About a year ago, I asked Esperanza if there were any bloggers she recommended who were not in my reader. She told me about her friend Elizabeth, whose son has special needs and whose grace, courage and resilience always blew her away. I quickly added her to my reader, and have been inspired and moved by her writing many times since. Elizabeth’s beautiful son Grayson was diagnosed with Mitochondrial Disease. Elizabeth has been fiercely fighting for answers and treatments and today she received the worst answer imaginable. Grayson has Leigh’s Disease and isn’t expected to live past childhood.
Elizabeth is handling this diagnosis with her typical mixture of grace and love:
“I do know that we are more determined than ever to give Grayson the happiest life we can – however long or short it is. And this little guy certainly doesn’t know anything has changed. We just love him so, so much and will celebrate his life every day (and big time next Saturday when he turns TWO!).”
I often think of Elizabeth as Supermom: strong and brave and smart. But today, this Supermom could use some support. Please visit her and shower her with love and light.
Elizabeth, you and Grayson are in my heart tonight. I wish I had more to say, but please know that I am here abiding with you.
I’m working on my college break as an intern in San Francisco. I hear many sirens, so many that the glass door separating me from the outside of Sansome Street seems to reverberate with the noise. I ask a colleague to cover the desk as I walk outside. I ask a passerby if they know what is happening.
“Stay inside,” he said. “There’s a gunman on the loose.”
This was the massacre at 101 California Street. Eight people were killed that day. Including a newlywed shielding his wife from the gunman and an intern, like myself.
I didn’t forget my anger. But I let it pass.
April 20, 1999
A fellow co-worker advises me to check cnn.com. I watch in horror the developing story of children killing other children in Columbine, Colorado.
April 16, 2007
I’m pregnant with the twins. I hear about a mass shooting on the Virginia Tech campus: 32 dead. To keep myself and my babies protected, I turn away from the coverage.
November 5, 2009
Two days before the twins’ birthday, a man attacks an Army base at Ft. Hood, Texas. 13 are dead. I console myself with this report about the heroine who prevented more casualties.
January 8, 2011
Six people are killed at a rally for Rep. Gabrielle Giffords when a gunman opens fire on a crowd. A nine year old girl is among the dead.
April 4, 2012
In a mass killing that gets little coverage except locally, a man opens fire at a local college, killing seven.
July 20, 2012
Twelve people are killed by a gunman during a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises, 50+ injured.
I know that psychopaths exist. I’ve read Dave Cullen’s Columbine. I know that these (usually) men are going to find ways to try to kill people.
Let’s just not make it easy for them.
I’ve had enough. There is NO NEED for one man to possess 4 LEGAL firearms, including a semi-automatic weapon. There is no need for one man to possess 6,000 rounds of ammunition.
PLEASE! Let’s make it harder for these people to kill us and our families.
I’ve had ENOUGH.
I’m sending this post to my local congressperson. If you agree, I hope you do too. That’s the only way we can make change happen. I’m tired of the NRA completely dominating the discussion. They have done so for FAR too long.
Edited to Add: THIS. Because they said it much better than me.
Mel’s latest post made me realize that the animal (creature?) I mostly resemble lately is a crab.
I am defensive, snapping my claws and mostly I just feel like my back is up against the wall all the time. My posts have mostly come from a place of protection: protecting me and others I feel are being impugned. Why? Who knows. This SAHM gig is lately (to me) isolating, exhausting, focused completely on the needs of others, relying too much on the words and praise (or lack thereof) from others. Is anyone ever going to full-heartedly support me about every move I make as a parent? No. To base my whole existence waiting for that moment is ridiculous. Yet, I DO wait for that moment.
I am used to the approval of others. I am used to my teacher or boss saying, “Yes, great job.” Or, rarely, “I need you to do that over again.” I’m a perfectionist. Yet in my role as a mother, I get little commentary at all. Because the actions are so repetitive, the day-to-day functions rarely change, there’s no product launch or big event to point to. Changes in children are so incremental. But it takes little effort to notice that my twins are picky eaters and that they are loud. They ARE. Those are facts. But I take it to heart when people note the obvious. I don’t know why.
