind, towards anyone.

But you sort of get used to it. People sort of say to themselves, "Oh, it's nostalgic," or "It's not like there's anybody here who would take offense."

And that's bad logic. Because, like in my home, there's always somebody who can be hurt by learning something ugly. And my husband sat on the couch in front of a football game quietly panicking because he was sure he was about to have to tell his four year old daughters that there was a game they were watching, on television, for fun. starring a team who's name was a way to dehumanize not just one race of people, but dozens (if not hundreds) of specific indigenous ethnicities.

I got my children this WONDERFUL book that I loved
as a kid, so that next time we talk about this we'll have
a better frame of reference.

And you know what? She didn't ask. She miraculously accepted that "Redskins" was their name, and left it at that. And he was relieved. For a few hours.

That night he got riled up before bed. "I should have told her," he said. "I should have told her that it's not a nice word, and she shouldn't use it."

And I fell in love with him maybe just a little bit more.

All over this country, we have a problem with offensive language. I'm not talking about swear words and bleeped out songs on the radio, I'm talking about something deeper and more insidious. I'm talking about governors who have "colorful" names for their family ranches. I'm talking about rural high schools with predominantly white student bodies that have a caricature of an Arab for their mascot.

In America, we've worked through some of these issues. We no longer have professional sports clubs with names like "The New York Kikes," but for some reason breaking down indigenous people to these stereotypes runs rampant. It's everywhere. "The Redmen," "The Chiefs," "The Brownies," and even "The Savages" are all remarkably common names for sports teams, with correspondingly dehumanizing mascots.

And why is that okay?

It's not okay.

One of the things about being a parent is you never stop teaching. Just yesterday I was driving the girls to preschool, and we were talking about not hitting pedestrians with the car. SI pointed at one person crossing the street and shouted, "IT MOVED!"

And I gave her a lecture on how we NEVER call people "it." People are people, so we call them "they" or "who" or "he" or "she" or whatever else they want to be called. But never "it." "It" is a word for things that are less than human, in our own estimation, and when we call somebody an "it," we deny them an element of their own humanity.

Did she understand all of that? Probably not. But she won't go around calling people "it," of that I'm certain.

And reducing all the native peoples of the United States to one offensive "it" for the sake of continuity in a team history....

Well, if Dan Snyder was in the back seat of my minivan, he'd get a similar lecture.

But the real question of whether or not something is offensive isn't whether it's uncomfortable for me to talk about with my children. (Although that's a pretty good indicator.) It's whether or not anybody is hurt.

This ad makes it pretty clear what the answer is.



The time has long since come and gone for this type of dehumanizing characature to leave the spotlight of American culture.

It's time to accept that we, as a culture, have made a lot of mistakes in the past, and commit to change.

And this is as fine a place to start as any.

The Worst Part

I am not a perfect mother.

To be honest, most days I'm not sure I even fall solidly into the boundaries of what makes a "good" mother.*

My kids are pretty much free range, or as much as they can be in about 1400 square feet of third floor walkup. And I'm a work-from-home kind of gal- I do a lot of ignoring my children.

Until, of course, they do something really awful.

I comfort myself that I must be a good mom because, when that something awful results in an injury, I'm the person they want to comfort them. They don't just accept my comfort, they truly respond to it. "I want to snuggle," and "I love you, mommy," are phrases I hear constantly. I know, I'm very lucky. But whenever those disasters strike, I really feel like I don't deserve the affection.

About a week and a half ago, SI lost a toenail. Well, "lost" doesn't begin to describe it. She was running pell mell down the hall and tried to leap over a "picnic" she'd left out. Because she has inherited my extremely uncoordinated genetics, she didn't make it. Instead she landed on a plastic plate, slid a few feet, and her toes slammed into the tiny space under the coat closet door, tearing her smallest toenail right out of its bed.

I knew something was really wrong with her first wail. And I did nothing. I leaned away from the sink full of dishes I was washing, and called out if she was okay. She wailed again.

And again, I did nothing.

It wasn't until she was bawling and staggering to get up that I walked to the kitchen doorway, and held out my arms for her to run to me. That's right, she can do the work of coming to me if I'm going to comfort her, too.

To say that I felt like the worst mother in the entire fucking world when I saw all the blood coming out of her toe would probably be an understatement. I felt worse than that. Subhuman. I felt like slime.

I scooped her up in my arms and squeezed her and kissed her and held her and tried my hardest not to flinch or pass out when I examined her toe, and I cleaned it and bandaged it and called her doctor, and then I helped her Skype with Poppa, because he'd just had foot surgery so he had an even bigger owie on his toe.

