Eye of the Beholder

When I was a kid, it always puzzled me when my mom insisted on going pretty much everywhere with my dad. My uncles would hang out together; they would even go to Honduras solo, but my mom wasn't having it. When I was about 10, I remember asking her why she was so clingy. (Of course I didn't phrase it that way -- I valued my teeth too much to get them knocked out for being "disrespectful.") Her response was something to the effect that good men are scarce and women would kill to have my father.

I have to admit that I looked at her sideways. I was odd as a kid (oh, who am I kidding? I'm a bit odd now!), so I never had that "I adore my daddy" phase. Whereas most little girls saw their dads as gorgeous superheroes, I just saw my dad for what he was -- a hardworking, but cranky, aging, and not-so-goodlooking man with alcoholic tendencies. And in my 10-year-old mind, I could not for the life of me fathom why anyone else would want him. Hell, I didn't know why my own mother wanted him.

I am 38 years old; my parents are still together; and even though my father is almost 70 years old, my mother still accompanies him everywhere he goes. Ask her today why she does that and she will give you the same response she gave what feels like a million years ago: good men are at a premium and there are women out there who would kill to have a good husband.

The other day, I had to attend a Young Lawyers event as the representative from another section of the New York State Bar Association. As I walked out the door, Big Bren called out after me, "don't flirt with anybody!" Then he proceeded to text me several times during the event just to see how I was doing. Honestly, I don't think any young boys fresh out of law school were checking for me, and while my wrinkles and back fat are not getting any more endearing with age, it was kind of cool to know that Big Bren still thinks I'm desireable enough to be protective of.

Quantum Leap

When I was younger, one of my favorite shows was Quantum Leap. The protagonist had created a time machine and he could leap from time to time fixing problems in people's lives. These weren't minor issues; these were events that would derail that person's life and altar the course of his/her future. The only caveat was that he could not do it in his own form. So, his soul -- I don't remember how they explained it, but that's what I understood it to be -- would displace the soul in that person's body. In the meantime, the other "soul" had to sit in a "waiting room" somewhere while he "fixed" the problem.

There are times in my life where I wish I could be that displaced soul -- just chillin' somewhere while someone else handles the crap. There are situations that I find myself repeatedly in that I don't want to experience again but do not know how to get out of. There are circumstances that I wish I could fast-forward through; where my very skin tightens up and my heart starts to pound. Events that bring you to your very knees; where no matter what choice you decide to make, it feels like the wrong one.

My sister would say to take a deep breath, let go and let God. But sometimes, it feels like God is just not moving fast enough ....

Please step into this box over here ...

I was on a website today and ran into a comment by someone who referred to Blacks and Hispanics as People of More Melanin (POMM). And I actually like it. I have been uneasy with color classifications for many years and with my son being who he is, I am reluctant to call people "Black" or "White" anymore (not to mention that his father's family has such an assortment of colors that they can't really be classified). When absolutely necessary to speak about someone's color, I've been resorting to calling people as I saw them: "brown" and "light brown" and "beige" (desperate times, people).

Thoughts? Ingenious or just another useless classification?

Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!

I am reading an interesting book -- Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix, Ph.D. -- which postulates that the majority of people seek out romantic partners who closely resemble the character traits of their parents.  The reason for this, says Hendrix, is that children, as helpless little people, are at the mercy of their parents; so, as adults, we seek to "fix" whatever dysfunction we were subjected to at home.

This theory is not new, of course; Sigmund Freud said about as much in his many writings.  And, even before I heard this theory, I often complained that Big Bren seemed to encompass all the things I hated about my parents -- sometimes he is cold, emotionally unavailable/neglectful and impossible to please.

I was making dinner today when I decided that I absolutely had to have grilled steak.  It was drizzling outside and our wooden deck was dotted with raindrops.  I carefully made my way over to the grill and put the steaks on the fire.  In my eagerness to get back inside, I neglected to dry my feet and rushed onto the marble floor.  I had taken two steps when one foot hit a patch of moisture and I went careening toward the floor.  I tried to break my fall by putting my arm out and instead fell on my hand -- hard.  My knees quickly followed.  The whole house seemed to shake when I finally hit the floor.  I just stayed there, reeling from the pain shooting through my legs and arm.

Then something unprecedented happened:  my husband gently raised me, placed me on his lap and held me to his chest.  With as much tenderness as I have ever seen him exhibit, he rubbed my knees and hand until the pain went away.  Tears rushed to my eyes (again! For those of you keeping count, that's twice in two weeks -- I fear that I am losing my iron maiden edge).  Not so much from the pain -- although I told him it was -- but because when I fell as a child, I was never the recipient of such kindness and love.  I felt about 7 years old again, but instead of being told to get up, brush myself off and not dare cry over something as insignificant as a fall, I was being nurtured and even coddled.

When I felt better, I brushed away the tears and rushed off Big Bren's lap (old habits die hard).  But I was left with the knowledge that each person should be judged on his/her own merits and not based on a projection of what others may have done (or failed to do).  

Thank you, D.

Tired

I have a confession to make: I get tired of being "Mommy" sometimes. There are days when I don't want to hear whining or complaining or backtalk. When I don't want to be the keeper of shoes, the bather, the dresser, the feeder, the cuddler, the goodnight storyteller, the toenail clipper or the boo-boo kisser. Some mornings I don't want my eyes pried open before I am ready to awaken. I don't want to hear arguing over whose pretend friend is cooler. It is psychically exhausting to have your entire existence be about someone else.

Alec Baldwin got a lot of flack a while back for calling his daughter a "thoughtless little pig." While I don't think I could resort to calling a child that to his/her face, I will 'fess up and say that I have thought it. That and "ungrateful little pig." And that was just yesterday when, after working the full day, I picked Brendan up from daycare and thought it would be nice to take him out to a dinner that he would enjoy (pancakes at the local diner). No sooner had our food been served that Brendan started acting up, backtalking when I asked him to pick up his place mat and yelling at me that he wanted me to pick it up. He then took a few swats at me. I have to admit that this was atypical behavior for him -- and that resulted in his being punished -- but the hatefulness, the lack of gratitude and thoughtlessness (even for a 5 year old) was cause for disappointment.

I love my child more than anything in the world; I would give up my very life if he needed it. And sometimes I feel like that is exactly what I do every day.

Invisible

It is 2009. Long after Dr. Martin Luther King marched and died. Long after Malcolm X urged insurrection. Long past Jim Crow and “separate but equal.” And, yet, racism is alive and well.

I live in Putnam County, which – despite being a mere 57 miles north of New York City – is still predominately white. I have gotten used to getting the side-eye when I am out with Big Bren. The second glances my bi-racial child garners have become second nature. They don’t bother me anymore. But, no matter how many times one experiences it, once cannot get used to racism, whether latent or blatant.

Two times this week, I have entered a restaurant, waited patiently to order and when it came to be my turn, was skipped over by the host/proprietor in favor of the white patrons behind me. In the first case, the white couple gently reminded the hostess that I was there first. In the second case, the young boys glanced over then proceeded to place their order. Both times, my blood boiled over. I felt marginalized; invisible. And while another, self-respecting Black person would have walked out, I opted to stay, choking on my anger, along with my food.

What was worse is that in the second instance this week, Big Bren was in the restaurant with me. And I felt comfortable enough to say to him, through gritted teeth, “what am I? Invisible?” Only to have him minimize my feelings and my anger by saying “You moved, that’s why he skipped over you.” “Yeah, I moved from second place to first place, when the woman in front of me finished placing her order!” Sarcastically: “Oh, it must be because you’re Black then.”

The tears welled up in my eyes; not just because of the indignity, but because, after 10 years together, here was something he would never understand. It felt like the scene from that movie, Something New, when Sanaa Lathan’s character was trying to vent to her white beau, played by Simon Baker, about some injustice at work and he blows her off, saying that he was tired of hearing Black people whine about prejudice and racism all the time.

