I awoke this morning next to a tow-headed Urchin who found monsters in her room overnight and needed Mommy to help keep them at bay. Sleeping next to her, which I’ve done only a handful of times, is an adventure. She’s very wiggly, and tends to work herself into a perpendicular position, which is fine when she’s alone. Not so much when you’re laying beside her.
Truth is, she’s been a difficult child to love this week — asserting her authority and all that crap. More than a handful of times, I’ve wanted to sell her to the circus. They’d take her, too. She's just that cute.
As you know, mine was a difficult pregnancy. No one in my family dared utter anything but prayers for our little Urchin until week 24, when we had the mother of all sonograms. That day, when I called to tell my parents the news — that she was a healthy little girl — my mother let out a sigh of relief and said: “Well, now that we know she’s just fine, I hope you have one just like ya!”
I did, and then some.
She’s sassy, precocious, and way too big for her britches. She’s three feet tall and weighs all of 32 pounds, but she’s a presence no matter where she is. People have been telling her since she was days old that she's beautiful. These days, it goes in one ear and out the other.
She finds and pushes Mommy’s buttons so masterfully that it’s hard to remember she’s only 3. She doesn’t push Daddy's buttons. No, she manages that relationship as if she were an angel. That’s another of Mommy’s buttons. Maybe Urchin’s favorite, in fact.
She’s mastered the art of selective listening. She’s defiant and stubborn, and usually at the same time. Time out has become one of the costs of doing business — you can almost see her weighing the consequences and deciding whether they’re worth the fun she’ll have breaking the rules.
She’ll clean up her toys, but she’s more likely to rope you into “helping” her, then tell you what a good job you’re doing as she sits and watches.
She was an amazingly good baby. Good sleeper. Good eater. Little fuss. Her only issue was that she didn’t like being a baby. From her first day on Earth, she was looking for ways out.
Everyone told us to be thankful that she was so good. And we were. But I always figured there’d be pay-back. I thought of it as the calm before the storm.
If the past two weeks are any indication, Urchin will be a pretty tough kid to raise. Staying a step ahead of her will be our biggest challenge. And keeping a united front will be paramount. She’s wily, that one. And smart as a whip. Mostly, though, her emotional intelligence is astounding. She knows just how far she can push us before it's time to turn on the charm.
Is it manipulation? Of course it is. And it works. Besides, who ever said I'm not a sucker for a sweet face and a sloppy kiss?
So, she woke with a start in the middle of the night. Something spooked her and it wasn’t going away. Rather than try to rationalize with a 3-year-old at 2 a.m., I climbed in bed with her (after removing the monsters, of course). She hugged me, kissed me and drifted right back to sleep. It took me longer, because it felt so good to have her near, with no conflict, just love.
I did finally doze off. And slept the rest of the night in fits and starts, artfully dodging her wiggles.
She was still asleep when I woke up. Her head on two pillows, her stuffed dog and Elmo nearby. Her beautiful face looked so sweet and peaceful that it took my breath away.
I often wonder whether I’ll be able to avoid the traps I lured my own mother into. Whether I’ll be able to meet her need for confrontation with calm resolve, or her irrational behavior with rational consistency. Most of all, I wonder whether I’ll let her pull me down to her level or raise her up to mine.
I pray every day for the strength and wisdom to keep the reins tight enough that she doesn't veer too far from the path, but not so tight that she completely rebels — or worse yet, we kill her spirit.
Most times I feel completely inadequate for this job. But then, in the quiet moments like this morning, I remember that no matter what level of hell I was dragging my mother through, I never lost my way. I never lost the values she instilled. And I never stopped loving her.
If I can meet Urchin right there, I can handle whatever else comes.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. And thanks for reading.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Social faux pas
As you know, I'm an unabashed reader of socialite trash. From web sites to blogs to novels and tell-alls, you put something in writing about the people I'll never be, and I'll show up to read it.
Every so often, my travels through their world net me something that makes me giggle for hours. Today is one of those days.
Should you ever, dear reader, decide to inject yourself with botulinum toxin type A, more commonly known as Botox, please refer to this before you head to your appointment:
Happy Monday.
Every so often, my travels through their world net me something that makes me giggle for hours. Today is one of those days.
