- Reflections -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Regarding Zachary -- Regina Walker
- What Would Happen If...? -- Susan Krushenick
- The Last Day -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Holding On -- Elizabeth Ross
- Everyday Life with Elsa -- Elizabeth Cone
- Mirrors, Mothers, and Me -- Molly Tierney
- What's in a Name? -- Robyn Parnell
- Outnumbered Three to One -- Mary Nash
- The Poetry of Poo -- Carolyn McCarthy
- The Purple Wheelchair -- Suzanne Kamata
Showing posts with label August 2003. Show all posts
Showing posts with label August 2003. Show all posts
AUGUST 2003
The REFLECTIONS Issue:
The Purple Wheelchair
By Suzanne Kamata
"I'd liek to order the purple one," I say, gesturing to a sample near the wall. It's a Convaid Cruiser with a harness and padded covers, retail value about $800 (though the Japanese government will pick up much of the bill). It looks more or less like an ordinary stroller. The color is vivid and cheerful.
Ms. Takubi, my daughter's physical therapist nods eagerly.
She knows, I think. She knows that I don't want a wheelchair that looks like a wheelchair.
"You can think about a more conventional-type in a few years," she says.
My smile droops a little. Does this mean that Lilia will never walk? Is the therapist revising her assessment of my three-year-old's possibilities?
Lilia first started coming to this center for therapy about a year and a half ago. My husband and I knew that there was something wrong with her legs, not surprising since she and her twin brother were born fourteen weeks ahead of schedule. Lilia weighed only 672 grams at birth, which is small even for a 26-week-old baby. Her brother, Jio, tipped the scales at 920 grams.
While our son's development followed the charts, he quickly caught up to his peers in height and weight, and was walking at fourteen months, Lilia's progress was much slower. At 18 months, her head still wobbled and she could only sit up with support.
Various professionals, including the neo-natal specialist, assured me that her development was simply delayed. Others, including my parents, hinted that there might be a deeper problem. Finally, at the suggestion of Lilia's pediatrician, we took her to a facility for the education and care of physically disabled children. We'd already learned that Lilia was deaf, something that I was still coming to terms with. "Muliply-disabled," would take some getting used to.
After an examination lasting only several minutes, the doctor wrote, "suspected cerebral palsy" and prescribed therapy sessions twice a week. During the first session, I asked Ms. Takubi if she thought that my daughter would one day be able to walk. She told me that it would depend upon Lilia's motivation, among other things, and gave her an 80 percent possibility of perambulation.
"Do you think she'll be walking by the time she's three?" I thought that I was allowing a generous margin, but Ms. Takubi cocked her head to one side and hummed.
"Hmmm."
For the first 18 months of Lilia's life, she was, according to doctor's orders, sequestered from germs. Our house was a fortress, meant to keep out friends and family with a hint of a cold. When my mother-in-law showed up on Christmas Eve bearing gifts and a runny nose, I quickly scooped up the stuffed animals and sent her on her way.
We didn't go to restaurants, weddings, libraries, coffee klatches, supermarkets, or playgroups. When I took my twins strolling, I veered clear of the grannies who were sure to lean down and poke their fat baby cheeks. In this way, I kept my children healthy.
But when we started going to the deaf school's early intervention program and to Hinomine for physical therapy, Lilia began to get sick. Because of her insufficiently-developed lungs (a result of prematurity), a common cold quickly turned into bronchitis or worse. One day, a tiny trickle of mucus would come from her nose, the next, she'd be in the ICU hooked up to a respirator.
Over the next 18 months, Lilia was hospitalized eight times. The six times that she was admitted to the ICU, she was sedated to better endure the discomfort of the breathing tube down her throat. Because she was inert for days, and even weeks at a time, she emerged unable to sit up. Again and again, we had to work toward the same goal.
A few months ago, Lilia turned a corner. It's been almost a year since she was hospitalized for respiratory problems. She no longer takes any kind of medicine. She crawls as fast as she can walk and can stand while holding onto something. A month shy of her fourth birthday, she can climb the ladder of the bunk bed she shares with her brother, and hoist herself into the upper bed.
Lilia has the energy of the Hoover Dam. She's the Shackleton of my kitchen cabinets, a bright and funny child who loves to wear pants on her head. It is hard for me to imagine my extremely mobile child in a wheelchair.
And so, although Lilia is thrilled by a test spin in the sample wheelchair (the conventional kind with big silver wheels) and Ms. Takubi suggests that it might be easier to push, I insist on the purple stroller-type.
I wonder if this makes me like those mothers who take out their children's hearing aids in public so they won't be pegged as deaf by strangers, or the guy in a story I read who opted for surgery to "correct" the eyes and ears of his Down Syndrome daughter.
Is it selfish of me to hope that Lilia will one day run through the halls like those other children we've seen graduate from physical therapy? Can't I dream that the purple stroller will be sufficient, at least until I am ready to embrace the image of Lilia racing down the street in a wheelchair, laughing as she goes?
****************************
Copyright 2003 Suzanne Kamata
"I'd liek to order the purple one," I say, gesturing to a sample near the wall. It's a Convaid Cruiser with a harness and padded covers, retail value about $800 (though the Japanese government will pick up much of the bill). It looks more or less like an ordinary stroller. The color is vivid and cheerful.
Ms. Takubi, my daughter's physical therapist nods eagerly.
She knows, I think. She knows that I don't want a wheelchair that looks like a wheelchair.
"You can think about a more conventional-type in a few years," she says.
My smile droops a little. Does this mean that Lilia will never walk? Is the therapist revising her assessment of my three-year-old's possibilities?
Lilia first started coming to this center for therapy about a year and a half ago. My husband and I knew that there was something wrong with her legs, not surprising since she and her twin brother were born fourteen weeks ahead of schedule. Lilia weighed only 672 grams at birth, which is small even for a 26-week-old baby. Her brother, Jio, tipped the scales at 920 grams.