Before this, I had never looked upon Big Bren as something other than me. When I filed a discrimination complaint against Zurich Insurance Company – my employer at the time – when they wouldn’t give me an accommodation after I gave birth that they had given to numerous white parents, he was unwavering in his support. And when the EEOC issued its finding that Zurich had discriminated against me, it felt like a vindication for us. It was us against the world. In a span of 10 seconds, he became part of that world and I was reduced to invisibility yet again.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy (and Serendipity)

My BFF Mindy always jokes that I’ve put everyone on blast in my blog, except her. Well, today is your day, Min.

I was bitching to Mindy on the phone about how I am never the beneficiary of serendipity. Why can’t I stumble and land into a quarter-million dollar position like one of our friends? Why don’t amazing things happen to me?? Her head-scratching response: “You don’t make them happen.”

Woman, please, that defeats the purpose of “serendipity,” doesn’t it?

Mindy broke it down for me like this: There is no such thing as “luck.” What we call luck is really one’s approach to life. For instance, there could be three people in a diner. Unbeknownst to the others, one is a tycoon, capable of making great employment wishes come true. One person is a “Mirna” – she sits there drinking her coffee and eating her muffin without so much as looking up for fear that she’ll actually make eye contact with someone and have to speak to them. The other person is a “Miles” (our friend who landed the job) – he sits there smiling, looking around, just waiting for a chance to chat someone up.

In that situation, take a wild guess who would likely land the dream job? Yes, Miles. Simply because he was open. And even if he didn’t land a job that day, no doubt Miles would’ve asked for the tycoon’s number and continued to befriend him, thereby increasing his network and almost guaranteeing himself a better job. And as soon as he did, the “Mirna” would be on the phone whining about what a lucky bastard he was.

I’d never thought of it like that before. But Mindy is absolutely right. Sure, there are things that God seems to thrust in your path, but if you don’t pick them up and make them yours (your actions), they won’t happen. Think back to the things that you considered to have been serendipitous and focus in on the things that you did to make them so. Kinda makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it?

On Aging

I was tying Brendan's shoes when he suddenly grabbed my face in both of his hands. With the utmost concern, he says, "Mommy! You have cracks by your eyes. Is your face breaking or something!??"

After I stopped laughing, I realized that the true fountain of youth -- whether it removes the wrinkles that alarmed Brendan so much or not -- is being around a child. My boy has such an innocent, refreshing take on life.

Frozen

My father wanted to have a house full of boys. That was his dream ... It didn't happen. His first child was male; but he died a few months later. He was then blessed with twins -- a boy and a girl. Then he got hit with the plague: one girl after another. This was an offense for which he never forgave my mother (as if it were her fault). And he never forgave us, either.

His anger and derision weren't that apparent when he was sober. True, when we spoke to him directly, he answered us with grunts and monosyllables. And he whistled when he needed something, instead of asking for it. And he'd make comments about women's intellectual inferiority and lack of driving ability. But that was it. When he drank, though, his venom came out in full force. He called us "chancletas" - slippers, things that you stepped on. He said that we should take our mother's surname because we were just borrowing his anyway -- just until we got pregnant and had to get married, at which point we would take our husbands' names. He said that he was smarter than all of us, our mother included, combined. He said we would never amount to anything and he was wasting money by paying for our schooling.

The weird thing is that although he derided us for being girls, he didn't let us be girls. If something hurt our feelings and we cried, he ridiculed us relentlessly. We weren't allowed to show emotion or weakness. That was hard; not just because we were females, but because we were children. And no matter what we did, how much we excelled in school, we knew that it would never be enough, because he had already stamped us "unworthy" by virtue of having been born with vaginas instead of penises.

It was most difficult for my oldest sister, who had a sunny, happy disposition and was built like a girl, soft and curvy. She was also emotional and open and for that paid the steep price of being labeled the "weak" one or the "dumb" one. My brother wasn't as aggressive as my father would have liked him to be; he was soft-spoken and enjoyed music more than he liked sports. But he was a boy and that was enough. My middle sister was loud and obnoxious; but she was funny and commanded attention. Insofar as my father could love anyone, he loved her.

As for me, I was the forgotten child. I wasn't considered weak or dumb, but I was rarely the center of attention, like my other sister. I learned to lay low and not draw fire. I retreated into my books and into myself. I built an impenetrable wall that could withstand the neglect, the mental abuse and alcohol-fueled vitriol.

The wall served me well. When I was harassed at school because of my broken English, I held my head up high and stared the bullies down. Being bullied by another child was nothing compared to being bullied by a grown man at home, so bring it on. And had I been a typical child, I would have fallen to pieces when my sister tried to commit suicide when she was 15 and I was 10. Instead, I knew I had to get her up and walking and gave her water to flush the bottle of pills out of her system. All without alerting our parents, who would've only used the episode as further proof of her "weakness."

The wall also came at a price -- being numb to all; feeling frozen on the inside. I had boyfriends, but I could take them or leave them. My three grandparents and great-grandmother died and I shed not a single tear for any of them. I felt like no one had cared for me, so why should I care about anyone?

It wasn't until my 29th year, when I got the carbon monoxide poisoning in my apartment, that I began to feel again. You see, carbon monoxide adheres to the cells of your brain and robs them of oxygen, killing them slowly. And it just so happened that the cells the carbon monoxide effected in my brain were the ones at the emotional center. For almost a year, I was off-kilter. I cried at anything. I got angry at the slightest offense. I felt like I was losing my mind; and in actuality, I did. I lost my old mind.

One day, sitting in my Murray Hill apartment all alone, I felt deeply in my soul that it was time to leave the old me behind. I fell into a bottomless depression for which I ended up taking six weeks of psychiatric disability leave. I could not let go. I felt embarrassed that this thing had happened to me. To this day, I have never told my parents the facts surrounding my carbon monoxide poisoning or the effects it had on me. When they saw it on the news, I played it off as this little incident at the building. I never told them that the police had to break down my door to get me out because I had passed out. I never said that the firefighter who carried me out -- unconscious and in my underwear -- told me that had I been in the apartment but 15 minutes more, I would have died. To feel fear would have been weakness; and I wasn't weak.

When my disability time was up, I resigned from my firm. The ultimate testosterone-fueled job -- litigator -- was no longer for me. I took the next few years to find myself. I allowed myself to cry when I felt like it. If I felt angry, I gave myself permission to feel it, instead of pushing it down.

As they say, God makes no mistakes, so my being at home at the precise time that the flue pipe in the boiler snapped and began feeding carbon monoxide back into the heating system was no coincidence. My being rescued those 15 minutes before I would surely have died was no mistake (others in that building were not so lucky). And the carbon monoxide targeting and thawing my frozen emotional center was not left to chance. I still have moments where I retreat behind my wall, but I know that I was given a second chance at a normal life and for that, I give thanks to God every day.

Physics

A few days ago, I got an e-mail from a co-worker thanking me for saving the company a significant amount of money. Background: she had been advised by outside counsel to pay on a case that she didn't think the company owed. She came to me -- since I'm in-house counsel -- to get a second opinion on the advice. Upon researching the matter, I uncovered some very recent cases that the outside counsel had overlooked, which were the direct opposite of the advice he was giving her. She took a gamble and asserted the position I suggested and the court sided with us, holding that our company had no liability for the damages sought by the plaintiff. Upon receiving the e-mail, I was on cloud nine. I forwarded it to Big Bren. I let my boss in on our win. Long story short; everyone within hearing distance heard about this case. Honestly, I wasn't bragging; I was just happy (ahem, ahem). As an attorney, rarely does anyone come back to me and say "thank you" for anything I've done.

I was still abuzz with happiness the next day when I got called into a conference with three managers in the office. As soon as I walked in, I could tell that this meeting wasn't going to end with a "thank you." I'd suggested to one of the managers that he pay on a case and he didn't want to hear it, so he'd gotten some reinforcements.

I was okay until he started yelling. He had worked for the company for 20 years and never had he received such ridiculous advice. He wasn't paying on this case and that was final. He didn't care what Legal said. Every time I opened my mouth to speak, he brayed (I'm sorry, but he was acting like a donkey). The other two managers purportedly agreed (although he was hee-hawing so loudly that they couldn't get a word in edgewise, either). The "meeting" ended with me cutting him short and saying that he could do whatever he wanted to do, but I wasn't going to be left holding the bag when (not if) the company was sued for bad faith. AND I was going to document the file to that effect (so there! I really wanted to say that and stick my tongue out at him for good measure, but I didn't).