Should you ever, dear reader, decide to inject yourself with botulinum toxin type A, more commonly known as Botox, please refer to this before you head to your appointment:
Happy Monday.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A betting woman
Hubby and I, like many couples, have an “all-bets-off” list of celebrity crushes. These are different from your basic, run-of-the-mill celebrity crushes. They’re the “If I ever met him in person I’d probably be unable to keep from disrobing right then and there” kind of celebrity crushes.
Here’s how it works: We agree that if Celebrity X ever stops by, the one of us who has the “all-bets-off” crush gets a pass on the marriage vows for one night.
Ours is a compact little agreement, Hubby's and mine. We each have one such crush, and they’re married to each other. So the likelihood of one of us having to sit idly by while the other, uh, doesn’t, is dramatically lower. We figure they’d drop by together. And wouldn’t that be convenient?
I have, during my marriage, run into a surprising number of people who are disgusted by our agreement. (As if this were really a possibility. Which, of course, it's not. But whatever.)
The first couple of times I got called on it, I engaged. I told tell them, as gently as I could, to loosen up. It’s just a joke. Usually they’d respond with some psychobabble mumbo-jumbo about how an agreement like this speaks to the strength of our marriage, given our willingness to disavow our commitment to one another in pursuit of one night of passion with a stranger blah, blah, blah.
Uh, not really, I'd say. It more speaks to our acknowledgment that just because you get married doesn't mean you a) have to stop having harmless crushes on celebrities; b) have to stop being playful with your partner; or c) have to believe that a marriage is faithful only if it kills every other feeling you have for every other human being.
After awhile, I realized the folly in my willingness to engage. Much like when you talk politics or religion with someone whose convictions won’t allow them to see shades of gray, people who can’t see the harmless nature of this aren’t going to be convinced by anything I say.
They’d probably be horrified to learn further that Hubby and I have shared our Top 20 lists of celebrity crushes. In fact, we shared them very early in our courtship. We still tease each other about them from time to time.
I say all of this because I ran across my list the other day. And after I finished giggling, I realized it’s woefully out of date.
Ricky Martin’s on it, for chrissake. So is a guy I had to Google in order to remember who he is, exactly.
Of course, this is a travesty.
So, because I clearly don't have enough to do, I’m going to make another List to share with Hubby (and with you, in all likelihood). That’ll probably prompt him to revisit his List and make changes. And we’ll have a whole new set of things to tease each other about.
How about you, Dear Reader? Do you and your partner have an “all-bets-off” agreement? How about a Top 20 list? I hope you’ll share in the comments. Extra points for everyone who names names.
Oh, and if you ever see Tim McGraw and Faith Hill wondering around, send them right over, will ya?
Happy Thursday.
Here’s how it works: We agree that if Celebrity X ever stops by, the one of us who has the “all-bets-off” crush gets a pass on the marriage vows for one night.
Ours is a compact little agreement, Hubby's and mine. We each have one such crush, and they’re married to each other. So the likelihood of one of us having to sit idly by while the other, uh, doesn’t, is dramatically lower. We figure they’d drop by together. And wouldn’t that be convenient?
I have, during my marriage, run into a surprising number of people who are disgusted by our agreement. (As if this were really a possibility. Which, of course, it's not. But whatever.)
The first couple of times I got called on it, I engaged. I told tell them, as gently as I could, to loosen up. It’s just a joke. Usually they’d respond with some psychobabble mumbo-jumbo about how an agreement like this speaks to the strength of our marriage, given our willingness to disavow our commitment to one another in pursuit of one night of passion with a stranger blah, blah, blah.
Uh, not really, I'd say. It more speaks to our acknowledgment that just because you get married doesn't mean you a) have to stop having harmless crushes on celebrities; b) have to stop being playful with your partner; or c) have to believe that a marriage is faithful only if it kills every other feeling you have for every other human being.
After awhile, I realized the folly in my willingness to engage. Much like when you talk politics or religion with someone whose convictions won’t allow them to see shades of gray, people who can’t see the harmless nature of this aren’t going to be convinced by anything I say.
They’d probably be horrified to learn further that Hubby and I have shared our Top 20 lists of celebrity crushes. In fact, we shared them very early in our courtship. We still tease each other about them from time to time.
I say all of this because I ran across my list the other day. And after I finished giggling, I realized it’s woefully out of date.
Ricky Martin’s on it, for chrissake. So is a guy I had to Google in order to remember who he is, exactly.
Of course, this is a travesty.