Remember that scene in “Pretty Woman” when Julia Roberts says she has a hard time remembering compliments?
“The bad things are easier to believe. Haven’t you noticed that?”
This is true for me.
None of what I am saying is unique: I mean, there’s a reason “The Feminine Mystique” was such a phenomenon. Lots of studies conclude that SAHMs are more prone to isolation and feeling under-appreciated. And I write all of this with great guilt, as always. I’m the lucky one with the most wonderful children. They are so smart and witty and funny and confident and sweet and loving. My dream came true.
Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe it’s because I just had minor surgery and am tired and in pain. (Nothing scary.) Maybe it’s because my husband is out of town, again. Maybe it’s because tomorrow the kids’ school ends and I have not planned any camp and the school doesn’t restart until September.
If I could wish myself back to that sunny happy flower of a person I once was, I would.
February has been an especially cruel month to this community.
First, was the awful tragedy Marwil endured.
Second was the cruel loss of Wordgirl’s brother-in-law.
And finally, Mo. Please click here and here for the latest.
Thank you, all of you, for your kind words for Mo. I keep going over and over these words that Amy shared, over on Rachel’s blog:
I don’t know why, but I’m a little shocked at how flattened I am by this news – I’ve mostly lurked at Mo’s blog for a long time, and she’s commented on mine once or twice at most, I think. Not a lot of interaction, really, but I am totally failing at my no-crying-at-work rule. Just goes to show how powerful the community is and how meaningful sharing these ALI experiences is – all of our hearts are breaking for her, I know….so much love to her, Schmerson, and Schmaby.
Esperanza wrote a post that bravely questioned why we are so, well, flattened by these awful tragedies.
The truth is, we are all friends. Real friends, not just “Internet friends.” Even though in most cases we have never met face-to-face, it’s like we are in the same sorority or dorm floor in college. Separated from friends and families, we share our histories (about ALI, instead of the douchey guys my friends and I used to obsess over at University), we listen to each other’s stories, we laugh. And when one of us is hurt, we cry.
And today we are thinking of our friend Mo, and our hearts are broken. I want to dedicate this poem to the tremendous Mommy Odyssey, her gorgeous husband and their beautiful baby boy. We love you, we ache for you, we are so angry that you have to endure this and we send all of our strength and kindness and all the best parts of ourself to you. We know it’s not enough, dammit, not even anywhere near enough.
Funeral Blues, WH Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
You guys, I just almost wrote a post entitled “Trees, Leaves and Such.” And it would have been a bunch of photos of a bunch of BORING TREES. NaPloBloMoWTH has almost defeated me, 6 days in.
Luckily, Kathy has saved me from committing that ultimate gaffe and alienating any readers who are still sticking around. I know you guys all have lives and I thank all of you for reading me. It means a lot And, I have an INCREDIBLY RAD post waiting in the wings. Probably it will come out tomorrow. It’s a jewel and I am polishing it. I am really proud of it. And you know I’m super hard on myself, so this thing has the goods.
Before I begin, I want to point your attention to one of my favorite bloggers out there, who is also an excellent commenter. She used to blog by the name of “Colours of Cattiz” and recently changed blog titles. Now she’s “Writing for Life”. She has always had fascinating things to say, whether about the London riots:
“I live in a town about 30min train-ride from London Paddington. It’s just sad to see these teens get into this because they think it’s “exciting” or looting the stores because there’s free stuff to grab. They have used twitter as a tool to encourage others and give directions of what’s next…Watching the news everyone blames everyone, no surprise. It seems like a giant lack of respect, morals and not grasping right from wrong.
The Prime Minister stated yesterday (on national tv): “If you are old enough to commit these crimes, you are old enough to take the consequences of your actions. You will feel the full force of the law.”
Of course that’s good but I can’t help but thinking if that’s what they really need. Maybe it’s just me but in Sweden we don’t put children in prison. That doesn’t mean they can behave however they like without being taken cared of. It’s just another system.”