And she hasn't cried about it since. Not once. Not even when I had to finally clip it free from the tiny corner embedded in her cuticle so it would stop dangling off. That kid is a trooper.

She has to be. She bangs herself up practically every day. If she doesn't have a bruise from running into a doorjamb, she has a blister from yet another pair of shoes she's managed to outgrow, or a scratch from flailing a toy with a sharp edge, or a lump on her head from falling backwards off the couch, or scraped knees from wiping out on the sidewalk.

DD's also constantly banged up. She bonks her head on drawers and cabinets, slips and falls while running in her favorite (and very slippery) socks, falls out of her chair when she fidgets and bangs her chin on the table.

And I pretty much ignore it. They're kids. They get banged up. It comes from constantly moving at high speeds in very crowded quarters. I'm constantly banged up, too, just from chasing them.

"Future Writer" Just like mommy.

But I ignore a lot more than that. When I'm "working," writing or editing or revising or submitting or any number of the things I'm doing to advance a passion I can hardly call a "career" without feeling like a fraud, I just ignore them.

Once in a while I look up and grin at those three little girls, playing so happily, so independently. And I leave it at that.

But mostly I only look up when something goes wrong.

Tonight, something went wrong. After supper we all cleaned up the living room, and the dining room, because they were seas of misplaced toys. Then while I did some dishes they danced in the clean dining room, and when I was done I set them up in front of Night at the Museum with cups of water. Ten minutes later I heard the sound that every parent dreads.

Total silence.

And, like a fool, I let it go on for a whole five minutes.

When I got to the living room,  the furniture was all soaked through. They had been entertaining themselves by spitting all their water all over the couch, arm chair, throw cushions, and afghans.

SI was wearing a new shirt, too. "The other shirt was soaking wet," she told me.

To say I was angry would be an understatement. I was living. I screamed and yelled, I made them clean up the mess, and I put them to bed after only cups of milk instead of real dinners. I had to calm down quite a bit before I convinced myself of even that compromise.

I was so angry I nearly had a heart attack. That's no exaggeration- I have a neurological condition called dysautonomia that occasionally causes me to have bouts of tachycardia and arrhythmia. It took four minutes of careful, focused breathing before the pain in my chest died down.

Four minutes where I could think of nothing other than what a poor excuse for a parent I am.

It was water. Water. Not milk, not juice, not even cracker crumbs. Just... water.

And I lost it.

I could come up with a million excuses for my own temper. I haven't really eaten today (true), I've been ridiculously exhausted since DD's trip to the ER (also true), I've had zero time or motivation for self care or emotional maintenance (true)...

It doesn't matter. What matters is that this isn't an isolated incident. I'm a ticking time bomb of rage just waiting to happen.

I'm constantly stunned and impressed by what my daughters know, what they're interested in. I'm constantly shocked that they've managed to pick up such spectacular life skills and academic skills from me being vague and distant 90% of the time.

I'm amazed at how a day where I had truly sweet, wonderful, loving moments with all three of my children, individually, could turn into a night where I'm shaking and panting and talking myself down from having a triple martini for dinner, with a pint of ice cream as a chaser.

I know I should calm down and remember the good parts.

DD sitting on my lap to read useless informational pamphlets after I put her hair into a ponytail at the doctor's office.

SI took this picture

SI holding my hand as we walked to the car from the preschool, asking me how my day was and listening to my answers.

RH, running up to me and hugging my knees, over and over again.

But it's all eclipsed by this awful, painful hunch in my shoulders, by the crushing weight of guilt pressing down on me, but the overwhelming awareness of how ridiculously, improbably, outrageously tired I am.

I feel like I must not be a good mom. A good mom wouldn't freak out over a couple of pints of spilled water.

A good mom wouldn't scream at her children over something as harmless as a wet couch.

A good mom wouldn't only be available when she has to be. She'd be available whenever her children wanted her to be.

And that's not me. I'm not that mom. I'm the mom telling the kids to play by themselves so I can get something done. I wouldn't judge any other mom for doing this, but I'm sure as hell judging myself.

And my verdict is that I could do better. I must do better.

And the worst part is knowing that I probably won't.





*Yes, I know, I'm a good mom. Just as wracked with self doubt as the next person.

99 Problems

My little trooper

I had a post nearly finished for this week's Twisted Mix Tape. It was fun, a "feel better" mix for my sister, who is SWAMPED with her Ph.D. work and also just had her tonsils out.

And then I had to put it all on hold to take my four year old to the emergency room, with an apparent asthma attack.

