A Caregiver's Psalm

(For my dedicated family members--you gave it your all.)

Tick.
Hours  to days to year.
And then year.
And I stay here with you.
We sit. We read. We wait.
Or just talk.
You laugh at a memory
And transport me back.
I let it in. It’s mine now.
At night, we watch a loud TV.
Click.
Let’s watch that one show again.
I’ve got time.
So I watch you eat.
When did it get so slow and hard to swallow food?
You offer the dish to me.
The eyes close to sleep.
While I give you time.

You need something?
Sip of water? Pillow? A light on?
Maybe a hand to hold.
That’s why I come. It’s what I like.
You worry.
You say I should be doing dot, dot, dot.
Nonsense.
You aren’t a burden. And you aren’t my job.
But you have become my purpose.
Let me give you help.

How can I make this better?
All fine for one moment.
Then you’re not.
How to ease it.
How to fix it.
If only I’d known that yesterday’s laugh
Was a plateau we won’t reascend . . . for a while, at least.
I carry on and count medicine,
Wipe tears, and fold clothes.
I talk to your doctor
And read to you.
I won’t stop giving you care.

But even hard days get better.
And cold days warmer.
With patience thrust upon you,
I feel I must linger
To try and prolong hope.

Life's string of time starts to weave a new web,
Deeply knit with yours.
We begin to share, think, and live
All without speaking.
Am I your child? Or are you mine? I forget.
The hours passed in your space 
Now greatly exceed all other places.
Can’t remember what last year's schedule
Looked like. Doesn’t matter.
That was a different life.
That was a different me.

You, my waking worry,
Your smile has changed.
I see you
Wishing to move on,
Needing to stay.
People patting my back to say,
“What a good person to sit there all day!”
But they don’t know,
They can’t know
What a wonder you are;
My precious preference to all the mundane world.
If they knew,
They too,
Would sacrifice anything for you.

It’s not a day, though we write it so.
Just a simple moment.
A moment where
We separate.
A confusing and frightening arithmetic. 
Life adding joys and sorrows, multiplying people.
But death subtracts.
And then divides.
You always said I did too much.
Not enough. Not so. 
So thank you, sublime gift that you are,
For giving me that last moment.
For sharing that last breath.
For the everlasting imprint of
Your soul on mine.
And thank you
For sending

Peace.

What's Wrong With Cinderella?

Her dad.

Okay, so he's supposed to have been a wonderful man who died long before the story begins. We know he doted on his only child and then married some woman later on. His reason? To give his baby girl a new mom and sisterly playmates, right? I know the ancient-ness of the tale might hinder any noble intentions of issuing any kind of background check, but seriously? Could he have chosen worse? It makes one wonder if his real intent wasn't so much to seek out a decent matron. Maybe that was a cover for what he actually desired: some seriously awesome arm-candy!

Cinderella's Wish.

Why would one dance at a place she'd never seen be the greatest desire of Cinderella's teenage heart? First of all, how could she possibly know what she was missing? Secondly, if it were me, I'm wishing for a permanent removal from Stepmom's slave quarters. And let's face it! The heroine in question had not always lived the life of an indentured servant. On the contrary, this was a lass who had previously enjoyed life at the top of the food chain. Then zap! She's knocked into another social class,  sweetly singing her way through every heartbreak. That is, until the prospect of one night at the castle reaches her ear. Hmm.

The Fairy Godmother.

We don't need her. Sorry kids! If Cinderella really wanted to go to the ball, she could've made it happen by herself. Let's talk about transportation. She lived within walking distance of royalty. We know because she ran home after the spell broke! Now for the clothes. Alright, if Cindy's step-family didn't recognize her, though dancing a mere yardstick away, they probably would not notice if she borrowed from their closets. Check for the wardrobe. The glittery fairy is clearly an unnecessary third party, delivering with efficiency, but not perfection. A spell that lasts only until midnight? Weigh the risk, Cinderella. Do you really think this hour and half is worth getting caught? And while we're at it, let's discuss Godmother's most insidious gift (and the only “permanent” one to boot-- Hah! A great pun):

The Glass Slipper.

Why didn't Cinderella just dance barefoot instead? You couldn't pay me to try on a pair of those crystal lawsuits. Magic or not. The prospect of a wrong step in a shoe made of glass is, at slightest stub, a truly hideous picture. So wear your regular footwear, Cinders! The gowns in those pictures seem long enough to hide feet. But not dismembered toes. 