Or Fashion:
“There are fashions for all sizes although that’s not how media shows it. As long as you are healthy and happy with your own body I think it should be okay. If you feel content with what you have that will shine through as well. And if your weight is threatening your health, well that’s another issue really.”
Cattiz has always made me think, and often smile. She is never unfair, and thinks of every possible side of a situation. I have been following her voyage closely: on her second IVF attempt, she got pregnant and we were all SO happy for her. (She has many fans.) And then, this news.
Could you all please go to her and let her know that many are thinking of her and support her all the way around? She is just a wonderful woman who should be showered in much love.
OK. Onto the topic at hand, proposed by the excellent Deborah.
“Sometimes we feel really good about a post after we write and share it on our blogs. However, we don’t always get the feedback and validation we crave from our readers. This is your chance to revisit a an old blog entry that you are proud of and invite others doing the Time Warp to read and give it the attention it deserves.
What I love about that post: I was in the midst of a major tough time (probably one of the toughest in my life) and I was reaching for life-affirming things like beautiful music and lovely flowers and good books and food that made me happy. I just want to go back in time and congratulate that version of “me” who was reaching for hope and grace during hardships and say, “You were doing the right thing.”
And this post inspires me to reach for the things now that are life-affirming. I had no friends then who understood. Now I have scores. Things are much better now. We no longer live in a house infested with black mold. And we no longer live with my in-laws, which is what happened after we got EVICTED from the mold house. My daughter’s health drastically improved. (She was pre-asthmatic and had a febrile seizure while we were living in Mold Manor.) I still lost a pregnancy. And I’ll never forget that.
Yet, I rarely have the insight of old me. And so, I post this music, again. You will not regret hearing it. It makes me cry for the beautifulness yet awfulness of the world. Somehow in this one musical interlude, the two combine.
And I dedicate it to Cattiz. I am thinking of you.
Something really terrible happened on Monday. I rear-ended a car and the driver was injured. This is the first accident I have ever been in as a driver in my 20+ years of driving. And it was my fault. It was at a notoriously blind intersection and I was temporarily blinded also by the sun, which was low and directly in my vision. But still. I took full liability to everyone (insurance company included), but I am very worried about the man I rear-ended. I keep asking our insurance adjuster to see if he’s OK. I want to track him down and send him flowers or something, but I only have his first name. I apologized a lot to him at the scene, but it doesn’t feel enough. I wish I could rewind the morning. Make it come undone.
I have been trying to do one good deed a week since September outside of helping my immediate family, always my number one priority. I feel like I was kind of on a roll. I have made meals for families, committed small, random acts of kindnesses (like always letting cars merge in front of me, giving to charity), sent gifts to those in need.
So then, this. This is the opposite of a good deed.
As someone going through infertility and loss, we are so often the victims of circumstances. But here I am not a victim.
Dear readers. You have always helped me before. How do I move past this? How do I make amends to this nice man, who did nothing to warrant this awful accident? How do I forgive myself? Have you ever been involved in a situation where you were to blame?
Yeah. Sorry in advance. I don’t really have any funny anecdotes or semi-clever metaphors or beefs with the New York Times or hopeful quotes or songs. I wish I did.
This week has been: well, I think I can safely say that it’s the hardest week I’ve ever had as a mother. Darcy went out of town on his birthday, Sunday, leaving me with two sick kids not allowed to go to pre-school. Sometimes motherhood feels like a never-ending endurance test, like a marathon of Amazing Race episodes without travel.
This week I’ve dealt with:
- Two sick, cranky three year olds from 7:00 AM – 11:00 PM by myself, complete with tantrums, doctor appointments, refusals to sleep, coughing, high temperatures, trying to get them to drink and eat and get well. The worrying, the exhaustion, the frustration has been intense.
- A gang of raucous raccoons tearing up our lawn, kicking and chewing our soccer ball and ripping apart our goal at 3 AM. Apparently they HATE soccer. Twice they did this, waking me up and completing their ruckus by running across our roof, freaking me out. WTF?
- My son vomiting all over the twins’ bedroom. Poor little guy
- The topper: my daughter about an hour ago choked on a pita chip and started turning bright purple. She could not speak or cough. I had to give her the Heimlich maneuver twice, before the second attempt finally forced the chip out of her windpipe. She’s OK, Thank God. It was super scary. Poor little girl
- I’m not quite over the pneumonia, and am weak and dampened.