So, because I clearly don't have enough to do, I’m going to make another List to share with Hubby (and with you, in all likelihood). That’ll probably prompt him to revisit his List and make changes. And we’ll have a whole new set of things to tease each other about.
How about you, Dear Reader? Do you and your partner have an “all-bets-off” agreement? How about a Top 20 list? I hope you’ll share in the comments. Extra points for everyone who names names.
Oh, and if you ever see Tim McGraw and Faith Hill wondering around, send them right over, will ya?
Happy Thursday.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Fun with Dick and …
As we all know, it’s bad karma to make fun of someone else’s honest mistake. So that’s absolutely not what I’m doing in pointing this out. Pinkie swear.
It’s just a gentle reminder to all of us to be sure and read what we pass along.
Really.
It’s just a gentle reminder to all of us to be sure and read what we pass along.
Really.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Justin Time
I'm sure you’ve all see the JT/Beyonce video-shoot skit from SNL this weekend. Hilarious, yes. But not the funniest bit on the show.
Check this out:
Check this out:
Friday, November 14, 2008
Dear John
Damn you. I need you today.
I need to hear your voice, and I need you to hear mine.
I need you to make me laugh, to remind me I’m worthy, to tell me I made a difference. I need you to make me smile.
I’m not feeling sad, exactly. Not really melancholy or blue, even. I just need a dose of you.
Tried coffee. It always worked for you. Not so much for me.
Tried chocolate. It just made sleepy. I sure don’t need any more of that.
I tried talking to you. It helped a bit. I just wish you could answer.
I can’t believe it’s been almost two years since I last heard from you. Your last words to me were so typical: “[insert woman's name here] blew me off for lunch today. Oh well. Her loss. I look damn cute today.”
I’m sure you did, my friend. I’m sure you did.
I miss you like mad.
bzh
I need to hear your voice, and I need you to hear mine.
I need you to make me laugh, to remind me I’m worthy, to tell me I made a difference. I need you to make me smile.
I’m not feeling sad, exactly. Not really melancholy or blue, even. I just need a dose of you.
Tried coffee. It always worked for you. Not so much for me.
Tried chocolate. It just made sleepy. I sure don’t need any more of that.
I tried talking to you. It helped a bit. I just wish you could answer.
I can’t believe it’s been almost two years since I last heard from you. Your last words to me were so typical: “[insert woman's name here] blew me off for lunch today. Oh well. Her loss. I look damn cute today.”
I’m sure you did, my friend. I’m sure you did.
I miss you like mad.
bzh
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Found and lost
A newborn was found in the ladies’ room of a McDonald's restaurant in Charlotte yesterday.
He’s healthy and uninjured, just newly born.
He was dropped off by a man, who ran in the back door of the restaurant and into the ladies room, laid the child on the floor and ran back out. The baby was found shortly thereafter. Authorities were called. He was delivered to the hospital, where he’s doing just fine.
So now they'll put him up for adoption, where he'll be claimed by the family he’s supposed to be part of — a family that has been desperate to find him. He’ll be loved and nurtured all the rest of his days. Case closed.
Uh, not so fast.
Right now, the Charlotte authorities are spending untold tax dollars to find the woman who bore the child and the man who dropped him off. The child’s future is in the hands of authorities, who’ll first try to reunite him with the people who, for whatever reason, chose to leave him for others to find. When that fails, and it will, they’ll put him foster care and drag him through the court system. He’ll be shuttled from home to home, just getting settled and finding his place before they move him again.
Finally, when his spirit is destroyed and his belief in mankind is shaken to its core, they’ll put him up for adoption.
And wonder why no one wants him.
It’s hard for me to imagine what would make a mother give up her child in such a fashion. But then, I’m not in a situation that would ever call for such drastic measures. I’m partnered, with a strong support system and enough money to make a good life. I’m not addicted to anything stronger than Diet Coke. And my mental illness is easily controlled with a low dose of antidepressant.
What’s harder for me to imagine is why we’d want to do anything to put these two souls back together. She has clearly communicated her inability to deal with having a child. He will clearly be better off without her. No need for anger or judgment or ridicule. It just is what it is. Why not realize it, skip all of the middle steps, and give this child a fighting chance?
In some sense, I applaud the mother’s courage in realizing her predicament and finding what she thought was an acceptable way out of it. Ideally, she’d have dropped the child at a church or hospital, but when you’re afraid and you don’t know where to turn, you do what makes the most sense at the time.