While our son's development followed the charts, he quickly caught up to his peers in height and weight, and was walking at fourteen months, Lilia's progress was much slower. At 18 months, her head still wobbled and she could only sit up with support.
Various professionals, including the neo-natal specialist, assured me that her development was simply delayed. Others, including my parents, hinted that there might be a deeper problem. Finally, at the suggestion of Lilia's pediatrician, we took her to a facility for the education and care of physically disabled children. We'd already learned that Lilia was deaf, something that I was still coming to terms with. "Muliply-disabled," would take some getting used to.
After an examination lasting only several minutes, the doctor wrote, "suspected cerebral palsy" and prescribed therapy sessions twice a week. During the first session, I asked Ms. Takubi if she thought that my daughter would one day be able to walk. She told me that it would depend upon Lilia's motivation, among other things, and gave her an 80 percent possibility of perambulation.
"Do you think she'll be walking by the time she's three?" I thought that I was allowing a generous margin, but Ms. Takubi cocked her head to one side and hummed.
"Hmmm."
For the first 18 months of Lilia's life, she was, according to doctor's orders, sequestered from germs. Our house was a fortress, meant to keep out friends and family with a hint of a cold. When my mother-in-law showed up on Christmas Eve bearing gifts and a runny nose, I quickly scooped up the stuffed animals and sent her on her way.
We didn't go to restaurants, weddings, libraries, coffee klatches, supermarkets, or playgroups. When I took my twins strolling, I veered clear of the grannies who were sure to lean down and poke their fat baby cheeks. In this way, I kept my children healthy.
But when we started going to the deaf school's early intervention program and to Hinomine for physical therapy, Lilia began to get sick. Because of her insufficiently-developed lungs (a result of prematurity), a common cold quickly turned into bronchitis or worse. One day, a tiny trickle of mucus would come from her nose, the next, she'd be in the ICU hooked up to a respirator.
Over the next 18 months, Lilia was hospitalized eight times. The six times that she was admitted to the ICU, she was sedated to better endure the discomfort of the breathing tube down her throat. Because she was inert for days, and even weeks at a time, she emerged unable to sit up. Again and again, we had to work toward the same goal.
A few months ago, Lilia turned a corner. It's been almost a year since she was hospitalized for respiratory problems. She no longer takes any kind of medicine. She crawls as fast as she can walk and can stand while holding onto something. A month shy of her fourth birthday, she can climb the ladder of the bunk bed she shares with her brother, and hoist herself into the upper bed.
Lilia has the energy of the Hoover Dam. She's the Shackleton of my kitchen cabinets, a bright and funny child who loves to wear pants on her head. It is hard for me to imagine my extremely mobile child in a wheelchair.
And so, although Lilia is thrilled by a test spin in the sample wheelchair (the conventional kind with big silver wheels) and Ms. Takubi suggests that it might be easier to push, I insist on the purple stroller-type.
I wonder if this makes me like those mothers who take out their children's hearing aids in public so they won't be pegged as deaf by strangers, or the guy in a story I read who opted for surgery to "correct" the eyes and ears of his Down Syndrome daughter.
Is it selfish of me to hope that Lilia will one day run through the halls like those other children we've seen graduate from physical therapy? Can't I dream that the purple stroller will be sufficient, at least until I am ready to embrace the image of Lilia racing down the street in a wheelchair, laughing as she goes?
****************************
Copyright 2003 Suzanne Kamata
The Poetry of Poo
By Carolyn McCarthy
Mothers need poetry. We need to read it, we need to write it. Mother Goose and Dr. Seuss are not enough. We need Mary Oliver, Robert Frost, and Rumi. While the former can entertain restless youngsters, the latter can provide weary parents with food for the soul, or a moment of rest, and much needed comic relief.
I write poetry to exercise my child-numbed mind. While being with my eight-month-old all day is stimulating on one level, it can be exhausting, as well. Often the daily work of nursing, diaper changing, and nose-wiping is broken up only by laundry-folding, dish-washing, and toilet-scrubbing. Entropy management is rarely satisfying, as the accomplishments do not last. The dishes get dirty again, the noses keep running, the empty stomach demands to be filled.
Now I know that in the midst of this all I am creating a lasting accomplishment -- my child will most certainly grow into an adult of whom I can be proud. But that's going to take, oh, about 35 years. In the meantime, there's poetry. Definitive and permanent, my creation stands firm on the page, a testament to my quick and nimble mind. It will not be sullied, used up, or eaten. It does not require constant attention. Poetry can keep me up at night, but better poetry than the far less romantic prospect of a screaming teether, desperate for comfort.
Writing poetry is easy. Notice I did not say "writing GOOD poetry is easy." No, I'm talking about the poetry of survival. The "if I don't do something with my brains this minute, it will turn to guacamole" poetry. Let me give you an example.
The other day, after a long and whiny morning, things came to a head (or rather, out of a head) when a fountainous spew of baby's stomach contents rained down all over mommy, baby, and floor, I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run away. Instead, I cleaned up the mess, put the kid in the stroller, and wrote some poetry.
I like to write haiku. These short poems consist of three lines: five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, five in the third. The form is perfect for me. I can keep track of the lines in my head until I get a chance to write them down. Here's what I came up with on that post-puke walk:
If you like the idea of being a poet, but you're shy about getting started, try the Weird Al Yankovic approach. It's easy to make up new lyrics to your favorite tune when your muse (read: kid) is around, supplying endless inspiration. Yesterday, as my baby boy lay on the changing table, the pungent stench of spinach poo curling up my nostrils, I found myself singing John Denver's classic "Annie's Song" with a twist: "You fill up my diaper with a creamy green substance." So poignant, so heartfelt, so truly frightening. And yet, I had discovered my inner poet once again, affirming my ability to create something other than children, breast milk, and laundry.