I stomped back to my desk and documented the file -- stuffing it with every legal reference I could find that supported my position. Then I sat there and seethed for most of the day. Soon enough, though, I realized that -- as they say -- for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. I'd had my day in the sun, now the rain was seeking its quality time with me. The one court had agreed with me and now three managers decided they didn't. Cest la vie.

It's Not About You

Little kids are notoriously demanding; Brendan is no different. At times, we'll be in the midst of grocery shopping or cooking dinner and he'll insist on going to the playground or his friend's house or wherever else he suddenly thinks of. At those times, I've knelt down to his level, looked him in the eyes and told him as kindly and calmly as I could, "Brendan, right now is not about you. We have to finish doing what we're doing right now." If we were cooking, for instance, I'd say "We need to finish cooking, then eat dinner, then do the things we need to do to get ready for bed and the day tomorrow."

The first few times I did this, Brendan was so taken aback that he stopped his demanding and went back to doing whatever he was doing before he decided that he needed to do something elese. Being the smart kid that he is, however, Brendan soon realized that there was something missing from our exchange and the next time time I gave him the spiel, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "that's fine, Mommy. But when will it be my turn? When does it get to be about me?"

By simply asking, Brendan turned the tables around and put the onus on me of finding a time just for him. So the conversation became, "after we cook dinner and eat, we'll go to the playground for 20 minutes, then we have to come back, take a bath, and brush our teeth. We'll only read one book today before bed because we're using that time to go to the park instead. Okay?" And, of course, "going to the park" could be anything, actually going to the park, the zoo, a play date with a friend, the pet store, etc.

The good thing about this is that Brendan has become conscious of the things that we do that are just for him and he appreciates it a little bit, instead of demanding more all the time.

Yesterday, I had an out-of-office meeting that ended early. I called Big Bren and asked him if he wanted to do something, just me and him, before the afternoon routine with the kids began. He responded: "I am at the DMV right now and then I have to go to Home Depot to get some things for the house. After that, the bus is going to drop off D and Brendan has to be picked up." In other words, "it's not about you right now." I fought the urge to whine, "well, when is going to be about me? When will it be my turn?" And had to smile as I hung up.

Noah's Ark

There's a schoolmate of Brendan's whose parents always drop him off together in the morning and pick him up together. If there are activities at the school where parent volunteers are sought, they'll be there -- together.

Call me a jaded individual, but I find that to be a colossal waste of time. Big Bren and I subscribe to the “divide and conquer” school of parenting. You drop off; I pick up. You take him to karate; I’ll go get him. I’ll do the laundry; you go grocery shopping. I get the “family time” thing. We have breakfast, dinner and weekends as a family, but there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything in pairs.

Happy Mother's Day

Today was a good day.  I woke up and gave myself permission to do nothing.  No laundry; no cleaning; no work.  And, in honor of Mother's Day, Big Bren offered no resistance.  I got my gift, went to brunch with my two favorite members of the male gender, came home and took a nap.  What else could a mother ask for?

Let It Go

My buddy Nycol sent this to me and I thought it was great (even though she sent as part of a chain e-mail -- tsk, tsk). It's attributed to T.D. Jakes:

There are people who can walk away from you. And hear me when I tell you this! When people walk away from you: let them walk. I don't want you to try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring about you, coming to see you, staying attached to you. I mean hang up the phone.

When people can walk away from you let them walk. Your destiny is never tied to anybody that left.

The Bible said that, "they came out from us that it might be made manifest that they were not for us. For had they been of us, no doubt they would have continued with us." [1 John 2:19]

People leave you because they are not joined to you. And if they are not joined to you, you can't make them stay. Let them go.

And it doesn't mean that they are a bad person it just means that their part in the story is over. And you've got to know when people's part in your story is over so that you don't keep trying to raise the dead. You've got to know when it's dead.

You've got to know when it's over. Let me tell you something. I've got the gift of good-bye. It's the tenth spiritual gift, I believe in good-bye. It's not that I'm hateful, it's that I'm faithful, and I know whatever God means for me to have He'll give it to me. And if it takes too much sweat I don't need it. Stop begging people to stay.

Let them go!!

If you are holding on to something that doesn't belong to you and was never intended for your life, then you need to...... LET IT GO!!!

If you are holding on to past hurts and pain... LET IT GO!!!

If someone can't treat you right, love you back, and see your worth... LET IT GO!!!

If someone has angered you... LET IT GO!!!

If you are holding on to some thoughts of evil and revenge... LET IT GO!!!

If you are involved in a wrong relationship or addiction... LET IT GO!!!

If you are holding on to a job that no longer meets your needs or talents... LET IT GO!!!

If you have a bad attitude... LET IT GO!!!

If you keep judging others to make yourself feel better... LET IT GO!!!

If you're stuck in the past and God is trying to take you to a new level in Him... LET IT GO!!!

If you are struggling with the healing of a broken relationship... LET IT GO!!!

If you keep trying to help someone who won't even try to help themselves... LET IT GO!!!

If you're feeling depressed and stressed... LET IT GO!!!

If there is a particular situation that you are so used to handling yourself and God is saying 'take your hands off of it,' then you need to... LET IT GO!!!

The Battle is the Lord's!

New Moon

For any astrology fans out there, today is New Moon. And from what I hear from astrologer Anne Ortelee (anneortelee.com), it promises to be a doozy. Astrologers believe that certain times of the year (depending on lunar cycles and formation of stellar constellations) are more auspicious than others for starting new projects, new relationships, etc. Anne says: "[April 24th] is the most important New Moon of the year[,] so make sure to start something important to you. It MAY BE the most important New Moon of the next 8 years so REALLY make sure to start something important to you! Moons like this don't come around too often."

In Honduras, people plant new crops on the New Moon. They're not particularly astrology followers, but someone, somewhere noticed that seeds planted on a New Moon yielded more plentiful crops. Who knows if this is true, but it's funny how beliefs from all over the world seem to have a connective string ...

Anyway, whatever your beliefs, it can't hurt to put something in motion today.

All in a day's work

Brendan and I were in the park today when a woman showed up with her six kids.  She filled up almost the entire little park with her brood.  There were teenagers, and tweens, and toddlers.  She seemed to have had them in pairs; each child had a companion close in age.

The kids were loud -- all yelling "Mom! -- and competing for attention.  Yet, this woman was composed, well put together and-- dare I say it? -- happy.

I mentally told myself that I had to step up my "mom" game.  I chastised myself for my lack of patience and my intolerance for noise.  And just as I was starting to envy this woman -- whom I was sure must be the front-runner for the Mother of the Year award -- I noticed that one her younger children was wearing a bathing suit.  Just a bathing suit.  It's April.  And it's 63 degrees outside.

I may not have the patience of Ghandi and I may not have six kids, but on any given day, I can work up the energy to put pants on Brendan before we head out the door.  Let me take back that statuette ....  

Listening 101

"Within every adversity lies the seed of opportunity."

People assume that this phrase refers to some huge adversity and phoenix-like rise from the ashes, like losing a job only to be offered a better, higher paying job, or breaking up with a significant other only to run into one's soulmate the next day.  But I submit to you that this refers to any adversity, however small, that you may face -- from misplacing your keys to oversleeping when you have an appointment.  There is a lesson to be learned even from the minutia of our lives, if only we learn to listen.

Today, Big Bren misplaced a new packet of Allen wrenches.  The sky fell and the flowers wailed (I exaggerate, but only a smidgen).  There was door slamming and some words I cannot repeat in a family blog.  There were recriminations ("Did you move my Allen wrenches??  Why can't I ever find anything in this house????) and things cavalierly tossed out of their places (my laptop, thankfully in its case, was a victim) in an attempt to unearth the "lost" wrenches.  The one thing that never came out of Big Bren's mouth was: "I should have put my wrenches in a place where I could find them. "

For me, life offers a myriad of opportunities for improvement on a daily basis.  Like a kid, however, I often cover my ears and scream "la la la la la" while it's speaking.  I don't want to see the reflection of my weaknesses and my faults in whatever I'm going through.  I refuse to acknowledge that I have created unfavorable situations in my life and I most definitely do not want to hear that I -- and I alone -- have to find a way to resolve them.  I prefer to think that someone will come along and find my wrenches, instead of realizing that once I change my slovenly ways, the wrenches will appear during the cleanup.   Too often, we foist responsibility onto others for things we should be taking care of ourselves.  We want someone else to not only keep track of our "stuff," but also to clean up the mess we've made when we go through our "stuff."  No one is responsible for you.  No one can make you happy.  Or prosperous.  Or joyful.  Those things, and everything you're seeking, originate within you.  Find the seed of opportunity within that seemingly adverse situation, plant it and see what grows.  

