‘Tis a Gift

‘Tis a gift to be simple. It is. For the last ten years, vacations have been less a vacation and more of an adventure. Trips to Ireland, Europe, various states in the US, and Canada were exotic and activity filled. Sights were seen. Alcohol was drunk. The joy came not just from spending time together but from seeing new and exiting things. Experiences relied less upon people than upon place. This is not to say, of course, that going with someone other than Mr. Adventure would have been as fun. This is to say that our idea of a getaway was to go away and do new and exciting things.

This year, however, I sit here:

I’m in the right chair, typing. Mr. A is in the left chair reading. The sun has slowly descended below the horizon. The birds caw, the crickets chirp. The evening is one of solitude and a chorus of nature. And, incidentally, I am not a nature girl. I’m a city girl. In fact? Too many trees in one place kind of freak me out a bit. Don’t ask. Really. You don’t want to know. I fear the big tree versus people coup bound to happen someday. Go ahead and laugh. You’ll be sorry one day. Yup.

Instead of views of lights and streets, instead of meeting new people, I’m sitting here staring at this:

And, what might just be my dream vacation house someday

Life has changed. Sitting here, I’m drinking a glass of wine from a plastic cup. I am reminded of where I have been and where I am going. The plastic cup is the typical kegger cup from college. The wine? A $40 bottle of chardonnay. I am no longer drinking something cheap. However, I am drinking unpretentiously. I am no longer a child drinking in life as fast as possible to get drunk on it. I am an adult sipping from life and sipping from, yeah, a red plastic cup. Sipping slowly to savor the flavor of the wine and the life I’m living.  Life today is different from life last year or a life imagined.

This vacation is one filled with wonderment. Not my own wonderment, but that of my son. Everything is new to him. He dips his toes in the water.  He giggles. He figures out that he can thrust his feet into the water causing a splash and ploink sound. He laughs.

He watches metal tongs open and close and his full bellied laugh is that of his father. Whole. Hearty. Joyful. There is so much to see and do. He wants to take it all in. He won’t, of course, sleep. If he slept, well, the whole world might stop turning. Or, conversely, the whole world might explode into a a bright shining ball of circus fun that he would miss out on. Sleep, apparently, is for those suckers who long to remain in darkness.

Instead of filling the day with places to see, we are filling it with people to see. We watch our son – discovering with joy the world around him. We watch each other. We smile small private smiles of contentment and love at one another, when we think the other person doesn’t see. Watching each other parent and enjoy being a parent is a thrill in itself.

Activity abounds. Mr. Monkeyman has to keep moving, keep walking, keep talking.

A few years ago, Mr. A and I went to Ireland. In looking at the castles and in visiting Newgrange, we stared in awe at what people hundreds and thousands of years before us could create. In looking at our son, we stare in awe at what we created. This tiny life – with all of its moods and quirks – is both a part of each of us and its own little tiny self. We created this, but we did not build it. He builds himself day by day.

Parenting is difficult. In a good marriage, where the two people want to be the same type of parent and want to impart the same types of lessons, it can be an amazing thing. It can bring two people closer together in ways not previously understood. In a bad marriage, or in a marriage where the two people want different things for their child, it can bring out the worst in the relationship. Watching Mr. A with Mr. Monkeyman reinforces the bond we had before. Mr. Monkeyman helps to build us. He is an architect of life, of strength, and of the the psyche – particularly in his adamant refusal to sleep or do something quiet. He strengthens physically and mentally. It’s like the combination of Godzilla, Sudoko, and an abacus.

This vacation is not about doing. This vacation is not about visiting. This vacation is about the simple things in life. Trying to calm a screaming, overtired beastie. Trying to find things that make a baby smile. Waiting for those moments when the child looks at you with that full and complete love and adoration. Those are the simple things in life. Indeed, ’tis a gift to be simple. ‘Tis the greatest gift of all.

The Identity of The Law

Over the past week, the name Sonia Sotomayor has begun to gain infamy. Watching her acceptance of the nomination, Sotomayor is likeable. Her ability to save baseball in fifteen minutes during the baseball strike of in 1995 wins her major points. Listening to her speech, she comes across as humbled while proud. She should be proud. She has achieved that about which hundreds, if not thousands, of law students nationwide dream. She stands on the precipice of history – a woman about to be confirmed to the highest court of the nation. Not just a woman, but a Latina woman. She comes from a humble background in the South Bronx. She admits that she not only worked hard but was given great opportunity. She is about to be a woman with great power.

However, to quote the Spiderman comic, “with great power comes great responsibility.” Sotomayor is about to embark upon a position of great power. Presently, the majority of pundits find themselves concerned about Sotomayor’s statement in a speech at the University of California at Berkely School of Law’s graduation in 2001 that “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experience would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.” Yes, a white man making the same statement would be strung up by the media. Yes, her statement has a whiff of prejudice. Yes, this is a statement that lends itself to identity politics. All of this is true.

The fear behind identity politics is that a person will look at the individuals involved and empathize with them. Empathy does not have a viable place within the law. The law stands as the last bastion of logic and reason, removed from the populace and the politics, in our country. Individuals do bring with them, however, their individual experiences. Scalia brings with him, for example, his faith. However, the problem with looking at the individuals is that feelings can overwhelm good judgment. Think, for a moment, about a teacher. A teacher must be blind to his/her likes and dislikes about a student. A teacher cannot pass a student who does not meet objectives simply because the student is likeable and tries hard. That only ends up creating great disappointment for that student in the long run. A teacher cannot fail a student simply because the student is an obnoxious brat. The student’s work is the student’s merit. Yes, a student may have problems in his/her life that get in the way of school. However, when a student makes no attempt to hand in assignments at all, that person cannot be passed simply because the teacher “feels bad for the kid’s troubles.” In the long run, that does more harm to the student than failing the student would do. The same is true with the law.

Sympathy is good to feel. Sympathy makes people human. Sympathy is exactly the quality that a good judge needs in order to be a humane person within a profession that often leaves things cold. Sympathy allows for feelings to exist. Feelings, in and of themselves, are not bad within the context of the law. Empathy, however, indicates that the person identifies with the other. Not only does the empathetic person note that there are feelings, the empathetic person feels the same as the other individual. Empathy, within the context of the law, can be dangerous.