Fortunately, she didn’t delude herself into believing that the child would help her grow into a strong and stable mother. That rarely happens.
Take the case of Elijah Burger, a 23-month-old who — yesterday, too — was beaten to death in the Charlotte motel room of the family he was staying with. Rather than being dropped off for us to take in, he somehow he ended up with people (at this point the relationships aren’t clear) who couldn’t deal with the needs of a 2-year-old. Neighbors said he was always covered with bruises.
It’s sad to say, but he’s probably better off.
So today, while the Charlotte authorities struggle to find a mother and her “accomplice,” I’ll pray they just stop and start in another direction.
That little boy deserves better.
So do we.
He’s healthy and uninjured, just newly born.
He was dropped off by a man, who ran in the back door of the restaurant and into the ladies room, laid the child on the floor and ran back out. The baby was found shortly thereafter. Authorities were called. He was delivered to the hospital, where he’s doing just fine.
So now they'll put him up for adoption, where he'll be claimed by the family he’s supposed to be part of — a family that has been desperate to find him. He’ll be loved and nurtured all the rest of his days. Case closed.
Uh, not so fast.
Right now, the Charlotte authorities are spending untold tax dollars to find the woman who bore the child and the man who dropped him off. The child’s future is in the hands of authorities, who’ll first try to reunite him with the people who, for whatever reason, chose to leave him for others to find. When that fails, and it will, they’ll put him foster care and drag him through the court system. He’ll be shuttled from home to home, just getting settled and finding his place before they move him again.
Finally, when his spirit is destroyed and his belief in mankind is shaken to its core, they’ll put him up for adoption.
And wonder why no one wants him.
It’s hard for me to imagine what would make a mother give up her child in such a fashion. But then, I’m not in a situation that would ever call for such drastic measures. I’m partnered, with a strong support system and enough money to make a good life. I’m not addicted to anything stronger than Diet Coke. And my mental illness is easily controlled with a low dose of antidepressant.
What’s harder for me to imagine is why we’d want to do anything to put these two souls back together. She has clearly communicated her inability to deal with having a child. He will clearly be better off without her. No need for anger or judgment or ridicule. It just is what it is. Why not realize it, skip all of the middle steps, and give this child a fighting chance?
In some sense, I applaud the mother’s courage in realizing her predicament and finding what she thought was an acceptable way out of it. Ideally, she’d have dropped the child at a church or hospital, but when you’re afraid and you don’t know where to turn, you do what makes the most sense at the time.
Fortunately, she didn’t delude herself into believing that the child would help her grow into a strong and stable mother. That rarely happens.
Take the case of Elijah Burger, a 23-month-old who — yesterday, too — was beaten to death in the Charlotte motel room of the family he was staying with. Rather than being dropped off for us to take in, he somehow he ended up with people (at this point the relationships aren’t clear) who couldn’t deal with the needs of a 2-year-old. Neighbors said he was always covered with bruises.
It’s sad to say, but he’s probably better off.
So today, while the Charlotte authorities struggle to find a mother and her “accomplice,” I’ll pray they just stop and start in another direction.
That little boy deserves better.
So do we.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Bless me, Father
I want to go to church.
More than that, I want to join a church.
Though this has been a long time in coming, I still can’t believe I’m saying it. As the daughter of a devout Catholic, who went to Mass on every holy day of obligation, to confession four times a year and only missed Sunday service for pneumonia, strep and, well, nothing else really, church membership is something I went to college to get away from. And I haven’t really been back since. At least not in the “join a church” sense.
I went to Mass a few times in college, during a confusing time where I needed some comfort.
I went regularly for a time in Austin, after my divorce and before I entered my mid-life crisis.
My friend L. made sure I got a regular dose when I lived in D.C. We had a standing date on Ash Wednesday and went other times when we — particularly I — needed to feel the spirit.
Throughout most of my grown-up life, going to church has been about dealing with an acute crisis, working through the pain and then going back to having my Sunday mornings to myself. The day my daughter was born, for too many reasons to list here, my heart began to change. And now that we're settled in a place we plan to stay for a while, I’m ready to commit.
I’ve done some research. I’ll do some more. In the meantime, I ask you:
If you go to church, how did you choose the one you go to?
What’s most important to you in your relationship with your church?