She was SUCH a trooper.

So when I FINALLY got home at half past midnight, the last thing I was going to do was to finish a mix for Aunt Genocide. Don't get me wrong, I love her, but DD's need was greater.

So without further ado- a "Feel Better" mix for my wheezing daughter.



Because I am a good, kind mother, I expose my children to They Might Be Giants on a regular basis. In fact, recently DD told me her FAVORITE movie was "Here Come the ABC's" (thanks Aunt Ginger!). She and SI love this song, but until today they'd never seen it Tiny Tuned up.



I am certain that every child caught the "What's the Fox Say?" bug a few months ago. Mine were no exception. But unlike many parents, an answer struck me. "I know what the fox says!" I told them. "The fox says, OO DE LALLY!" (Coincidentally, the fox ALSO says "Long live King Richard!")



I don't know why exactly, but DD loves this song. She LOVES this song. And I have no objections. And it's nice for me, because it's been a while since I could look at Sarah McLachlan without immediately feeling a weird surge of dog related guilt.



DD never got over her Psy fever.



Another song that DD loves loves LOVES is Shalom Aleichem. And because she's a good girl, she likes it better with a little rock behind it. I'm so proud.



I'm a good mother. I expose my children to all the essential classics. DD is partial to this little number. Even if she generally prefers watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers ("She has such a pwetty dwess!"), whenever I sing this one, she starts kicking her feet around like mad. You know, tap dancing.



Ever since she was six months old, DD has LOVED this song. Recently, I've had to actually start playing the clean version, which is garbled nonsense. But let's face it, she's not listening for the lyrics. She's listening because she can bounce around to it. And honestly... that's why most people listen to music in the first place.


And one extra.


Nothing keeps this kid down.
I love her so much.

History Repeating

Me and my fat pants

This week's Twisted Mix Tape is... dance!

Well, not exactly. You see, this week's prompt came from a blogger who's brother died. He was a DJ, and this week it's kind of an honorarium to him.

When I first started hearing the term "DJ" thrown around, I picture Vince Fontaine from Grease. Because when you're ten years old and you watch Grease a million times (without once picking up that half the songs are WILDLY inappropriate for a kid your age to be singing along to) you kind of accept faux 50's lingo as canon.

Fortunately, my family moved to Ann Arbor, close enough to Detroit for me to learn better. I got to spend half a decade listening to music with kandy kids, kitty flippers, and other assorted ravers who set my head right about the rich cultural and musical history of the title.

So without further ado, my mix tape- an ode to DJs and dance music.



Everything about this song. Everything about this video. From the visual context for the uninitiated about what a DJ does, to the incomparable Ms. Bassey. Spectacular hook. Spectacular mixing. Just... brilliant everywhere.



The video. Oh, the video. Dance music is one of those things where generally speaking, the lyrics are minimal, vague, and sort of pointless. This is good, because when a DJ gets his hands on the vinyl he's going to chop the song into tiny pieces. Sample bits, fade in and out- you don't really get techno or dance songs with narratives. But that leaves the videos open for wild and brilliant interpretations. I could make a top ten of official videos alone. The best part of this is that it sears the feel of the video into your mind, and you forever associate the song's ambient quality with the feeling of the story of the video. So good.



As I was saying, the songs are kind of a blank canvas. There are so many spectacular dance hall tracks- heavily sampled and with repetitive hooks and beats that you bob your head to no matter where it's playing. But there's a lot of variety in the music. And as the music is a blank canvas, fans are forever painting on it. I went to art school, and I cannot even begin to count the number of music videos people made to dance and techno songs. For totally unrelated assignments even- I had a friend in fashion design deliver his final portfolio in the form of a music video to a techno track, filmed with models wearing his dresses out on the pier by Bryn Mawr. And he got an A.



He wasn't the only art school kid to make brilliant music videos of his favorite songs, obviously. This girl... wow. Just wow. She makes me like Daft Punk, despite the Daft Punk. And I mean Daft Punk previous to their disco revival. Because I think we can all agree that "Get Lucky" was a spectacular track, and we can also all agree that it has almost nothing whatsoever in common with the bulk of Daft Punk's previous work. But I would watch this video a million times.



As I was saying... Techno. It can be art. And I don't mean that just the videos can be art. I mean the music ITSELF can be art. This techno track is a MASTERPIECE, by the same twisted mind that came up with Come to Daddy. And while Richard D. James is a virtuoso of a DJ, he's far from alone.