If you are thinking, "I cannot possibly write poetry, I have no time," -- think of Lucille Clifton. Filling ten books of award-winning poetry, Clifton's pieces are mostly short. She wrote them in her "free time" while raising six children. If she can mother and write fabulous poetry, the rest of us can certainly manage to jot down a few just-for-fun lines here and there.
To derive poetry's full benefits, mothers need to read it too. The perfect literary "snack" for moms on the go, reading poetry can make you feel smarter. When reading a novel or magazine, I often realize mid-page that I've missed the previous sentence, paragraph, or on a bad day, five pages. Grimacing at my lack of mental acuity, I carefully re-read the missed section.
Not so with poetry! Poetry is meant to be read many times over. I feel no shame scanning the piece again and again, mining it for meaning. To re-read a poem, is not the sign of an addled mind, but a thinking reader.
So the next time you've had it with barfing and baby food, get creative! Write a sonnet to spit-up, an ode to oatmeal, a haiku to your very own hellraiser. If you're like me, embracing your inner poet just might help keep your outer psychotic at bay.
Mothers need poetry. We need to read it, we need to write it. Mother Goose and Dr. Seuss are not enough. We need Mary Oliver, Robert Frost, and Rumi. While the former can entertain restless youngsters, the latter can provide weary parents with food for the soul, or a moment of rest, and much needed comic relief.
I write poetry to exercise my child-numbed mind. While being with my eight-month-old all day is stimulating on one level, it can be exhausting, as well. Often the daily work of nursing, diaper changing, and nose-wiping is broken up only by laundry-folding, dish-washing, and toilet-scrubbing. Entropy management is rarely satisfying, as the accomplishments do not last. The dishes get dirty again, the noses keep running, the empty stomach demands to be filled.
Now I know that in the midst of this all I am creating a lasting accomplishment -- my child will most certainly grow into an adult of whom I can be proud. But that's going to take, oh, about 35 years. In the meantime, there's poetry. Definitive and permanent, my creation stands firm on the page, a testament to my quick and nimble mind. It will not be sullied, used up, or eaten. It does not require constant attention. Poetry can keep me up at night, but better poetry than the far less romantic prospect of a screaming teether, desperate for comfort.
Writing poetry is easy. Notice I did not say "writing GOOD poetry is easy." No, I'm talking about the poetry of survival. The "if I don't do something with my brains this minute, it will turn to guacamole" poetry. Let me give you an example.
The other day, after a long and whiny morning, things came to a head (or rather, out of a head) when a fountainous spew of baby's stomach contents rained down all over mommy, baby, and floor, I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run away. Instead, I cleaned up the mess, put the kid in the stroller, and wrote some poetry.
I like to write haiku. These short poems consist of three lines: five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, five in the third. The form is perfect for me. I can keep track of the lines in my head until I get a chance to write them down. Here's what I came up with on that post-puke walk:
Undigested yamsI read it to a friend, who said the first line conjured up diaper contents instead of vomit. I had missed my mark, failing to convey the truth of the moment. I tried again:
Orange pool like harvest moon
Time to get a dog
Sour milk and yamsVoila! From urp to art in just seventeen syllables. This second version lacks the punchline, but paints a clearer picture of the events of the day. My haiku captures the "autumn" feeling I had while composing them -- crunching along a path paved with maple-golden with leaves.
Glossy puddle on the floor
Orange harvest moon.
If you like the idea of being a poet, but you're shy about getting started, try the Weird Al Yankovic approach. It's easy to make up new lyrics to your favorite tune when your muse (read: kid) is around, supplying endless inspiration. Yesterday, as my baby boy lay on the changing table, the pungent stench of spinach poo curling up my nostrils, I found myself singing John Denver's classic "Annie's Song" with a twist: "You fill up my diaper with a creamy green substance." So poignant, so heartfelt, so truly frightening. And yet, I had discovered my inner poet once again, affirming my ability to create something other than children, breast milk, and laundry.
If you are thinking, "I cannot possibly write poetry, I have no time," -- think of Lucille Clifton. Filling ten books of award-winning poetry, Clifton's pieces are mostly short. She wrote them in her "free time" while raising six children. If she can mother and write fabulous poetry, the rest of us can certainly manage to jot down a few just-for-fun lines here and there.
To derive poetry's full benefits, mothers need to read it too. The perfect literary "snack" for moms on the go, reading poetry can make you feel smarter. When reading a novel or magazine, I often realize mid-page that I've missed the previous sentence, paragraph, or on a bad day, five pages. Grimacing at my lack of mental acuity, I carefully re-read the missed section.
Not so with poetry! Poetry is meant to be read many times over. I feel no shame scanning the piece again and again, mining it for meaning. To re-read a poem, is not the sign of an addled mind, but a thinking reader.
So the next time you've had it with barfing and baby food, get creative! Write a sonnet to spit-up, an ode to oatmeal, a haiku to your very own hellraiser. If you're like me, embracing your inner poet just might help keep your outer psychotic at bay.
Outnumbered Three to One
By Mary Nash
Having grown up in a household with my mother, two older sisters, one younger brother, three female cats, and a female dog, I was used to females outnumbering males. When I got married, and became pregnant, I just assumed that I would have a daughter. I knew how to live with females and felt that I would know what to do with one of my own.
At the end of my third month of pregnancy, the ultrasound technician announced with certainty, "You're having a boy." I knew then, that at least for a time, I would be outnumbered two to one.
Two years later, I was pregnant again. Not being one who likes to be surprised, I again wanted to know my child's gender. When the ultrasound technician announced, "Two boys is nice," it occurred to me that I was destined to live in a guy household.