If friends of yours suddenly decided to become members of your church, would it feel good or strange to you?
If your family didn’t want to join you in this journey, would you go anyway?
I welcome whatever wisdom or guidance you have to give, dear reader. I always learn so much from what you say.
More than that, I want to join a church.
Though this has been a long time in coming, I still can’t believe I’m saying it. As the daughter of a devout Catholic, who went to Mass on every holy day of obligation, to confession four times a year and only missed Sunday service for pneumonia, strep and, well, nothing else really, church membership is something I went to college to get away from. And I haven’t really been back since. At least not in the “join a church” sense.
I went to Mass a few times in college, during a confusing time where I needed some comfort.
I went regularly for a time in Austin, after my divorce and before I entered my mid-life crisis.
My friend L. made sure I got a regular dose when I lived in D.C. We had a standing date on Ash Wednesday and went other times when we — particularly I — needed to feel the spirit.
Throughout most of my grown-up life, going to church has been about dealing with an acute crisis, working through the pain and then going back to having my Sunday mornings to myself. The day my daughter was born, for too many reasons to list here, my heart began to change. And now that we're settled in a place we plan to stay for a while, I’m ready to commit.
I’ve done some research. I’ll do some more. In the meantime, I ask you:
If you go to church, how did you choose the one you go to?
What’s most important to you in your relationship with your church?
If friends of yours suddenly decided to become members of your church, would it feel good or strange to you?
If your family didn’t want to join you in this journey, would you go anyway?
I welcome whatever wisdom or guidance you have to give, dear reader. I always learn so much from what you say.
Quote of the day
“I wept tears of joy for all of us on Tuesday. He may not be a perfect man. Certainly, he has often said that he’ll likely be an imperfect president, but he is a good man, a smart man, a disciplined soul who balances temperance with determination and courage. We’ve made a great choice, I assure you.”
— Maya Soetoro-Ng, Barack Obama's sister, in a post-election email to close friends
— Maya Soetoro-Ng, Barack Obama's sister, in a post-election email to close friends
Monday, November 10, 2008
A new kind of ass hole
Kristy Sammis, my favorite blogger who's not me, posted an entry today that made me laugh so hard I damn near peed my pants.
Go here. But empty your bladder first.
Go here. But empty your bladder first.
A long way, baby
(click on image to enlarge)
I don’t know about you, but I’m certainly inclined to get cantankerous and fussy when I don’t have sufficient time to keep my hair tidied, apply fresh lipstick and wash my hands.
Your "husky" friend,
bzh
(with snaps to cjb for sending this along...)
Change I can believe in
Turns out I wasn’t the only one in my house looking for change on Election Day. Urchin was cooking up some of her own.
On Wednesday morning, as America awoke to a new president, my daughter awoke with a new plan. It had taken some shape the preceding Friday, the day before we celebrated her third birthday.
“After my birthday party,” she told me and her Grandma in two separate instances, “no more diapers.”
Grandma was more circumspect. I made her repeat herself because I could hardly believe my ears.
The birthday party was Saturday. Sunday started off strong. The winds of change were blowing, and Urchin used the potty many times during the day. Finally, early evening-ish, she got tired of having to think about it and asked for a diaper. We didn’t push back. Potty training is one of those things you just can’t manage. At least not from this side.
I awoke Monday full of hope. Urchin awoke full of defiance. To diaper or not became a power struggle. Despite my intense desire to drag her kicking and screaming into Big Girl World, I sat back, smiled and gave in.
“You can wear a diaper if you want to,” I told her. “If you’re not ready to be a big girl, that’s OK with me.”
She wasn’t ready. Tuesday either.
Then, on Wednesday, it was like she sensed all that is possible in this New World Order. Sometime around noon, she announced to all who would listen that she no longer wanted to wear diapers “during awake time.”
Her Grandma, who knows an opportunity when she sees one, took her at her word, and held her to it all day.
Since noonish on Wednesday, Nov. 5, Urchin hasn't worn a diaper except to sleep. She’s had no accidents and no back-slides. She’s tinkled at home (on both the big potty and her little potty), and in the bathroom at the grocery store, in the park and during a marathon trip to Marshall’s (three times).
I have to send a shout-out to my Main Muppet, Elmo, who taught Urchin how to tell when it’s time to find a potty.
“When you get that feeling,” he says, “stop what you're doing and GO.”