Identity politics often allows empathy, not sympathy, to weigh greater than justice. What happens to a single plaintiff or defendant, based on the judge’s feelings about that individual, can color the outcome. At a trial court level, looking at the family history of a defendant in a criminal trial can allow for justice. At the Supreme Court level, looking only at the individual and not at the law and the greater scope of the law’s reach can create “bad law.” George Will writes, “Perhaps Sotomayor subscribes to the Thurgood Marshall doctrine: “You do what you think is right and let the law catch up” (quoted in the Stanford Law Review, summer 1992). Does she think the figure of Justice should lift her blindfold, an emblem of impartiality, and be partial to certain categories of persons?” Will is, at least partially, correct. At the Supreme Court level, the judges must be blind to many things. Their personal experiences will color their interpretations. However, these interpretations have a further ranging impact. Think about it like a Choose Your Own Adventure Book. These books had multiple outcomes, much like the law wherein different interpretations can lead to different rulings. Choosing the ending that the reader wants and working backwards defeats the purpose of making the decisions throughout the book. Making the decision when asked, as the reader goes through the book, creates the outcome based on logic and reason, if that reader thinks about the potential ramifications of those decisions. The law should neither discriminate against nor discriminate for individuals of a particular identity.

True, an individual’s experiences will always color that person’s decisions.  Those in favor of identity politics, such as Leonard Pitts, Jr., may argue that “That a point so blazingly obvious even needs making speaks to the myopia afflicting many white people when the subject is race (and men when the subject is gender). It is a stark illustration of white and male privilege: in this case, the privilege of questioning the role someone’s identity plays in their promotion only when that identity diverges from the perceived norm, i.e., yours.” As a woman, I resent being told that men cannot understand gender. True, a man will never have to make the decision to have an abortion or will never have had his breasts stared at lecherously in the workplace. However, in that same way, a woman will never fear what she says being taken incorrectly and will never have to be told that while she scored well on a test she studied for her white maleness disqualifies her from being given a promotion, such as in the case of the New Haven firefighters.  Not all women feel the same about abortion. Not all men feel the same about watching their words in the workplace. To argue that one woman is the “voice” of a gender or an ethnicity is to diminish that gender or ethnicity’s diversity in and of itself.  Sotomayor will bring – and “will” is the appropriate word since her confirmation, barring any major dancing skeletons in her closet, is highly likely – she will bring a great deal of experience, both personal and professional, with her. The concern should be less her identity politics, than her previous rulings.

Of the six decsisions from the 2nd Circuit that have been reviewed by the Supreme Court. This is where the focus on Sotomayor should focus. Of the six decisions reviewed, four have been overturned and one was upheld but the reasoning was overruled. Of those, three of the overturned cases were more than 5-4 decisions and the overruled reasoning was a unanimous rout. These overrulings were more than just a “conservative” versus “liberal” fight, as evidenced by them being greater than the liberal-conservative 5-4 split vote. These were rulings that were based on the merits of Sotomayor’s decisions and the reasoning that she used. Most concerning should be the decision in which her outcome was upheld, but her reasoning was considered unanimously flawed. How rare for this Supreme Court to agree on something wholeheartedly. In fact, “[i]n 2006, Sotomayor upheld a lower tax court ruling that certain types of fees paid by a trust are only partly tax deductable. The Supreme Court upheld Sotomayor’s decision but unanimously rejected the reasoning she adopted, saying that her approach “flies in the face of the statutory language.” Knight vs. Commissioner, 467 F.3d 149 (2006) Unfortunately, tax deduction of fees paid by a trust are not sexy. In fact, other than those people well-versed in tax law, most people probably neither care nor understand the holding. The problem, however, is that not only did the court unanimously decide that Sotomayor’s reasoning was faulty, but it stated in writing that it “flies in the face of the statutory language.” Sotomayor, essentially, created law that fit her personal beliefs while ignoring the letter and/or spirit of the statute she reviewed. Indeed, for an individual that Americans are about to entrust with one of the greatest responsibilities a citizen can hold, this should be the most concerning of all the cases presented. Her outcome was not wrong. Her manner of determining it was.

The strength of a justice lies not in who that person is. The strength of a judge, at any level, lies in that individual’s ability to logically apply facts and law. The personal influences that help determine that logic will always exist. However, when a person appears to try to not just fit the law to her desired outcome but determines that the law upon which she is basing her decision is unnecessary, that creates faulty logic. This faulty logic should be looked at closely. It is this particular case that should be discussed in hearings. Sotomayor’s identity as a Latino woman is a non-issue. Her ability to determine rules of law based on both the letter and the spirit – regardless of her philosophy of that spirit – are at issue. Someone whose reasoning about a minor case is considered so faulty should be scrutinized. Her identity should not create the law. However, more importantly, the law should not rely on a person who may define her logic only by her identity. Logic, particularly at this level, needs to remain clean. This does not mean that it should be entirely removed from one’s experiences. It means that while experiences should inform, they should not control. Experiences do give greater depth to a judge’s ability to reach logical and well-reasoned rulings. However, when a judge identifies not as a judge but as something else, that logic and reasoning becomes tainted. The identity of a judge should be neither race nor gender. It should be neither sexuality nor religion. The identity of a judge should be the law.

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy

My dearest, loving, baby boy,

A few days ago, I sang to you what I could remember of the Lennon song “Beautiful Boy.” You smiled. You giggled. My singing did not, for once, scare you. I know, it’s comically bad. Someday? You will mock me the way I mocked my own mother. Payback, is indeed, a … well, that’s not for your ears or eyes.

Today, my son, my beautiful, amazing, glorious, wonderful son, you are twelve weeks old. In five days, you will be one fiscal quarter of age. Every moment of my day is filled with you. You are the air I breathe. You are the light that guides my days. You are the rain on my parade when you scream, nonstop, for no real reason. A few weeks ago, during one of these fits, I turned to you and said, “Don’t be such a baby!” Then I realized, umm, you are a baby. It is so difficult for me to remember sometimes how young you are. I feel as though in some ways my life started with you and that I have been around only as long as you.