All right, I thought, this will be a challenge, but I should be able to adapt. I did have a little brother, after all, so I should know what to expect. Well, this is just a sample of some of the challenges I've faced as a woman among three males for the past 11 years.
Bathroom Habits: As babies, Dylan and Jake peed in my face when I was changing their diapers. Now, as 11- and 8-year-olds, they leave the toilet seat up. That shouldn't be a big surprise considering that my husband Seth, the oldest of three brothers, thinks the seat should remain up at all times. There is also a permanent wet ring around the base of their toilet. We had a plumber at the house for two hours one day, and had to pay him a hefty hourly rate to tell us that our sons have bad aim.
Boxer-Shorts-in-the-Pants: Only the mothers of boys will know about the boxer-shorts-in-the-pants routine. When Dylan and Jake undress at night, their boxer shorts and pants come off as a unit. In the morning, after they get out of the shower, I find their pajama bottoms stiffly places on the bathroom floor with the boxer shorts inserted inside. I know I should make them do it themselves, but it gives me a feeling of motherly love to take apart the boxer-shorts-in-the-pants.
Shopping Apathy: Shopping takes on a new meaning with an all-guy household. I have vivid recollections of shopping for clothing with my mother from an early age. We would go from store-to-store until we were exhausted, sometimes coming home empty-handed and frustrated, but usually coming home with bags clenched in fists.
For Seth, Dylan, and Jake, shopping is not a leisure activity. They are perfectly happy to have me buy their clothing and bring it home for them. It means I don't have a shopping companion, but on the other hand, it gives me a good excuse to shop more frequently, and maybe throw in a couple of items for myself. And it means that I get to screen out any ugly or radical-looking clothes.
Non-Elaborators: Dylan and Jake seem to have inherited my husband's male trait of not elaborating. When I ask them how school was, they say, "good." When I ask them what they did in school, they say, "nothing." It reminds me of when a friend of mine calls when I'm out, leaving a detailed message of utmost importance, and my husband simply writes down, "Diane called."
Maybe when they get older, they will take on the trait of my father-in-law. When he calls on the telephone, he skips the formalities, gets right to the point of why he's calling, and hangs up. No "goodbye" or "see you later."
From Boys to Men: Probably the biggest transition, which is just starting to occur, is that Dylan and Jake wil become men someday. Instead of being boys who hold my hand and waddle along beside me, they will be bigger than me. Their feet are already bigger than mind, and Dylan is only one inch shorter than me. They can both open jars that I can't. When we're walking on an icy pathway, they take my arm to help me along, which immediately conjures up future images of them walking me down the hallway in the nursing home. It's not too long before I will be looking up at both of them, and thinking fondly back on the days when I looked down on them as they squirted pee in my face.
I have a feeling that it also won't be long before females start to inhabit our household. Right now, Dylan and Jake's friends are boys, but pretty soon, they'll be bringing girls around. When that happens, hopefully my social skills with girls will kick right back in.
In the meantime, I'm happy with my three guys, and have adjusted to their male habits. And I get plenty of female stimulation from my friends, my female relatives, and my all-female book club.
If I had two girls, instead of two boys, then maybe my husband would be writing this article instead of me. And what would he be griping about? Toilet seats that get left down would probably be at the top of the list.
Having grown up in a household with my mother, two older sisters, one younger brother, three female cats, and a female dog, I was used to females outnumbering males. When I got married, and became pregnant, I just assumed that I would have a daughter. I knew how to live with females and felt that I would know what to do with one of my own.
At the end of my third month of pregnancy, the ultrasound technician announced with certainty, "You're having a boy." I knew then, that at least for a time, I would be outnumbered two to one.
Two years later, I was pregnant again. Not being one who likes to be surprised, I again wanted to know my child's gender. When the ultrasound technician announced, "Two boys is nice," it occurred to me that I was destined to live in a guy household.
All right, I thought, this will be a challenge, but I should be able to adapt. I did have a little brother, after all, so I should know what to expect. Well, this is just a sample of some of the challenges I've faced as a woman among three males for the past 11 years.
Bathroom Habits: As babies, Dylan and Jake peed in my face when I was changing their diapers. Now, as 11- and 8-year-olds, they leave the toilet seat up. That shouldn't be a big surprise considering that my husband Seth, the oldest of three brothers, thinks the seat should remain up at all times. There is also a permanent wet ring around the base of their toilet. We had a plumber at the house for two hours one day, and had to pay him a hefty hourly rate to tell us that our sons have bad aim.
Boxer-Shorts-in-the-Pants: Only the mothers of boys will know about the boxer-shorts-in-the-pants routine. When Dylan and Jake undress at night, their boxer shorts and pants come off as a unit. In the morning, after they get out of the shower, I find their pajama bottoms stiffly places on the bathroom floor with the boxer shorts inserted inside. I know I should make them do it themselves, but it gives me a feeling of motherly love to take apart the boxer-shorts-in-the-pants.
Shopping Apathy: Shopping takes on a new meaning with an all-guy household. I have vivid recollections of shopping for clothing with my mother from an early age. We would go from store-to-store until we were exhausted, sometimes coming home empty-handed and frustrated, but usually coming home with bags clenched in fists.
For Seth, Dylan, and Jake, shopping is not a leisure activity. They are perfectly happy to have me buy their clothing and bring it home for them. It means I don't have a shopping companion, but on the other hand, it gives me a good excuse to shop more frequently, and maybe throw in a couple of items for myself. And it means that I get to screen out any ugly or radical-looking clothes.
Non-Elaborators: Dylan and Jake seem to have inherited my husband's male trait of not elaborating. When I ask them how school was, they say, "good." When I ask them what they did in school, they say, "nothing." It reminds me of when a friend of mine calls when I'm out, leaving a detailed message of utmost importance, and my husband simply writes down, "Diane called."