Nadya Suleman can go pound salt

Okay, fine, that was a bit harsh, but word on the street (and by "street," I mean the gossip rags) is that she's received $2,000,000 for a reality show.

Am I the only person who thinks this woman should be focusing on raising her many kids instead of trying to be a celebrity? The fact is, other than being absolutely self-centered and egotistical, what has this woman done that warrants a reality show? Since she apparently has a million nannies in place to care for her children (that website seeking donations must have really taken off), what exactly is the public expecting to see? And, in good conscience, should those premature babies be put through that circus for the sake of this woman’s ego and the public's morbid curiousity?

Here is what I propose: everyone boycotts not just this reality show, but also the network that has commissioned it. If this woman is at all savvy – and based on the way that she is working the media, I have to assume that she is – she has demanded her money up front. You see, I have no problem with her trying to find a way to feed her 14 children; what I do have a problem with is her exploiting her kids to do it. So, if she’s already gotten the money, more power to her. Seriously, boycott the show and the network. For once, let us put aside the rubber-necking and do the right thing. Since their mother is not going to do it, let’s do it for those 14 kids.

In the Event of Loss of Cabin Pressure ...

This past weekend found me awash in a sea of disappointment.

My oldest sister indicated that she wanted to come to New York to visit for a week and, as always, I did all I could possibly do to make it happen for her. But once she got here, she spared no time at all to spend with me or Brendan. Sunday night found the poor kid struggling to keep his eyes open so he could spend some "quality time" with her before she left the State early Monday morning, only to conk out at 9:30 p.m., while my sister did not show up until 10:30.

My brother was also in town and, after promising to spend some time with me at my home, decided to go back home a day early. The week before, I'd invited my father over for a barbeque to celebrate his 69th birthday; he responded with such negativity to the invite, that I felt like I'd offered him a steaming plate of dung or something equally as appetizing.

This glorious week concluded with my having a run-in with my step-son (I felt like he'd disrespected me and called him on it); which escalated into an argument with Big Bren and with me being cast as the "Evil Stepmother."

For the past year, I've been on this path of betterment. I've succeeded in many ways and failed miserably in others. In my quest, however, I have been quick to blame myself for my struggling relationships, where others' apathy, self-centeredness or emotional immaturity and laziness should have taken equal billing. I've often sacrificed my self, my finances, my pride and my time to make others happy (perhaps in yet another misguided attempt to garner love). And, today, I find myself feeling victimized (can't you tell??).

The kicker is that you cannot ingratiate yourself to anyone. People either love you or they don't. They either consider you or they don't. They either want to spend time with you or they don't. And if you are so busy trying to be loved that you stop loving yourself, then despite all your "doing," and all your "offering" and all the "providing," everyone around you will only mirror that absence of love.

As I sat here Sunday night, I suddenly thought of that instruction on the plane where they tell you that in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, the oxygen masks will pop down; and when they do, you should put on your own mask before you help other people with theirs. Here I was, trying to save everyone, while I was nearly passed out from lack of oxygen. (When my sister finally showed up with her church "sisters" in tow, they decided to pray at the house before hitting the road. Tellingly, the Bible passage that one of the sisters chose for the occasion had a woman lamenting to God that she'd been forced to toil at everyone else's vineyard, leaving her own grapes to whither and die.) Surely, if I stop trying to be all things to all people, I can be "Mirna" for me. And at the end of the day -- or, in this case, week -- all I have left is me.

Sign on the dotted line

It’s funny how much like a business contract marriage is. Actually, that was all the rage a few years ago – entering into a written agreement with your future spouse as to the “terms” of your union. For instance, the person who didn’t mind cooking would offer to cook in exchange for not having to clean up afterward. The one who was more financially savvy would agree to pay the bills, as long as the other partner agreed to take out the trash on garbage day, and so on.

When I first heard about these written agreements, I wrinkled my nose in distaste. What is the use of being married, I thought, if everything is a quid pro quo? Isn’t the purpose of marriage to not only share the good and the bad, but to grow together? How can you grow if everything is etched in stone?

Almost 6 years in, I now know that whether you write the terms down or not, you are in a binding agreement. And the people who sit down and say, “this is what I want; this is what I need; and this is what I am willing to give and do” are better off in the long run.  And, quite frankly, it is often the little things that begin to grate on your nerves after a while.  It's the socks on the floor, the unwashed dishes and the unloaded dishwasher.  It can be snoring or the way someone snorts when s/he laughs.  What personally bothers me is the refrain:  "I can't read minds!"  Often said with equal parts frustration and derision.  You don't need to be a mind-reader to know that dirty laundry will not wash, fold and/or put itself away.  You don't need a ESP degree to know that an empty refrigerator means it's time to go grocery shopping!

On a whole, though, I am glad that our issues are relatively minor because the “terms” aren’t just about chores or who is going to pick up the kids from school; they are about how you treat yourself and about how you allow or expect others to treat you. For instance, I have family members whose partners routinely cheat on them. They turn a blind eye or – if confronted with the truth – show anger for a week or a month and then decide to “work things out.”  Except their version of "working things out" is simply to ignore the problem; thereby allowing the partner to do it again and again. There’s one woman whose significant other has cheated on her at least 5 times – the last time was in her own bed. By not taking action the first time, she signed the contract conceding that he could do it the second, third, fourth and fifth time. Short of ripping that contract up and declaring a breach, there is no way to get out of it.

Then there are those for whom “divorce is not an option.” I am as much of a romantic as the next person, but that is like walking into a car dealership and saying, “I am going to buy a car from you today no matter how you treat me, or how much you inflate the cost of the car, or even if you try to sell me a lemon.” You can only imagine how well that salesman is going to treat you and how much effort he is going to put into that transaction – not very well and not very much.  That's not to say that divorce should be taken lightly -- it shouldn't be.  My "deal breakers" are but two things:  infidelity and domestic violence.  I'll work on everything else; but I'll be damned if I am going to lay down and be a doormat for anybody.

There are days in my marriage when I am blissfully happy and days that end with me fuming, “I didn’t sign up for this crap.” I used to think that I had no power; that I could only go along until I got to the point where I either learned to cope or got so fed up that I moved on. I have learned, though, that marriage can be like a career that you've put a lot of time and effort into – sometimes it’s frustrating, but most times it’s fulfilling. And, like a job, sometimes you have to stop and ask, “Am I being treated fairly? Am I getting equal value for what I am putting in?” If the answer is “no,” you have to be willing to speak up and change the terms of that contract. No one can do it but you. I’ve found that most people are always willing to renegotiate.

Attitude of Gratitude

“Many people who order their lives rightly in all other ways, are kept in poverty by their lack of gratitude.” Wallace D. Wattles, The Science of Getting Rich.

It is easy to get so mired in the day-to-day that we forget to be grateful for what we have. Today, I promised myself that I would be thankful for everything that I could think to be thankful for. The day did not disappoint. Getting in my car, I could not help but be grateful for its existence; and even more grateful that it has not given me a moment’s trouble since I got it last year. Going to work, I was grateful for the clear roads; no traffic today. That made it easy to appreciate the cleanliness of the roadways. Which got me going on a gratitude tangent – how ever does the government keep the foliage on the side of the highways neat and trimmed and the grounds so clean? More gratitude for that. Enjoying the scenic Saw Mill Parkway, I thanked God for my sight. I listened to a book on CD and had to give the Woman Above a “big-up” for my hearing and the fact that I could comprehend it. I struggled up the hill going up to my office while lugging my big work bag; that turned into the opportunity to be grateful for the fact that I could walk.