You can hold up your head on your own.

Unless you’re half asleep, in the middle of the night, falling asleep on your bottle. Then? I forget that you don’t want to or can’t hold your head up. When I go to burp you, your head flops forward. You have nailed your head on my wrist more times than I can count. Insanity, they say, is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. For me? It’s sleep deprivation.

You were sleeping beautifully, up until this week. Then? You started waking up every five hours or less. Mommy will always, no matter what, love you. However, she likes you an awful lot more when you sleep more. I promise, I will always come to you when you need me. If you could choose to need me after I’ve gotten more sleep? I’ll come faster because I’ll be able to wake up better. I cross my heart and kiss my elbow.

You have rolled over, but it seems you only do it when you want to do it. You lie on your back and talk to the toys that hang from the arches over your mat. You get angry with Mr. Pineapple when he doesn’t talk back to you.

Someday you will understand that, well, he’s actually an inanimate object. At least, I hope someday you realize that. You love being in the big swing and having me kiss your toes when you swing close to me. You also seem to enjoy kicking me in the face and punching me in the nose. I hope that these trends do not continue.

You giggle and smile in response to me now. If you’re starting to get into a fit, there are times when I can work you out of it simply by smiling at you. You have also decided that you want to take your bottles in repose position in your carseat swing. While I understand that both of these are potentially sweet? They are also making me wonder if my face will freeze in the ghoulish over-exagerated smile while I slowly become a hunchback from leaning over your swing. However, I know that the more you eat, the stronger and bigger you will be someday. My physical beauty, or lackthereof, is decidedly less important. Until I scare your friends when you’re a toddler. Then you’ll be sorry when they won’t come to your house to play. Think about that carefully before continuing in this vein.

You recognize me now. You track me when you hear my voice. You follow my every move. Today, when you were on your play mat and I took a moment to sit in my chair next to it, you arched your back and leaned on your head to look behind you to find me. It was super cute, minus my fear that you would break your neck. Still, it was super cute. However, you need to learn that your daddy loves you. He loves to hold you and kiss you. He loves to tickle you and play with you. Also? He loves to feed you. You need to trust your daddy to take care of you. He can feed you just fine. At night when he gives you your bottle? Please drink it. You make him feel bad when you don’t seem to trust him. Also, you make me more tired. I’m a lot more fun of a mommy when I’m not so tired I think about sitting on the tub floor to take my shower because standing up seems like too much of an effort. Believe me, I’m a WAY nice person, when you let daddy take some time with you and let me relax for ten minutes. I’m not even asking for hours. Just minutes. Really.

Your daddy is the very best daddy. Watching him with you makes me fall in love with him all over again. Some day, you will play catch with him and not want me around. Someday, I will be unnecessary to your happiness. I fear that day because it will break my heart. I also look forward to that day because I know that you will love your daddy and want to be just like him. I know that you will grow up to be an amazing man like him, the kind of man that any woman would be proud to call her son. You will be loving and generous and kind and thoughtful. You will grow up to be the best of your daddy and I. I can’t wait to see that day, yet I despair that day because it means you will not need me or want me anymore.  I hope that you will always be confident to tell both of us that you love us. I hope that we will be able to instill in you a lack of fear of your emotions. I hope that someday you will call to say hello and, when you say good-bye, sign off with, “I love you mom.”

You love your puppies. You smile at them and look for them.

You let them kiss you and walk around you when you’re playing on the floor.

They love you, too. They don’t mind when you touch them. Max doesn’t mind when you kick him or punch him in the face. Then again, since he doesn’t seem to understand that those actions are a sign of displeasure? He probably deserves what he gets. You giggle when you touch them. You jump when you hear a certain bark. You know the difference between the “bark at nothing” bark and the “bark because daddy is home” bark. You ignore the first one but wake up for the second. You are a smart baby.

You are growing into a little man. You are not the little human blob anymore. You are rapidly gaining a personality. You are independent. You love making the lights work on your bouncy chair but get mad when it goes continuously and isn’t of your own doing. You love trying to “walk” across the house but hate when you have to sit still. You love making the toys on your mat jingle and move but hate when you can’t figure out how to do it or when you’re just to small to make something work. You tell us what you want by screaming your face off when you don’t like something, and you tell us what you like by giggling with your daddy’s full bellied joyous laugh.

You discovered Elmo this week, thanks to teh internetz. You loved Elmo’s Song. You watched it and giggled. You danced on my lap. You calmed down during “cranky time”, that hour before bed when you’re tired and getting hungry but we’re not quite ready for you to sleep. Let’s face it, if you sleep at 6:30pm? You’re going to be up at 4am. Really? That’s the middle of the night. Mommy loves you, but there are some things that are always unacceptable. Waking up at 4am falls into the “always unacceptable” category. Sorry kiddo. I also figured out that you love Elmo because Elmo sounds like mommy. While that is super cute, I can’t lie – it’s also super depressing. Mommy is not a muppet. Although, I could probably make a fortune dressing up in a hollowed out giant stuffed Elmo (yes, I’m that tiny…sort of) at kids’ parties. I’m glad you love me. Try not to love Elmo because he reminds you of me. That is kind of depressing.

I love you little man. I love you with every breath in my body. Mothering you is a contradiction. I want to be the very best mommy, but I do not want to only be a mommy. I look forward to your waking up in the morning, but I look forward to when you go to bed at night. I look forward to when you go to bed at night, but, an hour later, I find myself blogging about you and looking at your videos and your photos and waiting for the morning when I get to see your little gummy smile again. I look forward to date nights, alone, with your daddy, but I end up talking mostly about you. I want to sleep through the night, but I also love seeing you in the middle of the night to feed you and have you snuggle me. I want you to be an independent little man, but I want to hold you tight and never let you go. I want you to sleep in your crib and self-soothe, but I want to take “snuggle naps” together on the couch because I love feeling the weight of you on top of me and your warmth against my body.

You, my beautiful boy, are everything that makes my life complete. I cannot imagine my life without you. I cannot imagine that I feared your coming. I cannot imagine, beautiful boy, the person I was before you. You, my beautiful boy, are the alpha and the omega of my life, and yes, someday I will tell you what those words mean. You, my beautiful boy, are the best parts of your daddy and mommy. You, my beautiful boy, are the most amazing person I know (ok, along with your daddy). You, my beautiful boy, are my special love, myself, my best me. You, my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy make me the very best me that I can be.  I will never be able to thank you enough for that.