Maybe when they get older, they will take on the trait of my father-in-law. When he calls on the telephone, he skips the formalities, gets right to the point of why he's calling, and hangs up. No "goodbye" or "see you later."
From Boys to Men: Probably the biggest transition, which is just starting to occur, is that Dylan and Jake wil become men someday. Instead of being boys who hold my hand and waddle along beside me, they will be bigger than me. Their feet are already bigger than mind, and Dylan is only one inch shorter than me. They can both open jars that I can't. When we're walking on an icy pathway, they take my arm to help me along, which immediately conjures up future images of them walking me down the hallway in the nursing home. It's not too long before I will be looking up at both of them, and thinking fondly back on the days when I looked down on them as they squirted pee in my face.
I have a feeling that it also won't be long before females start to inhabit our household. Right now, Dylan and Jake's friends are boys, but pretty soon, they'll be bringing girls around. When that happens, hopefully my social skills with girls will kick right back in.
In the meantime, I'm happy with my three guys, and have adjusted to their male habits. And I get plenty of female stimulation from my friends, my female relatives, and my all-female book club.
If I had two girls, instead of two boys, then maybe my husband would be writing this article instead of me. And what would he be griping about? Toilet seats that get left down would probably be at the top of the list.
What's in a Name?
By Robyn Parnell
Girls should have strong names.
"Why?" My husband asks.
"For obvious reasons," I answer.
"Strong how?"
"The look, the sound. The meaning. Tenacious, bold names. Strong names."
We look over a list of names we like: girls, boys, and either. I sound the names aloud in my mind, then look up their definitions in a "baby names" dictionary. Sincerely though subjectively, I cross out names whose meanings I deem weak or frivolous. My son could never be a Bart or a Kurt. There will be enough in his life, being a son rather than a daughter, which will steer him toward Bart-ness, without being burdened by such a name.
Boys names should have softer borders, gentle boundaries. The currently popular Dylan, Ryan, and Austin are deceptive. Those names sound gentle around the edges, but, to me, they are the 1990's renderings of the Richards, Williams, and Ronalds of the 1950s -- they are Barts in trendier sheeps' clothing.
I flip through the baby names books I received (along with an iron, an environmentally incorrect can of aerosol spray starch and an apron) as a joke from a friend, for my wedding. This name book helps me in my work, which is writing short fiction. I keep it in the reference section of my bookcase, along with thesauri, and dictionaries. When I have difficultiy naming a character, when a character's name must mean something -- I reach for it.
This child, this character my husband and I are working on, deserves to have a name of its own. No numerals following the last name, and no "junior." I have kept my birth name (those who use "maiden name" in our house are given a mop and a dustrag), as my husband has kept his. However, I've yet to hear him asked to explain the lack of difference in his pre- and post-marital surname. Its immutability is assumed.
Our child will have his or her own surname: two syllables, one from my husband's last name and one from mine.
"That's great! After all, if you're going to be a family, why be one or the other? Why not be something new, something unique, which, in fact, you are?! If no one ever did anything different, there would be no traditions."
Many friends and relatives -- all female, now that I think of it, and all who, for various reasons and with varying amounts of enthusiasm have declined to make such changes themselves -- have spoken variations of the above sentiment, in support of our decision. A few have suggested that:
1. for the sake of simplicity,
2. with regard to (if not respect for) practicality, and
3. considering the limited storage capacity of both the human brain computerized school registration forms, my husband and I should also assume the surname we will give our child.
Oh, I get it. So that we three will be the family.
Three persons; one household; one last name. Catchy idea.
"We'll think about it," I say. This response generates more positive feedback than, "We've considered it, but we each like our own last name," or "It would be a hassle to change; besides, so what if they're different? Ultimately, what's in a name?"
Plenty, according to the baby names book, which follows a format similar to other such books I've seen. The names are separated by gender, the girls' section usually (chivalrously?) preceding the boys'. Names are listed alphabetically, followed by the nation or language of origin, "definitions," and nicknames or variations. Calla (Greece) "Beauty." Cal; Callie; Cally.
More often than not, along with a personality trait or two, the definitions include a reference to appearance and form. Especially the girls' names. Lian: (Chinese) "Graceful willow."
I picture prospective parents flipping through these books, considering names for their girl-child. Mirabel (Latin) "Extraordinary beauty." Linda (Spanish) "Pretty." Nani (Hawaiian) "Beautiful one from heaven." Tiffany (Greek) "Like the appearance of God."
Also, for almost half the of the girls' names, there is something like the following: Carla (German) "A feminine form of Carl." There is never such a definition for the boys' names. "Masculine" names are not defined in terms of an Other. There is never: Anthony (Latin) "A masculine form of Antoinette."
I put the baby names books on the floor, underneath a dictionary, and use the books for a footstool while I type. I work on a story in which a certain character is killed, his death caused by a family member. He is loutish, obtuse, bad-tempered; when I close my eyes I can picture him lurking behind my computer monitor. I know exactly what he looks like, what he smells like.
Unlike the sympathetic characters in my story, no appellation springs to mind, though I instinctively know who he is not. He is not Dylan, Ryan, or Austin. So I get the names book and search for inspiration. I come upon "Barry" and am mesmerized by the sound as I say it aloud, over and over. It resonates in my skull, like a growl. Barry (Gaelic) "Warlike; spearlike. Pointed."
Perfect.
Girls should have strong names.
"Why?" My husband asks.
"For obvious reasons," I answer.
"Strong how?"
"The look, the sound. The meaning. Tenacious, bold names. Strong names."
We look over a list of names we like: girls, boys, and either. I sound the names aloud in my mind, then look up their definitions in a "baby names" dictionary. Sincerely though subjectively, I cross out names whose meanings I deem weak or frivolous. My son could never be a Bart or a Kurt. There will be enough in his life, being a son rather than a daughter, which will steer him toward Bart-ness, without being burdened by such a name.