Richie Hawtin, aka Plastikman. As I mentioned before, we lived not too far from Detroit. And Detroit is where techno became techno. And one of the geniuses behind it was this guy. I mean, Richie Hawtin played the Guggenheim. This isn't just some dance hall DJ, this is an ARTIST. That said, art that starts underground and gets people bouncing and moving around in huge enclosed spaces that are generally occupied illegally... well... They have their own certain flavor. And as many of the techno fans of the Detroit area can attest, Plastikman cultivated his own flavor- to the point where his most iconic CD was best known for its liner notes- perforated blotter paper, each square printed with his logo. And just in case that was too subtle for you, I'm gong to clue you in. Blotter paper is one of the most common methods for dispensing LSD. So if you were a party kid in Detroit in the 90s, chances were very high that somebody you knew was carrying a CD case full of acid, each hit emblazoned with the Plastikman.



Living near Detroit and befriending many of the aforementioned party kids, I was fortunately enough to be introduced to an unbelievable wealth of spectacular music. This is what I generally think of as gateway techno. The Orb. So lovely.



But this isn't just a techno list, this is a DANCE list. And no dance list can be complete without the 90s classics. Can't hear this without bobbing my head. Okay, fine, I can't hear this song without dancing my freaking butt off. Badly. Happy now?



Fortunately, and simultaneously unfortunately, dance music is seeing a sort of resurgence these days. It's a shame because that means there's a lot of straight up crap on the radio. But it's good, because it means that the parts of my brain that just want to stop thinking and dance have such nice things to listen to.



Then of course, there are times I want to dance AND use my brain. So thank you, DJ Rap, for combining a little bit of pop philosophy and motivational speaking with your phat beats.


And here- a bonus track:


Yeah, I know, not only did I START with the Propellerheads, I even started with a track from THIS ALBUM. But you know what? 007 is an important part of my life. Laugh all you want, it's true. M and I spent two weeks honeymooning in New Zealand in the middle of winter- at the northernmost tip of the north island. So while during the day it was generally 80 and sunny and we had access to a deserted beach and a gorgeous beach house, many days it was dark and rainy, because, winter. So we split our honeymoon between gorgeous Pacific relaxation, and curling up in the beach house with a Bond movie marathon. We've been totally hooked ever since. We've seen all of them. So many times we occasionally have debates about which are the worst silhouettes in the opening sequence. That's how far we've picked these movies apart. I'm a Dalton fan, he's a Connery purist. At any rate, this track? It's a love letter to Bond movies. It's almost entirely sampled from the iconic Bond themes. And it is most likely the best thing ever to come from On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Dear God, that movie was awful.

Dagger Teeth Tightrope Pagan Shop

I'm linking up with Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday again! This week's theme? New music- from 2013. Not all of this is "new," per se, but it's either new to me or there's something new about it that has to do with 2013, so... there you have it.

So let's get to it!



Lorde. I feel like I don't need many more words than that, but I'm going to go ahead and use a few anyway. I think Lorde is brilliant. I think she extraordinarily talented. In a lot of ways, her first album reminds me of Fiona Apple's "Tidal," dripping with potential while still spectacular. And while I am crazy about her big hit, I think this is the album's strongest track.



First of all, yes, I know this song is pushing the decade mark. But if I had to pick a few songs to sort of define 2013 (and it seems very much that's what I'm doing) The Fratellis have to be on the list. My husband got me hooked on them this year, but more importantly, THIS SONG was something you simply could not escape through the first half of 2013 if you lived in Chicago. And every single time you heard it, it came with a smug satisfaction that the Blackhawks were crushing it night after night on the ice. So if you enjoy hockey, and you live in Chicago, by this point this song is practically part of your ego.



So when this album came out in 2010, I was impressed, and then I didn't buy it. Because I was busy having toddlers and going to school and a million freaking things. So I kind of forgot about Jannelle Monae, until last year she came out with this new album, and I heard a few tracks and said, "Oh yeah, she is AWESOME!" and finally picked up this album, which I've listened to pretty much nonstop ever since. No, I still don't have the new one. I'll wait until she releases another one and just always be an album behind. Or you could always get it for me from my Amazon wish list for my birthday. Hint hint, M. Hint hint.



Yes, I know Macklemore and Ryan Lewis actually released this at the end of 2012, but I don't care. And no matter how many great and still underrated tracks there are on this album (seriously- have you listened to "Wing$" yet?), this is going to be my favorite, if only for the dozens of times I've watched my husband perform the entire thing in the car. At this point, the only song I've seen him do more often is "Bombs over Baghdad," and both of them should REALLY be immortalized on film.


This next one is a twofer.