At my desk, I observed the piles of papers and felt inclined to grumble; instead I closed my eyes and thought of the millions of people who are unemployed in this country right now. I projected a silent “thanks” and went to work.

I started filling out the paperwork for Brendan’s summer camp and felt my stomach churn when I saw the price. Then I thought about my little guy and thanked God for lending him to me in this lifetime.

Even typing this post, I had to inwardly thank my parents for sacrificing in order to send me to a high school that taught typing and other useful skills.

Every where I turned today, there was a choice to be made: complain or feel good. Today, I choose to feel good.

How Do Kids Learn These Things?

Yesterday, I gave Brendan a quarter to buy a gumball from the machine at the car wash. It was one of the "new" quarters with the State-specific designs on the back. Yes, they've been around for years, but they still look new to me.

Brendan flipped it over and immediately said what I was thinking: "A quarter just doesn't look like a quarter without an eagle on the back."

Write it Down, Make it Happen

I just finished reading a book by Henriette Anne Klauser titled Write It Down, Make It Happen. The title says it all; if you write down your dreams and goals, they will come true. It seems a bit simplistic, but it works. I've discovered journals from years ago where I've written about my aspirations and have been surprised by how many of them actually came true. There is one catch, though (isn't there always?) -- those things that you have the least attachment to will likely come true before those that are most important to you. Let me put it this way, writing down your hopes, dreams and goals is a little like planting a vegetable. You need to dig a hole, drop in the seeds, water it every day, but detach from the result. If you dig up the seeds every day to see if they're growing, they're not going to grow. Why not? Because you're hampering their growth. But if you step back, in a few weeks, some green leaves will break through the ground and a few weeks after that, you'll have a full grown plant.

When I was 28 years old, I was desperate to meet my "soul mate" and get married. I am from Honduras and according to my family, at 28, I was way past my expiration date. My sisters, including my younger one, had all married by no later than 25 (and even that had been considered "late"). For me, it wasn't so much the marriage that I wanted, it was a child. I wanted to be a "young" mommy and at that point, it just wasn't happening. In the heat of that desperation, I wrote a journal entry where I said that if I was not married by age 32, I would have a child by myself. I was a professional woman; I could raise a child as a single mother.

By the time I turned 32, I had left the practice of law and was working at a job that was law-related but not as stressful. I had just purchased a co-op apartment in beautiful Riverdale. I'd recently broken up with Big Bren and was dipping my toe back into the dating scene. One day, Big Bren called and we decided to hang out. As they say in campy novels, "one thing led to another," and we ended up having sex again. We agreed that we weren't getting back together and went back to our separate lives. About 4 days later, I had a dream where I was standing in front of a mirror, horrified, because I had found a gray hair. In the dream, I was bemoaning the fact that I was 32. While still in the dream state, I tore my eyes from the offending gray hair and noticed that I was pregnant! I woke up in cold sweat. The journal entry came rushing back to me. "No, no, no! Please, God, no! I was just kidding. I was a stupid child back then. I do NOT want to be pregnant! I CANNOT be pregnant!" (I figured if I spoke to God in exclamation points, She would have no choice but to listen.) I went on: "What will my mother say?? She's going to kill me! What will I tell the people at work?" I continued to bemoan my fate until I feel back asleep.

When I woke up, it all seemed like a bad dream. I felt no different, so I decided to will myself back to non-pregnancy. For weeks, my body cooperated. I had no morning sickness; in fact, I had no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. A few weeks later, I decided to test the Fates and took a pregnancy test and there they were, the ominous two lines.

The rest of the story: my mother didn't kill me, although she came close; I was no longer the old maid in the family (just the harlot); I married Big Bren; and the best part -- I had my Brendan.

When I picked up the book, it was with the intent to make all these great things happen: publish my book, get out of the rat race, etc. But I also did so with desperation (again!) and attachment to the end result. I am convinced that the reason I got pregnant at that time was because, by writing it down, I set my intention in stone; and, most importantly, allowed it happen without attachment to the result. At the time I made that journal entry, there was nothing more I could do about it -- it was 4 years in the future! So I let it be. Yes, your words have power -- they are coming from the deepest part of you and the part that is connected to your higher source. But they should come from a place of peace and surrender.

Happy writing!!

The Road Less Traveled

A few months ago, Big Bren came to me and asked whether his other son -- who is now 10 -- could move in with us. In Stepmom Diaries (below), I've written how difficult I find it at times to deal with his children. And that was just on weekends. With those few words from my husband, I was suddenly standing on a precipice. As Victorian as it sounds, I literally took to my bed. And stayed there for a few days.

I truly, truly did not know what to do. If I said "no," hubby would be angry and disappointed. But if I said "yes," I would feel as if I had let myself down. I thought about all the work involved: the cooking, the shuttling to/from school and other activities, the laundry, the homework. I was getting a headache just thinking about it. I burrowed into the sheets a little more. When I was no longer sleepy, I took a sleeping pill. I didn't want to face the world; and I most definitely did not want to make a decision.

I let it drag on for a few days. In the meantime, there were endless telephone calls to Big Bren from the child's mother (a.k.a The Psycho). He would hang up with her and the phone would ring again -- his son this time. Mother and child were not getting along. The son was getting increasingly disrespectful. He was doing poorly in school and the Psycho was not equipped to deal with it.

I spoke to my most trusted advisors and the response was unanimous: "Do not let that crazy woman's child into your home full-time." My decision had seemingly been made. I had a peaceful night's sleep for the first time since Big Bren broached the topic.

The next morning, I went to my child's room to wake him up and get him ready for school. He was asleep in his bed, with his bottom up in the air. I smiled at the perfect picture of him in his room. He had his toys in one corner, a rocking horse in another, and his little Thomas the Train bed. And I realized how lucky he was to have his own space, a peaceful home and two parents who adored him. It suddenly dawned on me that was all Big Bren was trying to provide for his other son. The child was thin from not eating many balanced meals (candy and junk food abounded in his mother's home and she simply is not someone who believes in balance, structure or effective discipline). He had a never-ending "cold" or "allergy" that lasted year-round. He had a nervous cough that was seemingly triggered by the cold/allergy, but which did not occur when he was asleep. By all accounts, a true cough did not cease upon sleeping. From what I understood, he still slept in his mother's bed and, when he was at our house and had to sleep alone, always slept with all the lights on. Despite his mother's receipt of child support, all his clothes were ragged and short and all his shoes tight. Whenever we took him anywhere, we ended up buying him new clothes. He had no pajamas and his underwear was stained. No mother in her right mind wants to see her child do poorly, so no doubt, despite her issues, the Psycho was trying her best. Maybe what she needed was a little help.

After I got to work that day, I called Big Bren and told him that I could live with it if he decided to have his son move in. (Not the most enthusiastic of endorsements, but the only one I could muster at the time.)

It has been five months since he moved in. As a self-admitted introvert, I find it uncomfortable to have many people within my personal sphere, so I am probably not the best stepmother there is to have and every fear I had about the amount of work it would take has proven true. The "crazy woman" part proved prophetic as well (because this is a "feel good" post, I won't delve into her antics.) What I can report is that the child is healthy now. No cough; no cold; not even a sniffle. Every evening, he eats all his dinner and sometimes asks for seconds. He takes healthy snacks to school. When he moved in, Big Bren bought him a new wardrobe that was age-appropriate and fit properly. He got shoes and winter wear as needed. And his face lights up when goes to his very own room -- which is decorated as a sports fan's dream, with a basketball hoop, sports figures, balls and memorabilia plastered all over the walls. He joined Cub Scouts and won a trophy for some event. He is even excelling in school now.

For Big Bren's and the child's sake, I am glad I kicked off the covers and decided to take the road less traveled.

Facing Down the Beast

Last summer, with pretty much no forewarning and absolutely no preparation, one of my sisters picked up her two children and moved half-way across the country. She and her husband scraped together their combined savings and put it as a down payment on a house. They had nothing left over for moving expenses, so they left everything behind. They simply got in their car, stuffed as many clothes as would fit in the trunk and started driving. Upon arrival, they had no money for furniture, so they’re sleeping, eating and living on the floor of their brand new home.