I feel so scared and tired and incompetent.
And I don’t want to complain because I know how lucky I am.
So this tweet, this is what I’m clinging to:
Yes, this. “@RachLinGA: I hope we all get to find out how hard motherhood is.”— Too Many Fish to Fry (@2manyfish2fry) September 15, 2011
My letter to the editor was not published. And after I sent it, The New York Times published yet another article about another extreme case of ART, a sperm donor who had had 150 kids. Just like with the twins article, the article has no hard numbers whether there actually ARE large numbers of donors with many children. Guess what guys: if there’s no numbers or studies behind it, it is NOT A TREND!! Has Freakanomics taught you nothing?
Now The New York Times have turned this latest extreme case on the margins of ART into the following: A debate about “Making Laws About Making Babies” The alarmist nature of the article freaked out a whole bunch of people and legislation is already being discussed to legislate the infertility industry. Because that is what we need to be doing in this economy: focusing on this issue. Facepalm. What about the 1 in 8 people suffering from infertility? What about helping them? The comment section of the debate is full of more Amy Haibles. These articles fuel the Amy Haibles of the world.
Since it’s clear that The New York Times isn’t going to change its editorial policy of only highlighting the margins or extremes of infertility, I want to spotlight each and every article that comes out and call it what it is: biased.
What would be maybe helpful is if we could create a Hashtag for Twitter so we can alert others when a crappy article comes out. And mobilize.
Here’s the thing: I totally suck at naming things: the only thing I can think of is #nytimesdouchebags.
So: I’m calling on all you funny and clever wordsmiths out there. Mommy Odyssey?The Smartness? Runny Yolk? I know lots of you are great at this stuff.
What’s a good Hashtag which would represent The New York Times’ abysmal coverage of infertility?
Major bonus points if you can match the movie with the above quote.
When I was in college, I was very, very poor. I would ferry my friends to the bars, and sip my coca colas, content to accept fees for being the designated driver. Those fees paid for my meals for a week. I was so poor that I once sold flowers at restaurants. That’s a terrible job, BTW. Please be nice to those women when you see them.
Somehow, I ended up in a sorority of women who were my superiors in many ways. All of my friends were pretty and well-off. Luckily, they were all really kind as well. They accepted me, my 1982 Chrysler LeBaron and loaned me their pretty clothes for parties.
There was one girl in my sorority who shined brighter than all the rest. She reminded me of Grace Kelly: she was radiant, she had a boyfriend who was gorgeous and really into her (who later became her husband), she came from a devoted family who lived on a fabulous estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean. But what I mostly remember was how nice she was. When she said hello to lowly me, and laughed at my jokes, I felt elevated in spirit and in self-esteem. I imagine it was like speaking to Kate Middleton, if she was kind and witty. I was never good friends with her, mostly because I never felt worthy of being her friend, but I held her in high esteem. Whenever anyone speaks of enchanted golden girls, I always think of her.
She went on to marry her college sweetheart, she had three children and founded a successful business. Then, I heard that she passed away last year.
I don’t know too much about it, but she was diagnosed with melanoma and fought valiantly, but ultimately succumbed to the disease.
I have thought about her every day since I learned the news. I have been told by a mutual friend who knew her very well that she was always the one who put on sunscreen, wore hats and didn’t tan.
I don’t know that I have much of a point here, other than to ask, yet again, why is life so unfair? I don’t know how to explain awful things like this. The passing of a young, vibrant, beautiful mother who had everything. I thought of her today and I realized that I am now officially older than she’ll ever be.
All I can do to honor her memory is direct you to this song. It is unworldly, it is ethereal, it is golden. It reminds me of her.
Bless you, Grace. The world was a better place because you were here.
And, I have an INCREDIBLY RAD post waiting in the wings. Probably it will come out tomorrow. It’s a jewel and I am polishing it. I am really proud of it. And you know I’m super hard on myself, so this thing has the goods. 