This video came out before M and I even moved in together. and I was freaking crazy about it. I love everything about it. I thought it was BRILLIANT. And as far as I know, this wasn't on television anywhere, because the band... sort of kind of didn't exist yet. Really, this was a project the costumer, director, animator, and musician did for their art school- but they loved doing it, and said they were going to do more. So, being the kind of psychopath who does this sort of thing, I made a note of the band (Lolly Jane Blue) and held out hope that someday I'd run into them again. And wouldn't you know? In 2013 they FINALLY released their first EP, now as Jane Blue and the Hunters. And it is TOTALLY different. And totally awesome.

Becoming Invisible

Probably my mother's 30th birthday.

When my father was just a few months younger than I am now, he tried to throw my mother a surprise party.

She was turning thirty, and although she has never been the sort of person who particularly cares about that sort of thing, thirty is kind of a big deal. It signals a farewell to a specific kind of youth and identity, and as my six months younger father cared quite a bit about that sort of thing, he wanted to do something memorable.

He put a lot of work into the party. He invited dozens of people, all of whom were thrilled to come and celebrate my mom- who would never in a million years organize anything like it for herself. And as my father was not exactly competent when it came to party planning, he delegated most of the food related tasks to other people. But one thing he did do was order cheesecake from a local bakery.

He placed his order for a dozen cheesecakes, in a variety of flavors, to surprise his wife who loved cheesecake. Their friends would bring food, potluck style, their friends' children would play with me and my sisters, and my mother would experience a spectacular thirtieth birthday party.

That was his plan. But in the early spring of 1987, a terrible flu spread through the city of Pittsburgh. The morning of the party he collected the cheesecakes, and the phone calls started coming in. All but three guests, or their children, had started puking, and couldn't come. My father cancelled the party, and he and my mother celebrated her thirtieth birthday quietly, packing as much cheesecake as they could into the freezer and living off the rest for the rest of the month.

I was completely oblivious to these events. I was three years old, and my memory of my mother's
thirtieth birthday is that my parents smiled a lot, that my sisters and I got My Little Ponies, and that the house was unusually clean.

Now, I feel like I understand my parents. Why my father, at my age, would have wanted so badly to do something special. I understand why my mother, at my age, with three children the ages of my children, would go out and buy them presents for her birthday.

I understand how helpless my father must have felt to make one day, any day, about her. And I understand how much the gesture must have meant to my mother.

Now, I get it.

My father very much as he is in my memory

When you stay at home all day, when your job is your children, life is only about you if something terrible happens. If you get very sick, or injured, if you lose a loved one. The only way to make something about you is for you to make it about you, and let's face it... nothing saps the fun out of any happy occasion like sitting down with your kids and forcing them to make cards for you. The easiest way to make sure you have a good time is to make sure they're happy. And that's why my memories of my mother's birthday involve a stuffed purple pony hopping on the dining room table.

As I near my thirtieth birthday, I think about this. I think about my father as he was then, barely thickening around the middle, wearing faded blue jeans and subversive t-shirts. I can see his wide smile, his deep dimples, his bright eyes. I can picture him at my age, just as clearly as I can picture him now. He looks like a stranger, or a distant cousin. This memory of him feels nothing like my father the entity, the man who, for me, defined men. But from my memories, I can put him together, like a puzzle. These aren't just images from photographs, not just remembrances of pictures of him twenty five years ago. These are the flesh and blood imprints he made in my mind.

But not my mother. I can picture the photographs of her, yes, but no matter how I wrack my brain I can't see her as she was when she turned thirty years old.

I can see her hands, rolling cookie dough into balls, dropping them gracefully onto a pan. I can see her wedding ring clear as day, and her fingernails, and her wrists.

I can see the backs of her jeans as she walks ahead of me down the sidewalk, the tail of her shirt hiding her back pocket as she pulls out her wallet to give me money for the ice cream truck.

I can see her bare legs in front of her on the porch floor, her ankles crossed and a train of ants walking across them. They look like my legs.

I can see her silhouette at the bottom of the stairs, casually warning me to give up my attempts to somersault down to the living room.

I can see the barrette in the back of her hair as she sits at the table.

Mothers with their children

But I can't see her face. I cannot assemble these pieces. My mother is an invisible force of nature, a supernatural entity made of love and discipline and constant presence.

I looked at my father. I studied him, this person I loved, who lived with me but who's comings and goings from a mysterious place called "work" carried the weight of disappearances and reinvention. I never had to look at my mother.