Motherhood for the Masses

As Mother’s Day approaches, motherhood is obviously on the minds of many. A “mother” is defined, by www.dictionary.com, as,

–noun

1.	a female parent.

2.	(often initial capital letter) one’s female parent.

3.	a mother-in-law, stepmother, or adoptive mother.

4.	a term of address for a female parent or a woman having or regarded as having the status, function, or authority of a female parent.

5.	a term of familiar address for an old or elderly woman.

6.	mother superior.

7.	a woman exercising control, influence, or authority like that of a mother: to be a mother to someone.

8.	the qualities characteristic of a mother, as maternal affection: It is the mother in her showing itself.

9.	something or someone that gives rise to or exercises protecting care over something else; origin or source.

10.	(in disc recording) a mold from which stampers are made.

–adjective

11.	being a mother: a mother bird.

12.	of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a mother: mother love.

13.	derived from or as if from one’s mother; native: his mother culture.

14.	bearing a relation like that of a mother, as in being the origin, source, or protector: the mother company and its affiliates; the mother computer and its network of terminals.

–verb (used with object)

15.	to be the mother of; give origin or rise to.

16.	to acknowledge oneself the author of; assume as one’s own.

17.	to care for or protect like a mother; act maternally toward.

–verb (used without object)

18.	to perform the tasks or duties of a female parent; act maternally: a woman with a need to mother.

Interestingly, for a word that people generally think of as a woman who births a child from her loins, the word pack a whole lot of whollop. The word holds many emotions for both mothers and people who have a mother. However, at this time of year, people forget and remember, all at the same time, what a mother truly is.

A mother is many things. She is a friend, a guide, a resource, and a reprimander. She is, indeed, one who bears a child or has a child. However, that is not all. Many women who do not have children are mothers. The last of the definitions, “to perform the tasks or duties of a female parent,” is the one that grabs me.

A mother is one who nurtures, whether it is an animal or a student or a child. She is one who brings out the best in others. She is one who chides, gently or harshly, in such a way as to help others learn the lessons of life. She may be a teacher, a friend, or a relative. She may not have a person but an animal that she mothers. For the last five years, I’ve been a mother. A mother to my little furbabies. I’ve always celebrated Mother’s Day as a day where I can look at how I have taken care of or nurtured my animals. I call myself “mommy” and they are my “baby girl” and “little baby buddy man.” Now, I have a child as well. He requires a different nurturing; however, that does not make me less of a mother to my furbabies. Simply because I did not require a spinal numbing in order to bring them home does not make me less their “mommy.”

A “mother” is that woman who is willing to put her own needs or wants aside for someone else. She is someone who protects others. She is someone who puts the life and welfare of another before her own. A mother is that woman who, when you break up with your boyfriend at 2am,  is willing to listen to you cry, scream, swear, and moan for hours. She is the woman who, when you are ill, makes you jello. She is the woman who, even when she is dead tired from working all day, comes to your rescue regardless of what happened to you. She may be your friend, lover, or, in the case of a pet, owner. However, she is so much more than someone who cares for a small person.

“Mother” is not just a word that should be reserved for the female parents of children. It is a word that implies so much more. It is a word that encompasses all that which is true to womanhood. The emotions, the caring, the guidance. On this Mother’s Day, look for that woman in your life. Maybe buy her some flowers. Maybe buy her some chocolate. She may not be the woman who birthed you from her loins, but that does not make her less of a mother. To all the mothers out there – of children, furbabies, or just of friends – I wish you the happiest of Mother’s Days.

Some Days You’re the Rock

…and some days you’re the rock star. Most days, I’m the rock. I don’t do much but weigh things down. Or break windows. Or knock people unconscious. You get the drift.

Calling a mother a “working mother” is kind of like calling a vodka martini “an alcohol infused vodka martini.” It goes without saying that it’s redundant. A mother is always working. A vodka martini is always alcohol infused. That’s why the working mother loves the vodka martini. I digress.  However, when you love your job and feel a responsibility to it, being a mother and being a worker become more or less synonymous.

Teaching and parenting are rather similar. Both are incredible responsibilities. Both require that the individual care less about herself than about those to whom she owes the responsibility. The best educators are those who put their own wants – be they time or interest – behind the needs of their students. Most of the time, being an educator is part teaching and part den mother. I would say parent, but I don’t go quite that far. You have to understand when to give the tough love and when to give the leeway. Educating well requires the same attempt at making a connection that parents of teens work on day in and day out through the high school years. As an educator, some days are pound your head on a wall depressing. The days where the students ask you a question you’ve repeated the answer to for weeks. The days where only 5 students out of 20 hand in an assignment that’s been on the syllabus since day one because, “you didn’t remind us!” The days where you try to walk the student through something for forty-five minutes only to realize that the student will never understand, even if you contort your explanation like a Cirque du Soleil member to show all manners of understanding.

Being a parent requires much of the same. It requires that kind of unconditional love not just of the person, but of the job. Parenting is a job. It’s unpaid, kind of like a volunteer position. Only, you get to go home after a day at the soup kitchen. When you’re a parent, you’re always home. You’re always working. There are the days when you want to scream, run, hide. You want to find a beach and sit on it with frosty frozen drinks and little umbrellas. Only, you’re afraid that if you do that, you’ll use the little umbrella to poke your brain out slowly through your eyes. There is the incessant crying. There is the feeding and the sleeplessness.  There are the days where you leave the house to run an errand because you just can’t be in that tiny little box anymore with the ear splitting screaming, only to lock your keys in your car. You contort yourself and sense of self the way you would contort an explanation to a student.

Those are the days where I feel like the rock. The days where I feel useless and pointless. Those are the days where, no matter how hard I try, I can barely find the road most taken, forget about the one less taken. I start to wonder why I care about either job. I start to wonder if the students or child will even care. There’s a hopelessness that goes along with both.