The King and Queen. (Well, the whole royal family, really.)

It appears our prince doesn't dig the dating scene. Hey, who does? But the folks don't care, because it's not about dating. No they don't care if junior dates at all! They want him married ASAP! And if parents ever cared less about who their kid marries, I haven't heard of them. Nah, they just want princey to have babies. Maybe they want to dote on some adorable royal offspring. Or, more likely, their sole obsession is to continue their royal (and possibly in-bred) gene pool. But I chuckle to discover how little it really matters to them where the other half of that royal line comes from. 

If you think about it, their expectations for the heir to the throne are laughingly impossible! Every eligible maiden in an entire kingdom scheduled to dance with this one guy in one evening alone? And in the hopes that he picks the right future queen for their country? Based on what, I'd like to know. Elocution? Long eyelashes? A firm handshake? Gosh, maybe the prince needed the fairy godmother more than Cinderella did.

Fairy Tale Love!

How can anyone get to know a person anywhere near well enough to propose marriage in one day, let alone a couple hours? Maybe even less. Okay, so we know the prince saw, right off the bat, that Cinderella had to be “the one” as the story goes. The “only girl for him,” right? Save it, dude! Look, we all know the only possible information he had on this dame at that moment was how she looked! As Friar Laurence says in Romeo and Juliet:  "Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes!" Maybe I underestimate our hero. Maybe he just fell for her calloused hands, thinking she might be prove a hard-working queen someday. Nah.

The men alone cannot be condemned with the sin of superficiality in this fairy tale. Let's probe into the women. Was the prince the only eligible marriage prospect for the female half of a kingdom? Not one of those single girls had a boyfriend or a fiance? And Cinderella. Tsk, tsk. You are supposed to epitomize honesty, goodness and inner beauty to us girls. Then why does your heart prefer a wealthy, handsome prince for a beau? Yeah, I'd say that's ironic.

Finding Ms. Right.

They should have this investigation recreated on Law and Order. Cops search high and low for a missing girl as a favor to the mayor's son. His only clue is a shoe that he found on some steps outside City Hall. It may or may not be hers, but it matches what she wore dancing at the club the previous night. They don't question the fact that he noticed her shoes, but failed to learn her name. The cops take the article in possession, study it, and decide the only sensible course of action: Bang on every door in town and force all females to try it on, no matter their age. The shoe is an unusual size, so clearly it won't fit anyone else in the entire city, assuming the missing girl lives in the city. Forget about the fact that the shoe didn't really fit the girl, since it fell off anyway. Once they find a female with the winning foot, investigators bring her back to City Hall, regardless if her physical description matches the mayor's son's report or not. He's just happy to get his parents off his back. Yeah, I think this plot's a winner.

It might not seem like it, but I still like the story of Cinderella, despite its many faults. Fairy tales are so much fun to fantasize about. . . . And have a little fun with.

The Mommy Kitchen

Every so often, I peruse a big, unread stack of catalogs sent me in the mail. I sit, put up my feet, and covet away my hour, thinking, "Why not? Why can't my kitchen look like that?" Then a voice interrupts my thoughts with, "Mommy, I'm hungry!"

And another hour of feeding begins. Suddenly, I remember exactly why my kitchen must remain neutralized in the more rustic style for a few more years. Small children keep it real when it comes to homes, and especially the kitchen. Decorative gets bumped for functional. Handy steps aside for safe. And clean takes a bow before it takes a vacation . . . for about the next decade.

So while the shiny catalogues glimmer in the back of my mind, here are some ideas for the ideal Mommy kitchen in rough-draft form:

1.  Anechoic walls. Too much noise in that room! One cry seems to reverberate off counters, pots, pans, and even other children. Give us a few walls that absorb that cry, at least toning it down a bit. Who doesn't want use of their ears once they reach 65?

2.  Kitchen seat belts. The infants get used to being strapped in for a dinner. Let's keep it up with the older kids, too. No more sprinting off after they eat just one nibble of your last two hours of work. We could automatically strap them in, only agreeing to release them after a sufficient portion of food disappears. 

3.  An alarm system. This would function for the burglars that actually live with you, not threats from the outside. Here's how it works:  You decide to take a harmless nap on the couch and someone wants to steal the last of the ice cream in the freezer. Beep! Beep! Beep! Busted. The alarms could also go off for cabinets and, of course, the oven for curious toddlers.