I was always confident that she was there. Maybe not in sight, but near by. If I screamed she would appear. If I misbehaved she would reprimand me. If I was suddenly scared or hurt or sad, I could run to her and wrap my arms around those blue jeans and her elegant hands with their narrow wrists and simple ring would run through the hair on top of my head, and her voice would echo from the everywhere of motherhood.

I can hear her voice, my thirty year old mother, but I can't distinguish the words. It's a hum that fills the universe, that permeates every fiber in existence, that rumbles through my bones and soothes them. I can hear its cadence.

At thirty years old, my mother was invisible to me.

Now I am her. Like my father, these birthdays matter to me. I don't know why exactly, but they do. Superficial, I know, but I feel it. And like my father, I feel helpless to give this event some kind of meaning. I sympathize with him so much, this twenty nine year old father of three. I understand him.

And I believe I understand my mother. But to me she will always be something of a mystery. No matter how closely my family parallels hers, no matter how similar our struggles and joys and the mundane details of our lives, no matter how much I understand her as she is now, I will never be able to put my feet into her shoes and sympathize with her life the way I do my father's.

And in a way, this makes me feel closer to every mother. To every other woman who has been a shadow, an omnipresent force in their children's lives. To every stay-at-home parent who's children don't bother to look at them when they come or go, who rush past and ignore them because they will always be there. It makes me feel closer to them, and at the same time it fills me with a grief so deep I can hardly name it.

I am this vibration, this mysterious force. And in my own ethereal, faceless way, I will also be erased from my children's memories, continuously replaced by the constantly changing, constantly aging face before them.

In my memories, if I must picture my mother, I see her now. Maybe a little less grey, maybe somewhat thinner, but still- as she is now. Familiar glasses. Familiar lines on her face. Not the slender, black haired twenty-something girl I know she was.

That girl, that young woman, she is somebody I will never know.

I feel the grief that I have already lost part of my mother forever.

I'm there for her, she doesn't need to look at me.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I was the only child so self centered that they never bothered to look up, but I doubt it. I see it in my own children who once stared forever at me unblinking as they lay swaddled in my arms, and now run past without so much as a glance when I remind them to wash their hands or hang up their coats.

Maybe it isn't turning thirty that bothers me. Maybe it's losing myself in motherhood. Maybe it's the fear that I'm already gone, replaced by this ghost who's voice will soothe my children's memories, long after I've died.

And while I mourn this former me, I am filled with a guilt and a joy so great they bring me to tears.

I have always wanted to be this thing, immortal and benevolent and profoundly loved. Loved until I dissolved into the enormity of the word, until it absorbed me and replaced me with the all powerful phantom caring for every child, every person, with a fierceness so raw and so bold and yet so constant that they disappeared into it.

I have always wanted to be a mom.

In Which ChiBeria Turns Me Into Flava Flav

In Chicago, we have been experiencing that rare and spectacular combination of weather phenomena- it is both really freakin' cold and insanely freakin' snowy. When winter hit with a friendly dusting of snow shortly before Christmas, the children began begging to go play in it.

"Please mommy? Can we please build a snowman?"

Well, a friendly dusting of snow is hardly snowman material. I explained we'd have to wait until we had more snow to go outside and frolic.

"When we go to Minnesota for Christmas, there will be lots of snow," I said. "And we can go sledding then!"
"Yay! Hooray! Sledding in Minnesota!"

Of course, once we were safely installed at my in-law's house, we were all hit with a monster virus. Nobody was going out to play. We sat around inside, playing games and sweating through fevers. And then we returned home, where there was no snow.

But snow came, by golly, and it came with a vengeance. On Saturday the children watched the blizzard winds sweep mountains of snow across the empty lot next door, screaming in excitement.

"Mommy! It's snowing! We can go build a snowman!"
"Not now, honey. See the wind? It would blow you away! We have to wait 'til the wind stops blowing."
"Will it blow away all the snow?"
"No sweetie, there is way too much snow for the wind to blow away. It's not leaving anytime soon."

From CBS Chicago

Sunday came and went, windier, snowier, and colder than the day before. And the emails from the school started coming.

PRESCHOOL CLOSED DUE TO LIFE-THREATENINGLY COLD WEATHER CONDITIONS.

"Can we play in the snow now? I see the snow! And there's no wind! Let's go play in the snow!"
"No way!" I yelped. "It's SO COLD you might freeze! You'd be childrencicles! You'd be little snow people!"
"But WHEN?"

I didn't answer. Because I had no idea. For two days past the long anticipated return date for school, they trashed the house in stir-crazy abandon, as the world devolved into weather obsessed chaos around us. My friend in Antarctica sent regular updates on how they were experiencing temperatures as much as fifty degrees warmer than we had in Chicago.