Then, there are the days where you’re the rock star. You read through papers and find that the students did understand you. You see the light bulbs go off on their faces. They ask questions, and your answer makes enough sense that they say, “That’s why an outline is important!” You see a paper that a few weeks earlier you felt was hopeless and realize that you made a difference. You read a paper and have an uncontrollable urge to email the student to congratulate him/her. Those are the moments when you are more than a den mother, more than a coraller of cats. You are an educator. An honest-to-goodness, life changing educator.

Motherhood is the same. There are the days when the baby wakes up smiling.  There are moments wherein he gazes at you as though you are the most important person in the world. There are the days when he snuggles into your shoulder, and you realize that even if he doesn’t know what love is, he does love you. You get to watch him learn and get frustrated and problem solve. You get to watch him hold up his arms for you because even though he’s been with you all day, he just wants you to hold him. You get laundry done and get dinner made and have playtime and make a baby happy.

At the outset, both of these jobs feel overwhelming. They feel in conflict. You don’t want to ignore one for the other. You don’t want to trade off. You don’t want one to feel abandoned or feel underappreciated or feel unimportant. The two jobs seem so all-consuming that it is difficult to find the time in one day to be able to do both. Those are the times when it becomes frighteningly overwhelming and questioning, “What did I DO?!” becomes the mantra. How can I love both of these jobs so overwhelmingly much and yet so differently?

That is when the rock star days make everything worthwhile. A day like today, where I can read nine student papers including making comments on them, play with the baby, and take care of the household. There are the days like today where I feel in control – of my work, my life, my everything. There are days where I feel like Superwoman. Those are the days that I blog about. I blog them so that I can look back and say, “Yes, that day was real. That day was not a dream. It is possible to be the me that I want to be, even if it’s not all the time.” I don’t have to meet my self-expectations every day. I just have to meet them one day. I have to be able to look back on that day and know that it is possible to be educator, mother, and self.

Because, you know, then there are the days when the Diaper Genie eats your hand and leaves a bruise. True story.

Age Analogies

The Stock Market Crash of 1929 is to people in their 70’s

as

Pearl Harbor is to people in their 60’s

as

Segregated schools are to people in their 50’s

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JFK’s assassination is to people in their 40’s

as

The Fall of Saigon is to people in their 30’s

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The outbreak of AIDS is to people in their 20’s

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The Fall of the Berlin Wall is to people in their teens

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9/11/02 is to kids born today

Section of Misfit Fans

Nothing entertains more than people watching. Nothing is more entertainng than people watching at a rock concert. Last night, Mr. A and I hit the Bruce Springsteen concert. Our fair little city of Hartford looked as though New Jersey circa 1984 threw up. Fascinating. Everything from the female mullet to the bad 1980’s cropped leather jacket replete with shoulder epaulets could be seen. First, the rules of concert going need to be discussed.

1) You do not, ever, wear the tshirt of the band to the concert you are attending. Even worse? Do not wear one from 8 years ago. It is possible to wear your new one while at the concert if you fear leaving it under your seat. However, I promise you, your favorite rock musician is not going to recognize you from the 2003 concert you saw on his/her 2003 tour of multiple cities.

2) The posters. You are not 12. There is no need to make a poster if you have the nosebleed seats. In fact, handmade posters are rarely, if ever, acceptable. I’m sorry. It’s just the way it is. However, if you do see fit to make one of these signs? Try to at least get the writing to be straight across and not at some weird diagonal that makes it difficult to read when the sign is held up. It’s called a ruler. My mom made me use them for poster projects in elementary school.

3) You do not need to dress from the era of the band. Grunge had lousy clothes. The 80’s had lousy clothes. As did the 60’s and 70’s. Bringing back those tight black jeans that you wore in high school with that cropped leather jacket and the teased hair is not going to magically make you 18 again. It just makes you look like you’re older than you really are. Even if you’re seeing The Boss? You will not be able to relive your Glory Days. Just dress your age and yourself and get over it. You’re old. Deal.

Now, as to our actual seats, they were high up but pretty good. The concert itself was fantastic. While I’m not a Springsteen fan, in fact I probably only know about five songs, I can recognize his musical and socio-political significance in American popular culture. In a world where music revolves around the amount of money that can be made and the glitz and glamour of the dance crew, watching old school rock and roll concerts is a treat. The older musicians bring a life to the stage that is based on the music, not on the dance party. With Springsteen, as with Billy Joel and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, the glitz comes from the music not the stage pyrotechnics. There’s something energizing about a concert that focuses on the music and the love of sound instead of on glitzy dance routines and light shows. When it’s the music that energizes the crowd, the crowd comes together as one large entity, regardless of age, race or creed.

Speaking of the crowd, let me introduce you to all of the various fans that sat in the Section of Misfit Fans. As great as the concert itself was, the people surrounding me were the greatest entertainment possible.

First, we had Superfan. Superfan was “that guy.” Y’know, the one who stood up through the whole concert, sang every word to every song (even the ones that the singer likes and the crowd hates which allows everyone to go for a bathroom break), and pumped his fist at the exact moment that the cymbals would go off. Superfan seemed to think that he was, indeed, the star of the show. All hail Superfan!

Next, we had the guy that Mr. A called “Human Statue.” I have to admit, Human Statue sat next to us and astounded me. I have never seen someone sit through a concert without moving. This man sat, hands folded in his lap, knees together, not even grooving to the beat of the music. Five times he moved, not including his bathroom break before the concert started. His idea of a fist pump of excitement was more like a limp fish of mediocre motion.

Thirdly, I have to mention “Air Guitar Guy.” This dude came to the concert in the band tshirt. That should have tipped us off immediately. However, oh no. He was a classic fan. Balding, nearly 50. Normally, I would have just ignored him. However, for about three quarters of the concert the guy stood up, playing one mean air guitar.  Not only did he do the rock arm swing of his imaginary strings, but he also had the fret finger action working hard. The man was a master of the air guitar.