Elmo’s words stuck with her like the words to “Freebird” stuck to that guy who was looking to get lucky at the end of the high school dance. (God, I'm so old...)
Today, Urchin is like a new kid. She walks a little taller, smiles a little brighter. It was the first thing she told her preschool teachers about this morning. And it’ll be the last thing she talks about before we turn out the light tonight.
For me, Nov. 5 will go down in history as one of the proudest days of my life.
And Mr. Obama, as proud as I am to call you my president, you’re only half of the reason.
On Wednesday morning, as America awoke to a new president, my daughter awoke with a new plan. It had taken some shape the preceding Friday, the day before we celebrated her third birthday.
“After my birthday party,” she told me and her Grandma in two separate instances, “no more diapers.”
Grandma was more circumspect. I made her repeat herself because I could hardly believe my ears.
The birthday party was Saturday. Sunday started off strong. The winds of change were blowing, and Urchin used the potty many times during the day. Finally, early evening-ish, she got tired of having to think about it and asked for a diaper. We didn’t push back. Potty training is one of those things you just can’t manage. At least not from this side.
I awoke Monday full of hope. Urchin awoke full of defiance. To diaper or not became a power struggle. Despite my intense desire to drag her kicking and screaming into Big Girl World, I sat back, smiled and gave in.
“You can wear a diaper if you want to,” I told her. “If you’re not ready to be a big girl, that’s OK with me.”
She wasn’t ready. Tuesday either.
Then, on Wednesday, it was like she sensed all that is possible in this New World Order. Sometime around noon, she announced to all who would listen that she no longer wanted to wear diapers “during awake time.”
Her Grandma, who knows an opportunity when she sees one, took her at her word, and held her to it all day.
Since noonish on Wednesday, Nov. 5, Urchin hasn't worn a diaper except to sleep. She’s had no accidents and no back-slides. She’s tinkled at home (on both the big potty and her little potty), and in the bathroom at the grocery store, in the park and during a marathon trip to Marshall’s (three times).
I have to send a shout-out to my Main Muppet, Elmo, who taught Urchin how to tell when it’s time to find a potty.
“When you get that feeling,” he says, “stop what you're doing and GO.”
Elmo’s words stuck with her like the words to “Freebird” stuck to that guy who was looking to get lucky at the end of the high school dance. (God, I'm so old...)
Today, Urchin is like a new kid. She walks a little taller, smiles a little brighter. It was the first thing she told her preschool teachers about this morning. And it’ll be the last thing she talks about before we turn out the light tonight.
For me, Nov. 5 will go down in history as one of the proudest days of my life.
And Mr. Obama, as proud as I am to call you my president, you’re only half of the reason.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Dawn in America
Today, I feel certain that my daughter will know a world that is better than the one she was born into.
I feel certain that the age of fear is over and that an era of hope is upon us.
I feel certain that those who would exclude have, except in one painful instance, themselves been excluded. And that the rest of us are ready to walk forward together.
I feel certain that the world will once again look to the United States for guidance and leadership, and our friends will return to our side.
I feel certain that, as a nation, we are stronger today than we were yesterday.
Though I know and love people who are as afraid as I am relieved, I believe they will someday see that the principles upon which our new president will stand are those of a just society — a society they, too, want for my daughter.
I know they will come to see that engaging and nurturing our friendships will do far more to protect us than wildly searching for, shooting at and only wounding our enemies.
That a society that makes taking care of its vulnerable a priority is far more profitable than one that thinks it’s OK to leave any of its citizens cold, hungry or destitute.
That a man who leads with quiet confidence, a steady hand and a strength of conviction will strike more fear in the hearts of those who would hurt us than one who blindly shoots in the dark with no plan, no vision and no allies.
That a system that allows the rich to steal with impunity, the poor to live at the mercy of the powerful and the corrupt to escape justice is not good for our national security or our national conscience.
Eight years ago, when our democratic process lost some of its sheen during the election of 2000, I started to lose hope. If they can steal an election, I thought, what's the point of engaging?
Since then, I’ve struggled not to give up because, well, it’s important to a democracy that we not give up. It was hard, of course. There was so much hate. So much violence. So much division. And so little compassion or understanding.
Then came yesterday. And with it, a clean slate.
I hope you’re at peace, dear reader. If not, I pray you find it soon.
I feel certain that the age of fear is over and that an era of hope is upon us.