I’ve written before about how my siblings and I were raised. My parents did – and still do – worship money. These are people who will forgo basic necessities in order to save money. Because my parents were so devout to the Almighty Dollar, it stands to reason that my siblings and I turned out to be money pagans. We do not worship at the altar of timely bill payment. We do not light candles to the Credit Score god. Budget? We spit on you. It is something that we all have in common and which causes my parents an endless amount of stress.

So when my sister moved to another state with no money, no savings, no job prospects and no interest in getting a job, my poor parents almost had synchronized heart attacks. My mother lost sleep; my father went ballistic; one of my other sisters denounced her as “irresponsible”; and I was just in shock.

Let me say that my sister is no lay-about. She has been working non-stop since she was 16 years old. She has a bachelor’s degree and 2 masters in Education from NYU; she has just completed another degree in Theology. For 20 of the 21 years of her marriage, she was the primary breadwinner. Her husband would work for 4 to 6 months and “take a break” – all while she slaved to keep the kids’ tuition paid, the rent out of arrears and food on the table. When she couldn’t do it alone, the rest us of pitched in to help (be it by taking the kids for the weekend or buying them school clothes). For her to simply say “I refuse to do this anymore; let the chips fall where they may,” was huge.

While this may seem like the perfect recipe for disaster, I am beginning to see the method in her madness. By being Superwoman, she infantilized her husband and spoiled her kids. None of them had any consideration for her or any appreciation for what she provided. Because the chips are certainly falling – everywhere, I might add – her husband has had to break his “4 months of work and 8 months of vacation” habit. Her eldest child has had to get a job. Her youngest must make do without the $150 sneakers he had grown accustomed to. In the meantime, my sister attends to the home and rejects job offers; all while continuing to sleep on the floor (“it’s good for the back,” she quips) and eat on the floor (“every day is a picnic,” she chirped the last time I spoke with her).

The experience is certainly teaching her family a valuable lesson, but the biggest lesson may be for my sister, herself, whether she realizes it or not. You see, in my parents’ eyes, this is the absolute worst thing that could happen to a person – to be broke and have no immediate monetary prospects. Yet my sister is facing the financial beast head on and not backing down. She is unabashed in her self-imposed poverty and has weathered the economic storm without seeking shelter under anyone else’s pecuniary umbrella. Most importantly, my sister has shown us that even stripped of all material things, she is still, well, her. She didn’t die when her last paycheck was used up. She didn’t turn into dust when the last dollar in her savings account was depleted. And by experiencing true scarcity, my sister will never again succumb to the scarcity mentality my family falls prey to. She has – albeit in the most excruciating way possible – shed the family karma that continues to plague the rest of us. It is exhibiting true courage in the face of a beast.

My sister is now 8 months into her sojourn into the belly of the money beast. I don’t know when she will return; but it will be cause for celebration when she does.

Verbal Constipation

The organization that Big Bren works for gives him these cards at the beginning of every year. They are affinity cards – they indicate that you are related in some way to a member of the organization. And as one credit card company would say, “membership has its privileges.” The most hardened member of the organization becomes helpful once you show them the card. Because the cards are useful, people have taken to stealing them or trying to buy them on E-bay, so Big Bren personalizes the ones he gives out by writing – with permanent marker – the intended recipient’s name on the top and his name, title and telephone number on the bottom.

This year, I eagerly awaited the receipt of my card. Come the end of January, however, Big Bren had still not given them out. One day, I came across the stack in our guest bedroom. Perhaps it was just inherent nosiness, but I looked through the stack to see who – other than moi – would be benefiting from use of the card. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.

No, it wasn’t a mistress (if it had been, I’d be locked up somewhere and you wouldn’t be reading this post); rather, I noticed that on each and every card to various family members, in addition to the name and his information, Big Bren had written a phrase or a saying. One said “Be safe.” Another, “I love you.” Yet another, “Take care.” Some were a casual “Love ya.” And on mine: nothing.

The blank space between the “To my wife, Mirna,” and his information at the bottom taunted me.

There are people who inspire conversation. My mother is such a person. She greets perfect strangers with a smile and takes her leave with a “Bye, Papi,” or “See you later, Love.” She meets someone and within an hour, they have told her their whole life story; they’re chatting like old friends. I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. I can meet someone multiple times and not even make small talk about the weather. It’s not meanness on my part or even a lack of social grace; when necessary, I converse, and under the right circumstances, I am a veritable chatterbox. But, most times, I am content to be silent.

So I really should not have been surprised by the “silence” on the card. Yet, I was indeed surprised. That card, in all its simplicity, lacked more than words; it lacked heart and emotion. By the time I got the card in hand, it had been edited to include a large "I [heart] you" in the middle. Still, where my mother causes verbal diarrhea, I apparently produce verbal constipation (the words eventually come out, but not without some strain).

I am Maid

I happened to be at my parents’ home one day this past week during dinner time. Although I usually eat when I visit my parents, I am never actually there when it is time for my father to dine. I had forgotten the intricate ritual that goes into “serving” him his dinner.

Initially, my father doesn’t eat a simple meal like most people; his meals have parts and sub-parts. There’s the meat, and rice, and boiled green banana or sweet plantains (boiled or fried), and there’s salad. Everything is served all at once. He sits down and my mother runs around the kitchen getting everything together. She brings the food first, then he’ll bellow: “cubiertos!” She’ll put down whatever she’s doing and hurry to get utensils for him. Then he’ll say: “limon!” and she’ll stop whatever she’s doing again and fetch him a lemon wedge. When he’s satisfied with what’s in front of him, he takes the salt shaker and sprinkles salt generously on his food – without tasting it first. When he’s just about done, he’ll say loudly for my mother to hear, wherever she may be in the house, “I could drink some soda now!” And she’ll come scurrying and open the refrigerator – which is located right next to him in the eat-in kitchen, by the way – get him a can of soda, open it and put it in front of him.

When he’s completely done, he will wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin that she placed there for him, and get up – leaving the plate with the scraps on the table. He will then go watch the news while reclining in his chair. My mother takes the plate from the table and does the dishes. Only then, when she’s done with her “wifely duties” can my mother relax enough to sit down and eat.

This is nothing new for me, of course. Until I moved out at 22, I was one of the women scurrying about like frightened slaves trying to anticipate my father’s every need. But until I saw this again the other day, I had relegated it to the back of my mind. And I have to say that it bothered the crap out of me. I recall the years of servitude; never having a free moment, because you could be called to “duty” at any moment by a whistle (yes, my father would whistle for us when he needed something). It could be something as simple as passing him the remote (because it was too strenuous for him to reach over the 11 inches to get it) or something as disgusting as clipping his toenails or putting medicine on his corns. As a fully grown woman with my own family now, I don’t understand why mother accustomed him to being treated that way, so that now in their twilight years, she continues to be a servant when she should be the one being waited on. I know it’s too late for them; neither one of them is going to change, but the whole thing still leaves a bad, bitter taste in my mouth.

Under Construction

I’ve written before how most women juggle multiple balls – relationship, children, work, self, friendships – at any given time. I’ve admitted to dropping one or more of the balls, but that the most dropped ball is “self.” I often get caught up in trying to take care of everyone and lose sight of me. Now, I’ve learned that I’ve also dropped the “friendships” ball and it is hidden somewhere behind the sofa so that I may not be able to retrieve it again!

I e-mailed two good friends of mine yesterday – I’ve known both women for 8 years now – with the subject line “I feel abandoned.” These are ladies with whom – up until a few weeks ago – I would engage in a three-way e-mail communication several times a day, just sharing random thoughts. One of them did not respond to the e-mail; the other sent me a long response basically stating that they had not abandoned me, I had been so involved in my own life that I had pulled away from them.

At first I felt offended; but I’m wise enough (ha!) to know that when you hear a truth, your ego will often rise up with the “oh, no, she didn’t!” reaction in order to divert your attention from the truth. So, I removed my fingers from the keyboard, before I could respond in a way that would do lasting damage.

Then, as the icing on the cake, I sent an e-mail to another friend – this one I’ve known for 25 years – about Brendan’s birthday party and got an e-mail back saying that she would love to come, but she was having a party for her daughter the same day. But she didn’t invite me and hadn’t even mentioned it until I brought up Brendan’s party.