Finally, we had the diametrically opposed “Hundred Year Old Lady” and the “Bored ‘Tweens Whose Parents Owe Them a Jonas Brothers Concert”. In front of us, about fifteen minutes into the concert, came an elderly woman and, presumably, her son. The poor older lady had trudged up the three flights of stairs on crutches. I give her a lot of credit. To come out like that, at her obvious age, made her one incredibly devoted fan. It must be wonderful to inspire that kind of devotion from people. It’s a testament to the music that someone would be so into the music that even though she was obviously finding it difficult to get to the seat, she still came to see the music. Of course, then across the aisle, sat the ‘tweens. These three kids looked beyond bored. One girl half-heartedly clapped to some of the music. The two boys looked as though having their brains scooped out with a melon-baller would have been preferable to suffering from the old fogie music. It’s great that mom and dad try to teach their children about what makes excellent rock and roll. Unfortunately, these poor kids were either overtired by 10:30pm or were just bored out of their minds.

Finally, there were the fans like Mr. A and I. We’re the ones who looked around at everyone and thought how old everyone was. Then, we looked at each other and realized, “Dear lord, if they’re old, we’re old.” We weren’t trying to relive anything. We weren’t trying to go back in time to a happier, simpler time. We were just there to enjoy some good rock and roll, in a concert where the average age had to be something along the lines of 40. 45 if you count the older lady sitting in front of us. Good times, good music, good fans. Is there anything better in life?

Suppressing the Depressing Depression

Some blog posts are vainglorious. They are intended to show off my life or my thoughts. Some blog posts are all about me. Some posts are meant to be used for my own memory book. However, after reading It Sucked and Then I Cried, I realized that not everyone is as lucky as I am or as that author is. This post is not for my friends, although you’re welcome to read it. This post is not for me, as I don’t think I’ll forget this time. This post is for the woman sitting out there googling “pregnancy”, “depression”, “postpartum” and who feels alone because she has no support system. This Bud’s for you, girl. You’re not alone. We’re in this together.

I’ve never hidden my depression or my anxiety. Am I proud of them? No. Do I wear them like a red badge of courage? No. Do I hide them and pretend they don’t exist? No. Friends and family are aware of them. When people ask how I lost weight, I note that it’s because I went off my antidepressants. My depression, originally, was situational. As anyone who’s been in law school would know, that’s a situation that can cause even the most lighthearted to want to jump, screaming, off the nearest cliff. When I sat on the floor of a bathroom in the middle of the night screaming that I wasn’t good enough for my husband? I realized I needed to do something. So, I did. It’s not like I trot this out at parties, “Hey everybody! I’ve been depressed! I’ve been on meds! Let’s dance to Vanilla Ice!” However, I don’t hide it if the conversation warrants it. I went off the anti-depressants about a year after law school ended. Situation concluded.

When we started trying to conceive, we had some problems. Again, nothing of which I’m ashamed but not exactly a way to introduce yourself to someone new. I ruminated greatly over why I wanted a baby and whether I would be able to live without having one. I had terms to come to and did. Therefore, as expected, when those two little pink lines showed themselves? I danced. I jumped. I screamed. Then? I freaked out. All normal. So far. However, then I started to feel The Beast. The Beast is big and black. A cross between a bear and the smoke monster from LOST. It’s all consuming. I began worrying about weight gain, focusing on looking horrible, and feeling as though I did not want to be pregnant anymore. For someone who worked awfully hard at getting pregnant, this was not normal. I knew that. My husband was worried. My therapist was worried. Then, week 13 came and POOF! I was me again. Obviously, the pregnancy hormones made me go all wonky. Note to self.

Second trimester was fine, mostly. Although, it was noted by my happy legal-drug providing doctor, that normal people do not leave their houses then drive back to them two or more times to ensure that the garage door did indeed close and did not reopen itself. In my defense? It does this. About once a year. And you can get into our house if the garage door is open. It’s a safety issue, man. A total safety issue. Of course, the compulsion to do this multiple times in a row? Ok, admittedly, not the most of the normal. Fine. I kept myself on notice that if the third trimester was similar to the first? I would go on anti-depressants. I met with the psychiatrist. We talked about it. He gave me the best advice I’ve ever received – “A happy mama is a healthy mama and a healthy mama is good for the baby.”

Third trimester. Where do I begin with the third trimester? As pregnancy goes, it totally blows. People told me I didn’t look that large, but man, I felt like a Weeble. Only problem was, while Weebles don’t fall down? I couldn’t get up – from a sitting position, from a squatting to pick something up position, from a lying down position. I hated it. I was hungry but then nauseous. My anxiety, however, started becoming out of control. I’d check the garage door multiple times or try to tell myself, “you’re being a moron – you saw it go down and stay down. You don’t need to turn around.” I’d go back multiple times to check things like the baby gate that keeps the dogs in, the house doors being locked, the location of my engagement ring at night. I would do these two and three times. In a row. In the span of five to ten minutes. People started asking, “aren’t you excited?” In all honesty? No. I wasn’t. I was scared. I’d be up at night thinking about how my life was going to change. I would try to work, and all I could think about was how nervous I was about everything. I’d lie to people and tell them what they wanted to hear. Yup, excited. Yup, it’s wonderful. Yup, it’s just the best thing ever.

Of course, the more I lied to people, the more anxious I became about not being excited. Shouldn’t I be excited? Everyone else was. I didn’t want to be a mother anymore. I didn’t want to have a baby anymore. There was no going back at this point. Shouldn’t I have thought about this before now? Like, 9 months before now? Why aren’t I excited? Aren’t all new-moms-to-be excited? Should I be more excited? I’m too anxious to get excited. I don’t know what to do, don’t know how to do it, don’t know why I chose this path. How could I have done something like this? I had already filled my prescription for antidepressants. I knew that I would go on them two weeks before my due date. I almost made it that long. The final straw was the morning that I sat down on the floor of the bathtub and cried while the warm shower water washed over me. I cried because I wanted to be excited but could only feel anxious. I cried in the shower because my husband was home, and I didn’t want to freak him out. I thought the sound of the water could cover my crying. Apparently not. Although, I give him credit, he let me bring up the breakdown. Knowing that sitting on the tub floor while showering is not a normal, rational behavior, I bit the bullet – or the little white happy pill, if you will. I started it at the half dose. I was supposed to up from the half to the full dose after a week. I decided to wait until after giving birth to go up to the full dose. Note: the hospital wouldn’t give me the antidepressant until the second day. I should have snuck the pill in since they told me I shouldn’t take anything they didn’t give me. I needed that pill that first night.