Boys names should have softer borders, gentle boundaries. The currently popular Dylan, Ryan, and Austin are deceptive. Those names sound gentle around the edges, but, to me, they are the 1990's renderings of the Richards, Williams, and Ronalds of the 1950s -- they are Barts in trendier sheeps' clothing.
I flip through the baby names books I received (along with an iron, an environmentally incorrect can of aerosol spray starch and an apron) as a joke from a friend, for my wedding. This name book helps me in my work, which is writing short fiction. I keep it in the reference section of my bookcase, along with thesauri, and dictionaries. When I have difficultiy naming a character, when a character's name must mean something -- I reach for it.
This child, this character my husband and I are working on, deserves to have a name of its own. No numerals following the last name, and no "junior." I have kept my birth name (those who use "maiden name" in our house are given a mop and a dustrag), as my husband has kept his. However, I've yet to hear him asked to explain the lack of difference in his pre- and post-marital surname. Its immutability is assumed.
Our child will have his or her own surname: two syllables, one from my husband's last name and one from mine.
"That's great! After all, if you're going to be a family, why be one or the other? Why not be something new, something unique, which, in fact, you are?! If no one ever did anything different, there would be no traditions."
Many friends and relatives -- all female, now that I think of it, and all who, for various reasons and with varying amounts of enthusiasm have declined to make such changes themselves -- have spoken variations of the above sentiment, in support of our decision. A few have suggested that:
1. for the sake of simplicity,
2. with regard to (if not respect for) practicality, and
3. considering the limited storage capacity of both the human brain computerized school registration forms, my husband and I should also assume the surname we will give our child.
Oh, I get it. So that we three will be the family.
Three persons; one household; one last name. Catchy idea.
"We'll think about it," I say. This response generates more positive feedback than, "We've considered it, but we each like our own last name," or "It would be a hassle to change; besides, so what if they're different? Ultimately, what's in a name?"
Plenty, according to the baby names book, which follows a format similar to other such books I've seen. The names are separated by gender, the girls' section usually (chivalrously?) preceding the boys'. Names are listed alphabetically, followed by the nation or language of origin, "definitions," and nicknames or variations. Calla (Greece) "Beauty." Cal; Callie; Cally.
More often than not, along with a personality trait or two, the definitions include a reference to appearance and form. Especially the girls' names. Lian: (Chinese) "Graceful willow."
I picture prospective parents flipping through these books, considering names for their girl-child. Mirabel (Latin) "Extraordinary beauty." Linda (Spanish) "Pretty." Nani (Hawaiian) "Beautiful one from heaven." Tiffany (Greek) "Like the appearance of God."
Also, for almost half the of the girls' names, there is something like the following: Carla (German) "A feminine form of Carl." There is never such a definition for the boys' names. "Masculine" names are not defined in terms of an Other. There is never: Anthony (Latin) "A masculine form of Antoinette."
I put the baby names books on the floor, underneath a dictionary, and use the books for a footstool while I type. I work on a story in which a certain character is killed, his death caused by a family member. He is loutish, obtuse, bad-tempered; when I close my eyes I can picture him lurking behind my computer monitor. I know exactly what he looks like, what he smells like.
Unlike the sympathetic characters in my story, no appellation springs to mind, though I instinctively know who he is not. He is not Dylan, Ryan, or Austin. So I get the names book and search for inspiration. I come upon "Barry" and am mesmerized by the sound as I say it aloud, over and over. It resonates in my skull, like a growl. Barry (Gaelic) "Warlike; spearlike. Pointed."
Perfect.
Mirrors, Mothers, and Me
By Molly Tierney
When I see my reflection, I'm always surprised by how I look -- pleasantly and also not so pleasantly -- but surprised, definitely. There is only on mirror in our house. It is a long narrow one in the downstairs bathroom. I notice in that mirror that I look think and sometimes I am worried about how thin. Also, in that mirror I notice my hair a bit flat, and I feel unattractive. I think, "I wish I'd known before I went out that I looked like this." A few times, I've noticed a severity in my face and feel sad that I present that to the world -- a tired and serious face. So I practice smiling at myself in the mirror, and I try to worry less, and think more positively about my life.
And then the biggest surprise has been over the months since my son, Jack, was born, when I visited my friend, Danusha. She has a huge mirror, as big as a door, that leans up against the wall in her living room. In that mirror, I see my whole body -- the thin body, the unpredictable hair -- in the context of a larger room, in the home of a friend. I see myself as someone's friend, and as someone's mother, as I look at myself holding Jack, or eating lunch beside my daughter, Ellen.
And I wonder, now that I see myself in this new role, how does Danusha see me? What do I look like to her, my writer friend with her first child and me with my three? And the question lingers even as I drive out of her driveway, but not much after that.
I wish I had mirrors like that in my house. And I resent my husband's laborious decision-making process that has stalled so many purchases. Jim says he hasn't missed the mirrors, but I think that's because he's got them at work, in the bathrooms and on many walls in the locker room. I'll bet he looks at himself, his face, his body, four or five times a day. I want that. This is the only body I've got, and I miss admiring it since that's what I'd do more often if I had more chances.
Looking down at my body is an odd perspective. I look down and see my breasts while Jack nurses. I see my lap when I'm on the toilet. But without a mirror, I don't have a sense of the whole package anymore. And what a package? Grown, birthed, and nursed three babies! I'd like to take a long tall look at that.
To be honest though, until lately I hadn't pushed the buying of mirrors. Bathroom mirrors have been like bathroom scales to me -- a way to judge myself harshly. Since leaving my mother's house at eighteen, I have never owned a bathroom scale, and don't intend to. But I have come to love mirrors, most mirrors anyway. Not the super-magnifying hand mirrors, where you see every blemish, scar, whisker, and wrinkle as if it were the actual size of your nose.