Here I was, patting myself on the back because I had managed – since September – to get up on time, pack my child’s snack for school and have him there on time (most days, anyway – I’m not perfect, you know); when, in fact, my friendships were collapsing around me. Today, I had to face the unsavory truth that I have not been a good friend. I have not e-mailed anyone in a while; I don't call to check up on my friends; and I don't remember the last time I sent a birthday or Christmas card. The sad part is that not only have I not been a good friend to the ladies who have held me together when I was falling apart (one of them even got on a plane with me to chase my then boyfriend down on vacation because I thought he was cheating on me), but I just haven’t been good to myself lately. I really have been engrossed with the minutia of everyday life. Truth be told, I am tired of it. I am tired of the lunches, and the laundry, and the cooking, and the cleaning. I feel like I’m on one of those wheels that the hamsters exercise on. I realize that the reason I feel like this is because I have no other life! I know that if I saw a movie with a friend now and then; or met up with someone for a manicure and pedicure; or for a chat and a cup of coffee; or even just keeping up my e-mail correspondence, I wouldn’t feel so bored and isolated.

I honestly don’t believe that life is meant to be depressing or boring. So, going forward, I intend to be a better friend. I truly hope that the “friendships” ball is retrievable. And I hope that my friends can understand that their girl is not a finished product – I am the first to admit that I am “under construction.”

"You Can't Play 'Cause You Have Different Skin"

Brendan has been obsessing about color lately.  Last week, he said he no longer wanted to be brown.  When I asked him what color he wanted to be, he paused, then threw his arms around me and said "I love you very much, Mommy."  Then, he hurried away before I could ask him any more questions.

A few days later, he said that he wished I wasn't brown.  I told him that I loved being brown, but given a choice, what color would he make me?  Another pause, then he answered that he wished I was the same color as his cousin Joey's mommy -- who is also brown.  I was puzzled, but before I could question him any more, he hurried away again.

Then, on Sunday, the truth finally reared its head:  in recess recently, four boys that he looks up to and used to play with all the time told him that he couldn't play with them anymore, because he had "different skin."  He tried to tell the story nonchalantly, as if he couldn't care less whether those boys played with him or not, but I could see the pain in his eyes.  It was like I had been stabbed in the chest.  

Big Bren and I have gone out of our way to provide a multicultural environment for Brendan.  He watches multicultural programs; his "people" toys are all different nationalities; even the angel on our Christmas tree was of color.  What we didn't realize was that Brendan would not -- and could not -- grow up in that bubble.  We assumed, I guess, that other parents would be raising their children the same way.

I wonder whether racism occurs through nature or nurture.  Is it in our DNA to discriminate against those who do not look like us or are we raised to do so?  The fact that those boys used that terminology -- different skin -- makes me think that their parents are not necessarily racists.  If so, they would have used other, not so benign, words.  Just the same, if the parents surround themselves and their children with people who all look the same, it's no wonder the kids are so intolerant of change.

Big Bren, who, while not brown, feels strongly about having a child who feels comfortable in his skin, whatever color that may be, marched to the school the very next day and told the Head of School about Brendan's experience.  The point was not to get those boys in trouble, but to steer them in the direction of acceptance of others.  On our end, we will not do anything differently. We are already teaching Brendan not just tolerance, but acceptance, of cultural differences.  And with our wonderfully multi-hued family, he gets to do that every day.

The Most Expensive Thing I've Ever Had ...

... is Brendan.

Kids are frigging expensive. There’s tuition and afterschool and clothing and entertainment and Christmas gifts and birthday gifts and birthday parties. Geez!

Big Bren made fun of me the other day because I bought some eye shadow at the dollar store. I thought about making my usual trip to the Mac store, but when I thought about the amount of gas I would spend to get there, plus the $18 for the actual eye shadow, I decided to go down the hill to the dollar store and called it a day. The damn thing probably contains lead and might dry out my eye lids, but what can I say? I’ve become “frugal” in my old age.

The Unloveable

For most of my life, I have not felt loved. Worse, I have not felt love-able. My parents were neither affectionate nor effusive. They never said “I love you.” They never hugged us or kissed us. They didn’t tuck us into bed at night or say “I’m proud of you” if we did anything noteworthy. By the time I was seven, my mother cut off any physical contact with my father, like kisses goodnight or sitting on his lap, because she had seen too many instances of incest in the Honduran community and she wanted to remove any “temptation.” My mom was also of the opinion that a child would be “spoiled” if showered with attention; my dad left all the child-rearing decisions – insofar as it related to us girls – to my mother.

On one hand, it was good that my mother ruled with an iron fist, because my sisters and I avoided the pitfalls that surrounded us in the projects where we lived. All around us, the girls were dropping out of school and getting pregnant. And while we probably would’ve have sought out the attentions of young men to fill the void of love we felt at home, my mother timed our commute to and from school, was on good terms with a welfare mother on our floor (who watched everything we did and if anyone entered the apartment while my mother wasn’t there) and had a voice-activated recorder on the phone in her locked room that taped all conversations on our telephone line. Simply put, we had no opportunity to become sluts.

Growing up that way comes at a price. For many years, I harbored a deep-rooted belief that no one loved me and was convinced that no one could love me. I felt unworthy and ugly. I mean, if no one in my early life had – and who better to love you than your mother, your father, your family – then why would anyone in my later life? As a result, I always felt that any man I was with had an ulterior motive for wanting to be with me. The first time that I have felt true love – given and received – was when I had Brendan.

In recent months, I began feeling a sense of stagnation. Life was not bad, but not great. The fact is that I feel a yearning, a longing for something, but the something is fuzzy, not clear. I feel like there is more to be done, but I’m coming up against an unbreachable wall that will not allow me to do it – whatever “it” is. I knew that there was something I was meant to learn, something I was meant to understand once and for all. Whenever I get into these depressive moods, I try to pray or meditate them away. And so it was that I bumped into Michael Bernard Beckwith’s “Life Visioning Program” on CD. I won’t describe the whole program here, but it entails asking the “right” questions for personal growth. He recommends not asking “why” questions (those are my personal favorites: Why me? Why now? Why? Why?), but “what” and “how” questions. What must I become in order to manifest my vision? How must I grow? What must I change about me? What is it that I need to let go of? Once you ask the question, you should mediate on them and let the Universe, your subconscious, God, or whatever you want to label it, will give you the answers.

I asked the questions and … nothing happened. (Did you expect the skies to part and God to give me the answer??) I was truly frustrated. I copied the discs onto my I-pod and sent the originals to my sister, thinking that perhaps, she’d get better use out of the program. Maybe I had done it wrong.

That night, as I tucked Brendan into bed, I kissed his forehead and said, “que sueñes con los angelitos, Hijo” -- “Dream with the little angels, my son.” And I stopped. That was odd. I never say that phrase to Brendan. I almost always say “goodnight, Baby. I love you.” But I remembered the phrase well – when my mother wasn’t working nights, she would be in the living room watching her telenovelas, my siblings and I would line up at the living room door to say goodnight. As we kissed her cheek, she would say to each of us, “que sueñes con los angelitos negros” – “dream with the little brown angels.” Odd, indeed, that I would say that phrase.

A few days later, I was going to a seminar when the answers struck me. Seemingly out of the blue. Memories came flooding into my brain. There was my older cousin, Adora, caring for me when my parents came to the States. She was carrying me on her hip, so the hot sand would not hurt my bare feet in Honduras. My head lay sleepily on her shoulder as she carried me. She was smiling and planting feather-light kisses on my forehead as she walked. There was my oldest sister, Elsa, playing "school" with me in our bedroom in the projects. She was teaching me English words. There I was, feverish and coughing, during a bad winter soon after we’d moved to the South Bronx; and there Elsa was again, rubbing Vicks into my bony chest to ease the cough, then leaning me against her and covering me up with sheets. Elsa yet again, at the book fair at our school; my mother hadn’t given us enough money to each buy a book, but Elsa had found me and was handing over her few coins so that I, at least, would get something I wanted. I saw me at around 8 years old waking in the middle of night with a nightmare and having Elsa, who was only 5 years older than me, rub my brow until I fell asleep again. Now, it was my brother, Arles, holding me in his arms, shielding me from our mother; she was trying to get at me because I had not ironed my uniform jumper properly and we were going to be late for school. She was screaming and frustrated; she pounded furiously on Arles’s back and arms, but he would not let her get to me. Even my mother made some positive appearances; she had taken time off from her day job to take me to the dermatologist – in times of stress I get severe bouts of seborrheic dermatitis. My mom again, getting up early to braid our hair before school, even though she’d worked at her night job and must have been tired. And last, my dad, making the car “dance” to music by stepping on and releasing the brakes, so my siblings and I could laugh; taking us to the movies to see the Mexican actor “Cantinflas” in his latest comedic escapades while my mother worked; and driving two hours to the beaches of Long Island each Sunday during the summer so we could see something other than projects and crackheads.