I sat awake for hours. I’d had the nurses take the baby to the nursery. I missed him. I worried about him. I walked down to the nusery to look in on him before going to sleep. Sleep that refused to come until 4am the next morning when I finally had them bring him back in. The following night, I asked for a sleeping pill. I managed all of six hours of sleep before the anxiety of him not being in the room woke me up again. I got home and promptly took my full dose of the antidepressant.

I knew that going on medication would mean that I couldn’t breastfeed. I was ok with that. In fact, one decision that I’ve made for my family that I’ve been most comfortable with was not breastfeeding. If it works for your family? That’s fantastic. It wasn’t for me. I knew that from before I got pregnant. I’m not nature mama. The idea of a child attached to my boob was not for me. The idea of sharing my body longer than I had to for pregnancy was not for me. I really wanted wine. And beer. And wine. I also knew that I wanted antidepressants.I wanted the antidepressant that I knew worked because I didn’t want to take any chances. That particular drug is one not around long enough for the effects to be clear. Therefore, I wouldn’t be breastfeeding. Hey, at least I had an excuse that the breastfeeding Nazis could understand, even if they didn’t like it. It was a great excuse. I’m not going to lie to you.

The first week home I don’t think would have been as happy as it was if I hadn’t made the decision to go on medication. I was happy. I enjoyed my son. I enjoyed changing his diapers and even partly enjoyed getting up in the middle of the night to hold his small body while I fed him from his bottle. Sure, I had a few breakdowns. That first day home, the dog yowled for five hours straight. I knew that the adjustment would be difficult. However, as every new mother must have, I had my visions of what being home, on my couch, with my family would be like. When the dog yowled and barked for five hours straight? I cried. I screamed. I hid in the bedroom. A few weeks later when we had another issue with the dog (which has since been resolved), I called my husband at work. I screamed. I cried hysterically for an hour and a half. I couldn’t take it. All of this while I was on medication. I cannot begin to even imagine the tantrum I would have thrown otherwise. Are medications magic pills? No. Do they solve all your problems? No. Do they erase any and all anxiety? Hell no. Do they, however, allow me to cope in a way that is mostly normal without my husband wanting to push me off the nearest cliff? Yes. If that is what they can do, then I’m all for them. I won’t say that I love being on them. I will say that I love the mother I can be because I was willing to take them.

Parenthood is excruciating – excruciatingly beautiful, excruciatingly hard, excruciatingly tiring, excruciatingly difficult, excruciatingly amazing. Life with a child is like seeing the world in hyper-color. Everything is more focused. Everything is more concentrated. Life is lived in two hour increments between sleeping, eating, diaper changing, and playing. Watching my child grow and discover is an amazing experience. Waking up in the middle of the night to feed him is a tiring experience. Walking him around for an hour while he screams his face off is a frustrating experience. I wait, some days, for the 8pm hour when he finally decides that he’s had enough of me. I count the minutes. I count the seconds. I put him in his crib and walk out, breathing a heaving sigh of relief that another day has passed. Then, about an hour later, I find myself looking at his pictures, wishing he was with me so I could snuggle him. I look forward to him waking up the next morning so that I can see his little toothless, old man smile. I know that after the first fifteen minutes or so the day will rapidly deteriorate to an endless cycle of feed, change, play, do chores. I also know that there are parts of the day, sitting with him while he sleeps on my lap, watching him find his feet, watching him stare up at me and look for me, that I wouldn’t trade for the world. By suppressing my tendencies, I have been able to chase away the racing thoughts and enjoy the times that are enjoyable. By suppressing the depression, I have been able to cope better with the times that cause me to want to run to the nearest hotel and never return. I know that I have a supportive husband, as well as family and friends. However, I also know that making decisions that benefit my family was difficult and that I will live with those decisions. My antidepressant medication doesn’t make me perfect. It makes me able to be me. The me that wanted to be a mom in the first place. The me that can look at my child’s poop-filled diaper after an hour of screaming because he’s been constipated, wipe his butt, and then tickle his tummy. Supressing my depression has allowed me to be the mom I’ve always wanted to be – one who tries her best whether I succeed or fail. I know that I have tried my best. And that’s the best that I can ask for.

And now, a gratuitous picture of said adorable child:

Sensing Censorship

Censorship. The word strikes fear into the hearts of Americans. In fact, the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States indeed indicates that to censor is to be unAmerican.The revered First Amendment states, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

The definition of censorship is, essentially, “to censor.” According to dictionary.com, “censor” is defined as:

–noun

1.	an official who examines books, plays, news reports, motion pictures, radio and television programs, letters, cablegrams, etc., for the purpose of suppressing parts deemed objectionable on moral, political, military, or other grounds.

2.	any person who supervises the manners or morality of others.

3.	an adverse critic; faultfinder.

4.	(in the ancient Roman republic) either of two officials who kept the register or census of the citizens, awarded public contracts, and supervised manners and morals.

5.	(in early Freudian dream theory) the force that represses ideas, impulses, and feelings, and prevents them from entering consciousness in their original, undisguised forms.

–verb (used with object)

6.	to examine and act upon as a censor.

7.	to delete (a word or passage of text) in one’s capacity as a censor.

Censorship implies one of the most frightening abridgments of freedom – the removal of free thought. However, the question that must be determined is where the line between free thought and cruelty or disrespect blurs to such a degree that it can no longer be distinguished.

In looking at the definitions of “censor”, only one of the seven definitions discussed text and words. Censorship, in its most insidious incarnation, is the quashing of ideas and thoughts. This type of censorship creates a Borg-like mentality that stifles creativity and individualism. However, the censorship of ideas is not the same as the editing of language.

When ideas are expressed in a hateful or inappropriate manner, then these ideas are about something other than the individuals’ thoughts. These words are no longer about ideas but about emotions that may or may not be appropriate in a given forum.  To use language that maligns individuals or groups undermines the thoughts that the speaker or writer wishes to express.