My grandmother had one of those magnifying mirrors in her bathroom. I wonder what she was looking for on her face that a mirror like that would help her find. When she died and my mother took me to her house to go through her things, we saw the mirror near the window and my mother said almost to herself, "That is one thing I am sure I do not want." She shook her head, and walked out of the bathroom empty-handed.
I stayed. I turned the mirror and looked to see what my mother would not bring with her. It was a round mirror with a yellow frame and cracked rubber suction cup for the base. My grandmother kept it on a high window sill. Shutting the bathroom door, she could stand by the frosted glass window and look directly into the magnifying glass.
Imagining that, I did the same. Of course, I couldn't see my whole face. It was made to appear large. Only my nose, cheek, and eye fit inside the frame. I moved closer to the mirror and saw pores and hairs I'd never noticed. I felt lured to look for more of my features that I'd never seen before.
But when I heard my mother's voice in the hall, I moved quickly away from the mirror and flushed the toilet, hoping she wouldn't know why I lingered in the bathroom. I was afraid to be rejected, as the mirror had been.
This all makes me wonder what my daughter will learn about looking at herself. Will she remember more than two years of childhood with no mirrors in the house? I wonder what she thinks in a public bathroom or the locker room at the pool where the mirrors cover whole walls, and there you are full-sized, dressed or naked. Either way, you can't miss it, the you standing there.
I love watching children watch themselves in a mirror. My son, Will, exaggerates his conversation with eyebrows up and down and his mouth pursed, then wide open, making so many shapes it is hard to understand his words. He'll stop talking tome and talk to his reflecion instead. He might wiggle his bottom and wave his hands as he speaks, just to watch the whole amazing show.
Ellen doesn't seem to notice that one narrow wall mirror in the downstairs bathroom, not as much as Will does. She'll brush her hair, or look at her permanent teeth that are coming in, but she's not as playful with her reflection. Sometimes, I encourage her to go look at herself. When she's proud of an outfit I've chosen, I might say "Go, look how beautiful you are." She goes, but when she returns, there's something else on her mind. I have no idea how it felt for her to see herself in the mirror. I think I'll try something new. I'll stand with her and we'll admire ourselves, our muscles, our long legs -- together.
At the very least, I could show all my children how enjoyable it is to stop at a mirror and linger there, noticing yourself, and even (as Will has taught me), to wiggle your bottom and wave.
*************************
Copyright 2003 Molly Tierney
When I see my reflection, I'm always surprised by how I look -- pleasantly and also not so pleasantly -- but surprised, definitely. There is only on mirror in our house. It is a long narrow one in the downstairs bathroom. I notice in that mirror that I look think and sometimes I am worried about how thin. Also, in that mirror I notice my hair a bit flat, and I feel unattractive. I think, "I wish I'd known before I went out that I looked like this." A few times, I've noticed a severity in my face and feel sad that I present that to the world -- a tired and serious face. So I practice smiling at myself in the mirror, and I try to worry less, and think more positively about my life.
And then the biggest surprise has been over the months since my son, Jack, was born, when I visited my friend, Danusha. She has a huge mirror, as big as a door, that leans up against the wall in her living room. In that mirror, I see my whole body -- the thin body, the unpredictable hair -- in the context of a larger room, in the home of a friend. I see myself as someone's friend, and as someone's mother, as I look at myself holding Jack, or eating lunch beside my daughter, Ellen.
And I wonder, now that I see myself in this new role, how does Danusha see me? What do I look like to her, my writer friend with her first child and me with my three? And the question lingers even as I drive out of her driveway, but not much after that.
I wish I had mirrors like that in my house. And I resent my husband's laborious decision-making process that has stalled so many purchases. Jim says he hasn't missed the mirrors, but I think that's because he's got them at work, in the bathrooms and on many walls in the locker room. I'll bet he looks at himself, his face, his body, four or five times a day. I want that. This is the only body I've got, and I miss admiring it since that's what I'd do more often if I had more chances.
Looking down at my body is an odd perspective. I look down and see my breasts while Jack nurses. I see my lap when I'm on the toilet. But without a mirror, I don't have a sense of the whole package anymore. And what a package? Grown, birthed, and nursed three babies! I'd like to take a long tall look at that.
To be honest though, until lately I hadn't pushed the buying of mirrors. Bathroom mirrors have been like bathroom scales to me -- a way to judge myself harshly. Since leaving my mother's house at eighteen, I have never owned a bathroom scale, and don't intend to. But I have come to love mirrors, most mirrors anyway. Not the super-magnifying hand mirrors, where you see every blemish, scar, whisker, and wrinkle as if it were the actual size of your nose.
My grandmother had one of those magnifying mirrors in her bathroom. I wonder what she was looking for on her face that a mirror like that would help her find. When she died and my mother took me to her house to go through her things, we saw the mirror near the window and my mother said almost to herself, "That is one thing I am sure I do not want." She shook her head, and walked out of the bathroom empty-handed.
I stayed. I turned the mirror and looked to see what my mother would not bring with her. It was a round mirror with a yellow frame and cracked rubber suction cup for the base. My grandmother kept it on a high window sill. Shutting the bathroom door, she could stand by the frosted glass window and look directly into the magnifying glass.
Imagining that, I did the same. Of course, I couldn't see my whole face. It was made to appear large. Only my nose, cheek, and eye fit inside the frame. I moved closer to the mirror and saw pores and hairs I'd never noticed. I felt lured to look for more of my features that I'd never seen before.
But when I heard my mother's voice in the hall, I moved quickly away from the mirror and flushed the toilet, hoping she wouldn't know why I lingered in the bathroom. I was afraid to be rejected, as the mirror had been.