4. The Trough. My favorite feature, by far. During the day, Mom gets a number of requests for food which never fall at convenient times. The Trough would solve this problem. The design looks something like a two-foot tall box with a lever on the side. (The "table" top would actually consist of two rectangular planks.) Keep the snack food perched on top of it throughout the day, allowing kids to graze through the kitchen and munch as needed. When snack-time ends, pull the lever and the two planks turn to face each other, letting all unwanted leftovers fall into the middle, where a tidy little trash can awaits to whisk your mess neatly away. All that remains of cleaning crumbs is a swipe of the planks just before bedtime.

There are more ideas, but that's the beginning of this kitchen re-vamping. Maybe you can send me more ideas and who knows? Maybe someday, kitchens can become rooms that don't creep into our nightmares!

My Husband Loves TED.

It all started a long time ago. With Tupperware. 

Even wearing poodle skirts, women somehow managed to gather into a pre-fab house's living room or kitchen. They oohed over the trendy plastic and plunked down their old man's cigarette cash for this exciting new invention.

Then came Mary Kay and Avon ladies. They travelled door to door, often alone. So right away they looked new and different to us. But then! They promised to return every month, handing us a scented, pocket-book beauty manual as a gift. Make-up and jewelry. A no-brainer, really.

Similar sales techniques and parties followed. I personally enjoyed the Pampered Chef parties. Because even you never buy something, you get to eat great food and chat with friends. 

And now it seems, that men have their very own Tupperware Party: The TED Talks. My husband is gaga over this phenomenon. He also contests that my comparison is not a fair one, because the men don't  gather to any one place.

But they do! They gather online, of course. And, of course, I know women participate, too. But it looks to me like men make up the majority of presenters. Am I wrong? 

No doubt that TED entertains and informs equally well. They certainly deliver on the content. One must poke fun at them just a teensy, though, for some things they do. And do again. And again. Mix it up, will ya!

Almost everyone that gets on stage wants to channel Steve Jobs. First of all, they wear his clothes, with the nice jeans and either the pressed T-shirt or golf shirt--the universally recognized uniform of the computer programmer dude. Then, they've got the clip-on microphone. This allows the presenter to walk about the stage as they discuss their idea. (I'm convinced they really walk around because cue-card people, concealed just off stage, keep them on topic.)  So after they walk and talk and walk and talk, waving their hands, pausing for effect to stare poignantly at the crowd, and then get back into the walking, there comes what I call the "Full House Moment."

You remember the TV sit-com, Full House? I used to love watching that. Every episode had a tangible pattern to it. Very predictable. They would start with comedy and laughs, then somebody messes up and makes a bad decision. More laughs, the person gets caught or confesses. Then:  Music! The sappy music came on and you just knew that an important moment was coming wherein a character would actually verbalize the lesson of that show. One more laugh. Then curtain call. 

TED has a "Full House Moment." Just like Mr. Jobs kept saying, "There's more! Wait, there's more! One more thing!" TED presenters all build up to this climax where their idea changes the world. That's when the sappy music fills the speakers in the form of applause, and often with a standing ovation. Mr. Presenter wipes either sweat or a sneaky tear off his face and we as the audience are no longer apes, but members of the enlightened upper class. At least, until we watch Comedy Central again.

I hope you don't mind me ribbing TED too much. I do like some of them myself. In particular, the one about the Kahn Academy. If you have a favorite, please post the link below. 

Happy TED, everyone.

Lamentation on the Color Pink

I have a small list of things that need researching. Maybe by me. But more likely by someone on a quest for a Master's thesis topic. One of the items on the above-mentioned list is how the color pink became the call-sign for almost every US-born baby girl. I'm sure it started out as a way to avoid embarrassment, as babies do tend to look pretty androgynous. ("You're baby boy is so darling!" "Yes, ma'am. She is." Oops!)

A century ago, discerning girl infant from boy infant must have seemed like an impossible feat. Those old Victorian photos show even the male of the species adorned in frilly white layettes with a lacy matching bonnet. If I try dressing my boys like that these days, I would hear about it for sure.

About pink, though. Try finding an outfit for a girl (age 0-5 years) that is NOT pink, purple, or a combination of the two. They are rare. Having birthed a couple girls, it didn't take a long time to get pretty sick of the color.