Political pundits, and even the general public, seem to forget that freedom of expression does not mean freedom to spew cruelty, rudeness, and, in some cases, hatred. Politicians inflame people with this language as well. Neither side is innocent in this war of the words. However, while the thoughts may help the process, the words used to express them often hinder the process.

For example, Iowa Senator Charles Grassley, recently said, in respect to AIG executives,”But I would suggest the first thing that would make me feel a little bit better toward them if they’d follow the Japanese example and come before the American people and take that deep bow and say, I’m sorry, and then either do one of two things: resign or go commit suicide. And in the case of the Japanese, they usually commit suicide before they make any apology.” In addition, Robert Gibbs made the following statement at a White house press conference recently, “Well, I guess Rush Limbaugh was busy, so they trotted out the next most popular member of the Republican cabal,” Gibbs said, sarcastically linking Cheney to the conservative radio talk-show host.” Perhaps these statements were made to entertain or amuse. Perhaps they were made in all seriousness. The thoughts behind them are not necessarily incorrect or deserving of being edited. However, the words chosen detract from these ideas. The language of hatred – be it suggesting ritual suicide or implying a group of individuals were plotting against the government – undermines the legitimacy of both speakers’ points.

Watching the language a person uses is not censorship. Requesting that people argue their causes on merits instead of through the use of hyperbolic language is not censorship. Requiring a certain level of decorum in discussion is not censorship. These things are common sense. Censorship involves undermining thoughts. Civility in the expression of these thoughts and expecting said civility or regulating said civility is not censorship. Requiring that people treat those with differing opinions with respect is not censorship. These are the manners that parents have taught their children for years. These are the general rules of a civilized society.

This overblown use of language does nothing more than anger and incite. It is not productive. It does nothing to promote thought or encourage discussion of the ideas underlying the language. It creates division amongst beliefs. It creates derision between individuals. It harms society more than the freedom to share ideas helps society because it stimulates anger and hatred between differing ideologies. In a truly free society, individuals can express their opinions without fear of derision. In order to be free, people should not be asked to censor themselves but should have the common sense on their own to censor thewords they use in order to bring about productive debate.

Passage of a New LAW

On Friday, February 20th, 2009, at 4:49pm, a new LAW was entered into the books. This LAW received only local recognition, with no ties to any political party. However, it is the most important, most controlling law of my life – my son. (Yes, his initials accidentally ended up being “law” and yes, we are attorneys, and yes, we realize the irony…)

My doubts melted away in a manner of instants. Wholly unprepared for this, I entered a small room with a bed, table, rocking chair, recliner chair, and many medical gizmos. I cried, screamed, and desperately begged for an epidural. I focused on ejecting this little alien from my body. Brief moments afterward, I found myself launched into a whole new world. Emotions I didn’t think could exist flowed through me. Meanwhile, I still couldn’t feel my feet. God bless drugs.

I find myself treading emotional water. The first night in the hospital, I had me some grand plans. I intended to have the baby taken to the nursery, and from there, I would sleep one of the last good sleeps for a while. We called family; they came, visited, cooed. Exhausted, I requested that he be taken to the nursery. Adrenaline flowing through me, I sat awake. I emailed from my phone. I contacted students to tell them that class would be going online for the coming weeks. I contacted people and responded to congratulations. I prepared for what I hoped would be a restful night after the physical and mental exertion of the day. I found myself wondering about my son. I waddled to the nursery, gazed through the window like a visitor, and waddled back to my room. I tried to sleep. I tossed. Turned. Emailed some more. Checked my Facebook. Finally, I dozed for a few hours. However, I couldn’t stay asleep. Around 5am, I finally called to have my son brought back to me. Confused, I realized that the reason I could not sleep lay in the fact that he was away from me.

Wholly unprepared, I tell you. I looked at him, afraid to pick him up. I watched him. I actually thought of asking the nurse if it was ok if I fed him when he looked hungry. Then I realized that they would just laugh at me. I fed my son for the first time. I put him in the bed with me and held him. Wholly unprepared.

Visitors came. Visitors went. I found myself keyed up. Paying attention to every movement of my son. Looking at him for any signs of discomfort. Astounded that this little person belonged to me. I wanted to touch him, hold him, hug him, kiss him. I couldn’t get enough of him. He was like a drug. Powerful. Controlling. Gut wrenching. Mind numbing. Wholly unprepared, I tell you.

Again, I had the nurse take him away. I accepted the proferred sleeping pill to help me fall asleep. That night I managed six hours before waking and calling to have him brought back to me. I took him out of the bassinet. I held him. Stared at him. Wondered at him. Suddenly, I found my mind wandering. Thirty years from now, he will be the one who is a father. I will be in the position of my mother and mother-in-law, watching as the next generation is born. I looked at him and realized that this emotion was love. Not romantic love. Not platonic love. This love is…weird. It is powerful yet almost insidious. I looked down at my son. I began to feel this obsession about him. Not the unhealthy, boil a bunny type of obsession. The type where you find yourself wholly focused on the object in front of you, fascinated yet frightened, amazed yet giddy, awed yet proud. I realized, staring at my son, less than thirty-six hours old, that he will break my heart. This pain is inevitable. He will outgrow me.  This intensity will never fade on my part. I realize this. I also realize that some day he will not need me, will not require me for things. This is and will be my goal as a parent. That does not make the reality less frightening in its own right.

Wholly unprepared, I look at myself. My vision of the mother I thought I would be and the mother that I find myself to be are not the same. This intensity is so great that I find that I am unsure as to who or what I am in some ways. I viewed myself as a certain type of mother. The cool mom. The kind of mom who, while obviously devoted to her child, also recognized her own independence. I find that while still myself, I am a newer version. A 2.0, if you will. I now fear that I will be too intense in my feelings for my child. I fear that instead of being independent, I will smother. I fear that in trying not to smother, I will be distant. These were never concerns I had. These were never thoughts that crossed my mind in all of the things I worried about prior to giving birth. Wholly unprepared, I tell you.

Thus, with this new rite of passage, I find myself surrounded, smothered, and liberated by emotions I did not know existed. I find myself conforming to this new LAW and thrilled to be ruled by him. I find myself happier, and more frightened, than I have ever been in my life. However, I look forward to following the rules of this LAW and am proud to say that I passed this new LAW into the world.