Then came... this morning.

This morning, when after five days of sitting in a block of snow and ice, I would need to dig out the car.

I prepared. I scheduled a sitter for RH- no WAY was I doing all this with a toddler in tow. I rushed the kids through breakfast and got them into all their gear. All their gear. And I herded them out to the car.

Of course the sliding doors were frozen shut. I waded through the thigh deep snow, clambered over the driver's seat, and wrenched the side door open from the inside.

Of course the snow shovel bent like tin foil the moment I tried to dig out the snow around the tires.

Of course the windshield wiper blades froze to the window. The blades snapped off like twigs when I attempted to free them of their ice, so of course I had twice as much scraping to do to create pockets of usable window.

Of course.

How we do in ChiBeria

But the car started, God bless it, and the children made their way in, mild panic attacks about scarves slipping off their noses notwithstanding.

And I began to battle the snow.

I fought it. I fought is harder than I've ever fought anything in my life. using my useless husk of a snow shovel, I stabbed and beat at the blocks of packed snow and ice surrounding my four tires, dug with my hands, crouched on my knees and dragged solid lumps of frozen snow into the street.

Every few minutes I jumped in the car and rocked it back and forth, drive and reverse, drive and reverse, hoping to ease it out of it's car-sized pocket in the snow and onto the street.

I swore the whole time.

I stood, panting and heaving, and nearly gave up. Then I remembered- today is an MRI day for M, I'd just have to get the car out this afternoon anyway. There would be no quitting. My kids were going to get to preschool, come Hell or high water.

Or half a week of snow plows burying my minivan thigh deep in sub-Arctic temperature snow.

Finally, I could take it no more. I sat in the driver's seat and I prepared to crush it.

I sped forward. Well, four miles an hour felt like speeding. The wheels came to a sliding halt.

I sped backwards. The car lurched and wiggled, and I cranked back into drive.

Back and forth. Seething and begging. Swearing and cajoling.

And then, one wheel jumped onto the street.

"Yeah, baby, come one now, come on..."

Back and forth again, back and forth, now two wheels slid onto the street,

"That's right, you sonofabitch, that's right, that's it, that's it..."

Back and forth, back and forth, and then sliding like Bambi getting onto the ice, the car went zipping into the avenue. Without pausing or thinking I opened my mouth and at top volume I heard the words come out,

"YEEEEEAAAAAAAH BOYEEE! WHOOOO! THAT'S RIGHT MOTHERFUCKER! HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW? HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?"

I froze, panting, idling at the light, and behind me I heard DD and SI call out, "Hooray Mommy!"

So now I know.

Deep down inside, I'm Flava Flav.

My alter ego, ready to kick some snow ass.

Take that, ChiBeria.

2013 in Pictures

Before I wax rhapsodic about what I did and didn't accomplish this year, let's have the photo spam. My favorite pictures of 2013:

January
Our decision to get a vasectomy was the right one. Even if I still feel sad every time I think that I'll never be pregnant again. Because I am insane.

February
Three of the most delightful children I've ever known

March- a tie
SI and DD helping Aunt Genocide with the four questions. The first time we've had a Passover seder without my parents, and hopefully the last for a very long time

March- a tie
Grandma and Grandpa came to town for Easter, and we walked up to the chapel for services. It was a beautiful day, despite my panic fueled humiliation. 

April- a four way tie
People have told me since they were born that my kids should be models. Well, if I were going to send a picture of DD to an agency... it would be this.

April- a four way tie
I love everything about this picture. Everything.

April- a four way tie
That's one stylish guy I'm married to.

April- a four way tie
We went to New York City for my cousin's bar mitzvah... and if there's one picture that sums up everything about it that meant the world to me, it's this one- my daughter playing with my cousin, while my great aunt watches. My children had never met half of my family. Never. And of course, everyone loved each other instantly. I will never forget it. And neither will they.

May
Poppa, SI, Aunt Something Funny, and DD.
We went to Grinnell for my father to receive an honorary doctorate. It was amazing, and wonderful, and beautiful, and one of the best long weekends we have ever shared.

June- another tie
I finally got to introduce my children to my best friends, and it was magical and amazing.

June- another tie
The bride- a friend of mine for fifteen years- kidnapped my children and took photo after photo after photo with them.

July- another three way tie
We saw the Body Worlds Animals exhibit at the MSI, with our Spanish loaner teenager.