But it's not JUST the pigment of the color pink that has come to represent a problem in my mind. What does pink represent? I think of it kind of like a newborn's corset, nibbling away at her future range of motion. Why you might ask? Okay, I'll get into it:

After my first son came along, I noticed a huge diversity of shades, styles, and patterns in his wardrobe.  My excitement for his dressing routine contrasted greatly with that of my daughter, whose clothes all looked like they'd fallen out of a bottle of Tums. It's true, the boy got a whole rainbow with an abundance of styles:  stripes, tie-dyes, plains, and a huge array of prints. But my daughter's outfits proved equally limited in color and style. Frills, flowers, sparkles, and princesses. Yep. That's about it.

Don't get me wrong! I'm so very grateful for all the clothes. Anyone would be. But the difference between little girl and little boy choices really interests me. Especially since a difference really does seem to exist--right from the get-go.

So, the cuteness of pink apparel on a baby girl cannot be denied. Huge cuteness factor! But when everyone wears it, do we even notice it anymore?

Something else to research, too:  What effect, if any, do these pinks and princesses have on young females--since it's practically all they've got in the closet? Are they getting a message from us adults? Do our clothing gifts whisper a certain expectation for beauty, perfection, and girl-appropriate activities? While boys sport the baby soccer jerseys and the empowered super-heroes, all the pinks and princesses really do is look lovely and maybe sing. (Too bad we don't have any prints of those maidens slamming a volleyball or solving a math equation.)

It's a small thing, for sure:  the color of baby clothes. But my kid is small, too. The clothes look bigger to her.

You want to know the saddest part of all? I really, really like to wear pink myself.

The Mommy Living Room

It's barely 8:30 a.m. and already my house is toast. The little hands that live here somehow manage to destroy nearly every square inch of turf, leaving no survivors in their midst. Books are torn. Carpet smells like ammonia. Paint peels off corners of walls in odd patterns. And the list goes on.

As I survey the bomb site that used to be a room, I brace myself for another day of . . . well, this. Somewhere in the past, my brain used to score points for complex thought. But now,  the only cerebral exercise of the day revolves around questions like, "What can I use to remove that spot?" or "Where can I stash that potted plant this time before the leaves completely disappear?"

But hey, it's good that the rooms in my house get some use. It's the maintenance factor, however, that needs attention. So let's tell those architect designer people exactly what we want. Forget the velvet sofas and fancy glass cabinets. Let's make a living room that children can't destroy. . . too easily. (I actually don't think anything exists which is quite that indestructible.) So here are my own requirements for the perfect living room for Mommy, and subsequently the children:

1. Rubber walls with optional rubber floor. Cushion everything, not just the furniture. Little ones are going to bash into your walls anyway, and sometimes while wielding weaponry. Might as well make it less dangerous. I think an inch or two of thick rubber should do the trick.
2. Sprinkler and drainage system. Clean-up is so over-rated for an already exhausted parent. Cut out the cleaning completely! No more vacuum. No more duster. No more carpet stains. With some adjustable sprinklers either on the ceiling or high up in the corners, you have automatic wash-down every night without once buying a Swiffer. Just let the mess run down a well-placed drain in the floor and enjoy an extra 30 minutes off tonight. Ahhh!
3. Faux collectibles. Let's face it. If you so much as breathe on that Lladro the wrong way, it's going to outlive its warranty. What are your choices? Pack it away until the kids are grown? Okay, but when grandkids start visiting, you'll just have to put it back in a box again. How about a better solution? It's time for knick-knacks and fancy decorations to get a makeover; a plastic one. Someone should start designing the "faux collectible." Cheaply made, but designed to look like the real deal. And you won't be heartbroken when someone uses it for baseball practice.
4. Stow-away furniture. It's a long-shot, I know. But one of my favorite features of our family van is that we can just fold the seats down and plunk them into the floorboards when we want extra car space. Why not do the same for living room furniture? Press a button and watch the couch or end-table  FLIP! under the floor before the commencement of play time. Phrases like, "Stop jumping on that!" and "Put those cushions back!" will be a thing of the past. And cleaning under the cushions might only need attention every few months. 

I'm sure you can think of more. Add to this list if you like! The Ikea catalogue might pay attention and actually offer these features someday. In the meantime, we can certainly dream about the possibilities and reactivate our long-dormant grey matter in the process.

Welcome!

Here goes:  This is my first crack at this, just to see if it works. I'll post something real probably tomorrow. But I must say, I'm proud to have come even this far. Phew!