I feel certain that those who would exclude have, except in one painful instance, themselves been excluded. And that the rest of us are ready to walk forward together.
I feel certain that the world will once again look to the United States for guidance and leadership, and our friends will return to our side.
I feel certain that, as a nation, we are stronger today than we were yesterday.
Though I know and love people who are as afraid as I am relieved, I believe they will someday see that the principles upon which our new president will stand are those of a just society — a society they, too, want for my daughter.
I know they will come to see that engaging and nurturing our friendships will do far more to protect us than wildly searching for, shooting at and only wounding our enemies.
That a society that makes taking care of its vulnerable a priority is far more profitable than one that thinks it’s OK to leave any of its citizens cold, hungry or destitute.
That a man who leads with quiet confidence, a steady hand and a strength of conviction will strike more fear in the hearts of those who would hurt us than one who blindly shoots in the dark with no plan, no vision and no allies.
That a system that allows the rich to steal with impunity, the poor to live at the mercy of the powerful and the corrupt to escape justice is not good for our national security or our national conscience.
Eight years ago, when our democratic process lost some of its sheen during the election of 2000, I started to lose hope. If they can steal an election, I thought, what's the point of engaging?
Since then, I’ve struggled not to give up because, well, it’s important to a democracy that we not give up. It was hard, of course. There was so much hate. So much violence. So much division. And so little compassion or understanding.
Then came yesterday. And with it, a clean slate.
I hope you’re at peace, dear reader. If not, I pray you find it soon.
Yes, we can
How very nice it is not to feel bitter and cheated on the first Wednesday morning in November.
More later...
More later...
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Could it be?
First Pennsylvania. Now Ohio. With Florida, Virginia, North Carolina all neck-and-neck.
Dare I say it?
Not just yet.
Dare I say it?
Not just yet.
Monday, November 3, 2008
One day more
I spent today painting my living room and kitchen. In the process, it went from shit brown (who the hell paints their living room shit brown? And then stripes it with polyurethane?) to "dahlia," a beautiful, rich, bold shade of yellow/mustard/gold.
As a result, I saw almost no news today. Nothing about the election. Nothing about people killing other people. Nothing about financial chaos or our diminished stature in the world.
Today, I heard nothing but sanding, taping, priming, rolling, edging and touching up.
Man, did it feel good.
This election is so important. More important than any in my lifetime. And no one likes to talk politics more than I do. But I'm so weary.
I'm tired of the robo-calls from "Sandy" or "James" reminding me that so-and-so who's running for such-and-such is, in fact, the anti-Christ. I'm over the names-calling, the one-upping, the wardrobe tallies, the stonewalling, the flip-flopping, the lies, the innuendo, the shrieking, the winking, the condescension and Chris Matthews. I can't take another conversation that starts "Do you really think he can win?"
I'm ready to stop hoping for change and start feeling it change.
I hope you voted early. If you couldn't, I hope you'll be first in line to cast your ballot tomorrow. If you have to wait in line, even if it's for hours, I pray you will wait until you've had your say.
Our country is in a world of hurt. Our planet is, too. The world needs solid, compassionate, forward-thinking leadership.
Tomorrow is our chance to make that happen.
Peace to you.
As a result, I saw almost no news today. Nothing about the election. Nothing about people killing other people. Nothing about financial chaos or our diminished stature in the world.
Today, I heard nothing but sanding, taping, priming, rolling, edging and touching up.
Man, did it feel good.
This election is so important. More important than any in my lifetime. And no one likes to talk politics more than I do. But I'm so weary.
I'm tired of the robo-calls from "Sandy" or "James" reminding me that so-and-so who's running for such-and-such is, in fact, the anti-Christ. I'm over the names-calling, the one-upping, the wardrobe tallies, the stonewalling, the flip-flopping, the lies, the innuendo, the shrieking, the winking, the condescension and Chris Matthews. I can't take another conversation that starts "Do you really think he can win?"
I'm ready to stop hoping for change and start feeling it change.
I hope you voted early. If you couldn't, I hope you'll be first in line to cast your ballot tomorrow. If you have to wait in line, even if it's for hours, I pray you will wait until you've had your say.
Our country is in a world of hurt. Our planet is, too. The world needs solid, compassionate, forward-thinking leadership.
Tomorrow is our chance to make that happen.
Peace to you.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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