Then the inner knowing came: I had been loved all along. Perhaps I hadn’t known it, but I had been loved. Then the same inner voice implored me to look at my life in recent years. How my mother and my sisters had driven to Buffalo to help me move from one apartment to another. How, after I had carbon monoxide poisoning and was afraid to sleep, Elsa -- who was the working mother of two young boys at the time -- stayed up the whole night watching me to make sure that I would wake up. The voice said to see my mother in her perpetual penance: cooking my favorite meals, calling to see how I am doing all the time, saying “I love you” to my son. To notice how my husband has lived up to his vows of in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer. And all my friends who care for me for no reason other than they care about me. And I felt a sense of peace. A sense of belonging unlike anything I had felt before. And I knew – I know – that everything will be okay. That I will do whatever it is that I am meant to do.

Change has Come

Today, my co-workers and I gathered around an archaic television set in our conference room and watched Barack Obama become the 44th president of the United States of America.  It was totally awesome (in the original meaning of the word -- not the way teeny boppers and my almost-5-year-old use it).  I was a huge goosebump for the entire duration of the ceremony and his speech.  Standing before the country was the epitome of the American Dream.  He is what my mother always said people of color could be.  He is what Dr. Martin Luther King foresaw when he said that one day Black people would be judged by the content of their character and not the color of their skin.  Today, I was truly proud to be a person of color and an American.

Behind the Curtain

I think The Wizard of Oz is one of the best books ever written. Unlike most people, however, I don’t think the best parts are those that come after Dorothy discovers that the Wizard is a sham. Once she opens the curtain and exposes the balding little man working strings and levers to make the “magic” happen, it is not the beginning of an adventure, but the beginning of the end. At that point, she loses hope. There will be no wizard who will save her; no white knight. Then and there she knows that she’s going to have to save her damn self. The winged monkeys and the wicked witch are just distractions. At the end, it’s just a girl and her shoes.

I started thinking about The Wizard of Oz the other day after a conversation with Big Bren. Brendan had gone to bed and we were laying about, just killing time. I was on our bed, in my flannel pajamas, doing what I always do in the evening before bed – reading the gossip rags on line. Suddenly, the conversation turned to how I had been 10 years ago, when Big Bren and I first met. Smiling, he said, “I like you better now. You’re more real. I’ve made you into a woman; you know, a wife.” For a minute, my blood ran cold. Not that I don’t like being a mom and a wife; I most definitely do. But I feel like I had to kill my inner wizard to become that.

In some sense, Big Bren is right. When we met, I was a completely different person. I would work at the firm until late in the evening, then go hang out with my co-workers at some posh restaurant or bar. All my clothes were designer and I thought nothing of spending $1,000 on a handbag. I had a personal trainer at the local gym, and a standing appointment on Tuesdays with a Russian aesthetician named Anya, who gave me a mani and pedi and made sure that my various parts were plucked and/or waxed to my satisfaction. I had a closet full of lingerie and I could not walk out of my apartment in the morning if my bra and panties did not match. What can I say, I was a bit of a pretentious twit. But that was my curtain; everything that anyone saw was simply the projection -- the show -- that I was putting on. None of it was real.

I don’t know when my wizard died (let’s face it, that old me ain’t making a comeback). A piece of her died when I got carbon monoxide poisoning in the Murray Hill apartment that I rented for more money than I could reasonably afford, because I convinced myself that I just had to live in Manhattan. I was removed unconscious from that apartment in my fabulous Victoria’s Secret underwear.

Maybe she died when I started suffering stress attacks after the carbon monoxide incident and I couldn’t sleep for fear that I wouldn’t wake up. It’s hard to think about matching underwear when you’re falling apart psychologically.

No, I don’t know how or when it happened. Big Bren did not ride in on big white horse to rescue me. There was no knight in shining armor. We just took one step at a time. It feels like I just woke up one day, wearing no make-up, with unshaved and unwaxed body parts, stuffed into flannel pajamas. It wasn’t something that I planned or even wanted. And, yet, it is more real to me than anything I have ever lived before. When my little guy rains kisses on my face, it’s worth more than a million Gucci bags. When I put my head on my husband’s chest at night, he doesn’t care that I haven’t had a manicure in a month.

Sometimes, when “real” life threatens to overwhelm me, I wish I could click my heels three times and go back to that life – it seems so easy, so glamorous, in comparison to my reality today. But I know, as Dorothy came to learn, that there really is no place like home. Right now, there may be more dish-washing than Broadway plays and more laundry than pomegranate martinis, but, at the end of the day, it is the place that I call home.

What Donuts Do

Brendan and I were running errands today when we passed by the local Dunkin Donuts and Brendan asked if he could have a donut. While I’m not a big proponent of giving kids what amounts to pretty much unadulterated sugar, I felt like having a little something sweet myself, so to Dunkin Donuts we went. Brendan wanted a powdered donut; I got him 3 powdered donut munchkins and some hot chocolate and we got back in the car.

I focused on driving and totally forgot about Brendan and his donuts until I snuck a peak in the rear-view mirror to see what he was up to. I almost drove off the road when I saw that my child, from head to toe, the booster seat and the backseat immediately surrounding him were covered in white powdered sugar.

My eyebrows came together in a frown. At the next stop light, I turned around and said, “Brendan, look at the mess you’ve made back there.” He looked down at himself and his chair and over at the backseat, then shrugging slightly, he said “But, Mommy, that’s what donuts do!” Despite myself, I had to laugh. He was absolutely right, powdered donuts will no doubt create a mushroom cloud of sugar and little boys will undoubtedly make a mess.

The Kindness of a Stranger

I work in the legal department of a large insurance company. Part of my job is to provide legal support and training to claims folk across the great State of New York. It was in that capacity that, not too long ago, I got summoned to Syracuse. I started driving from downstate New York in reasonably balmy 40-something degree weather and clear skies. I made it up to Syracuse without incident, got something to eat and settled into my hotel room for the night.

When I woke up the next morning and looked out the window, I thought I was still dreaming; the world was blanketed in snow. Not just a dusting, but several inches worth. I’m not an idiot, I know it’s Winter in New York; but I had checked the weather and no snow had been in the forecast.  As I looked at my buried rental car, a sense of despair overcame me. I had no scraper, no brush, no shovel, absolutely nothing. I glanced down at my flats and trench coat and just knew it was going to be a long, cold, miserable time before I unearthed that car.

I walked gingerly across the parking lot, snow filling my shoes with every step.  And with every snow-filled step, my mood got darker and darker. I finally made it to the car; I used my gloves and a credit card to clear off the frozen snow on the windshield where my eyes would be.  Still, I couldn’t hope to drive like that – there’d be too many blind spots.  I settled into the warming car to think. What to do? What to do?

Then, suddenly, the ice and snow was being cleared away from my windshield!  Then, the side and rear windows. I rolled down my window to speak with the child of God who had decided to perform a random act of kindness for a perfect stranger that morning.  I found out that he worked at the Hampton Inn where I had stayed that night and was getting off the night shift.   He had seen me shuffle across the parking lot in my inappropriate attire and had realized that I would never be able to clear my car, and so, he had come out to help.  I thanked him profusely aloud, and silently heaped blessings upon him. He just shrugged, and with the car now road-ready, he trudged back into the hotel to complete his shift.

I never asked his name, nor is it likely that he will ever come across this blog. But if he ever does: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!