July- three way tie
DD steering the River Queen in Au Sable

July- three way tie
SI steering the River Queen in Au Sable

August
SI and DD were flower girls at the wedding of another friend.

September
DD and SI second first day of school

October- another tie
SI and DD turn four years old

October- another tie
Our family of superheroes

November
I don't care about how much happened in November. This is my favorite picture. Aunt Something Funny reading to her nieces. It just doesn't get better than this.

December
The three sweetest little girls I know.

Now- onto 2014!

Each year, I eschew the traditional "New Year's Resolution" in favor of a to-do list. But rather than a bucket list of things I want to do, I give myself a checklist every single day of simple tasks I'd like to accomplish to make my life better.

I've been doing this for years now.

I know how many paintings I painted and how many books I read, and nearly how many hours I played with my infant twins in 2009.

I can tell you ridiculously mundane details about 2010. For example, I read 21 books that year, three shy of my goal. I cooked on 239 days.

In 2011 I wrote on 321 days. I cooked even more often, and I read a whopping 28 books.

In 2012 I started focusing on more self care. I managed to eat two meals on 347 days. Yeah, I measure that.

So what about 2013?

Me, hard at work, writing a book

Goal: Wrote Daily (365)
Outcome: 293
I feel like I should be shocked I wrote so little, but then I consider what I DID write. I was published on HuffPo a dozen times. I finished a first AND second draft of an entire book. You know what? I might not have remembered to sit down and pen a haiku each day, but I'm very pleased with what I accomplished.

Goal: Ate Two Meals Daily (365)
Outcome: 336
This number went down. And while part of me wants to feel guilty that I did so poorly at feeding myself, I have to remember... I kept getting sick. I kept not being able to eat. And maybe I wasn't as good to myself as I should have been, but I feel better than I did a year ago. I feel healthier (cold notwithstanding) than I did a year ago. I'm going say I succeeded here too.

Goal: Maintained Hygiene Daily (365)
Outcome: 281
Yes, this is still totally unacceptable. But I did better than last year, horrifically enough. And every day that RH is more independent and each day that her big sisters are more interested in playing with her is a day where I can take five minutes to splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. I'm determined to bring my weekly shower average up to at least a two. I think I can do it.

Goal: Went Outside 6xWeek (312)
Outcome: 268
I know I could do better, but I'm pleased to know this number is going up. Plus, now that RH finally walks, I'm confident there are more trips up and down the stairs in the coming year.

Going to BlogHer and meeting this awesome lady?
(And lots of other awesome ladies?) Rocked it.

Goal: Had Alone Time 5xWeek (260)
Outcome: 238
I totally nailed this one. That said, I only nailed it because I enforced nap time so strictly. If this week is any indication, 2013 will bring a fairly dramatic change in nap time. Mostly, in that most days I'm not sure the big girls will take one. And that's a little terrifying. I'll have to find another way to get some time to myself.

Goal: Exercised 3xWeek (156)
Outcome: 123
Pretty damn close! Of course, the bulk of that "exercise" was grown up private time, which I recognize only counts if you're a) very athletic about it, and b) take an awful long time. So I recognize that I didn't *really* get as much exercise as I like to pretend I might have. That said, the new year will definitely have me sweatin' with Richard Simmons some more, so I'm hoping that 2014 will blow that number out of the water.

Goal: Observed Sabbath (as much as 52- but realistically closer to 35)
Outcome: 29
And you know what? That's not half bad. Considering the number of nights M and I had Friday dates, or were out of town on a Friday night... I'd estimate we lit Sabbath candles at home four out of five weeks. So I think I can do better, but I'm glad it's becoming so habitual. Which is really the point of all of this.

Goal: Finished Book 1xMonth (12)
Outcome: 9
This is where I really failed. Especially considering how many books I started. I have four unfinished books on my Kindle, and two on my shelf. If I'd managed to FINISH them I'd be really pleased with myself. Instead? I'm kind of embarrassed. This year- less WordFeud and more reading!

Goal: Made Art 1xMonth (12)
Outcome: 13
CRUSHED IT. Yes, I counted costumes and cards as "art," but let's be honest... it's a creative enterprise, and there are lots of post-modernists who would completely accept a gallery show of homemade children's Halloween costumes as a legitimate thing. So I'm taking it.


I'm only making two changes in my 2014 goals. Instead of "Made Art," it will be "Finished project." And I'm adding another one- "Sang."

It shocks me how little singing I've done recently, and I know I'm emotionally healthier when I sing a lot. So now, it's a daily to-do. So- you can expect there will be many more karaoke nights in 2014 than the last year saw.

Happy New Year, one and all!