This all makes me wonder what my daughter will learn about looking at herself. Will she remember more than two years of childhood with no mirrors in the house? I wonder what she thinks in a public bathroom or the locker room at the pool where the mirrors cover whole walls, and there you are full-sized, dressed or naked. Either way, you can't miss it, the you standing there.
I love watching children watch themselves in a mirror. My son, Will, exaggerates his conversation with eyebrows up and down and his mouth pursed, then wide open, making so many shapes it is hard to understand his words. He'll stop talking tome and talk to his reflecion instead. He might wiggle his bottom and wave his hands as he speaks, just to watch the whole amazing show.
Ellen doesn't seem to notice that one narrow wall mirror in the downstairs bathroom, not as much as Will does. She'll brush her hair, or look at her permanent teeth that are coming in, but she's not as playful with her reflection. Sometimes, I encourage her to go look at herself. When she's proud of an outfit I've chosen, I might say "Go, look how beautiful you are." She goes, but when she returns, there's something else on her mind. I have no idea how it felt for her to see herself in the mirror. I think I'll try something new. I'll stand with her and we'll admire ourselves, our muscles, our long legs -- together.
At the very least, I could show all my children how enjoyable it is to stop at a mirror and linger there, noticing yourself, and even (as Will has taught me), to wiggle your bottom and wave.
*************************
Copyright 2003 Molly Tierney
Everyday Life With Elsa
By Elizabeth Cone
In high school, Michelle and Naida and I plan our lives. We sit on sleeping bags in a circle on the shag carpet in Naida's family room and we plan, and laugh, and eat m&ms, and watch movies, and hug our pillows to our chest while we laugh some more. We'll meet ten years after graduation in Paris, we decide. By then, Naida will be an actress. I will be the most important writer of my generation. Michelle will be a doctor who saves lives and researches miracle cures. We will not change our names when we get married, we resolve. We'll have have two, six, and three children, respectively, and go back to work when the babies are each a year old.
Somehow, now, we are eighteen years, three bachelors' degrees, four graduate degrees, assorted boyfriends, one husband, and dozens of jobs and addresses away from who we used to be, but we are still friends. We haven't been to Paris -- at least I haven't -- but sometimes we meet in our old hometown, where we grew up, when everyone comes home for a holiday.
Michelle tells us about writing her dissertation in the basement of her apartment building in Kansas while she listened to tornado sirens. In turn, I talk about Maggie the Cat, and her sluggish thyroid, and I say that I think I have found a research topic that connects my short career in politics to my life as a teacher and a writer. Naida and her husband are hanging sheetrock in their new house. She's finished her thesis, and has a new job at an architecture firm. Naida tells us she is pregnant, and we rejoice.
We talk, still, about graduate school, and movies, and careers, and childcare, and changing our names when we get married. We talk about what we will do when -- when school is done; when we get the job; the degree; the raise; the house. When we meet someone; when we get to Paris.
It feels like we are waiting to start, or waiting to get there. But we are not.
I go to Naida's parents' house in January when she visits, and meet her daughter, Elsa, for the second time. The first time, Elsa is just two months old -- still, to me, a wonderful novelty. We sit at the kitchen table, sip tea, and talk about jobs, classes, houses, and families. Elsa is learning to walk, and she pushes a toy lawnmower across the floor. When she gets tired, she sits on her mother's lap, and drinks from her bottle, all while tugging on Naida's hair.
Suddenly, as I watch, everything shifts, and Elsa is not just a baby, an idea, a feminist statement, a decision to stay home or continue a career. She is Elsa. She is her own person, separate and distinct from Naida, from her husband Dan, from all of our theories about name changes, marriage and children, and going back to work. She is Elsa, and Naida lives with her, loves her, teaches her things -- every day.
Michelle finishes writing and begins a year of post-doctoral study. And I teach and write, and engage in the occasional political exploit. And we have everyday lives, and we're living them now.
In high school, Michelle and Naida and I plan our lives. We sit on sleeping bags in a circle on the shag carpet in Naida's family room and we plan, and laugh, and eat m&ms, and watch movies, and hug our pillows to our chest while we laugh some more. We'll meet ten years after graduation in Paris, we decide. By then, Naida will be an actress. I will be the most important writer of my generation. Michelle will be a doctor who saves lives and researches miracle cures. We will not change our names when we get married, we resolve. We'll have have two, six, and three children, respectively, and go back to work when the babies are each a year old.
Somehow, now, we are eighteen years, three bachelors' degrees, four graduate degrees, assorted boyfriends, one husband, and dozens of jobs and addresses away from who we used to be, but we are still friends. We haven't been to Paris -- at least I haven't -- but sometimes we meet in our old hometown, where we grew up, when everyone comes home for a holiday.
Michelle tells us about writing her dissertation in the basement of her apartment building in Kansas while she listened to tornado sirens. In turn, I talk about Maggie the Cat, and her sluggish thyroid, and I say that I think I have found a research topic that connects my short career in politics to my life as a teacher and a writer. Naida and her husband are hanging sheetrock in their new house. She's finished her thesis, and has a new job at an architecture firm. Naida tells us she is pregnant, and we rejoice.
We talk, still, about graduate school, and movies, and careers, and childcare, and changing our names when we get married. We talk about what we will do when -- when school is done; when we get the job; the degree; the raise; the house. When we meet someone; when we get to Paris.
It feels like we are waiting to start, or waiting to get there. But we are not.
I go to Naida's parents' house in January when she visits, and meet her daughter, Elsa, for the second time. The first time, Elsa is just two months old -- still, to me, a wonderful novelty. We sit at the kitchen table, sip tea, and talk about jobs, classes, houses, and families. Elsa is learning to walk, and she pushes a toy lawnmower across the floor. When she gets tired, she sits on her mother's lap, and drinks from her bottle, all while tugging on Naida's hair.
Suddenly, as I watch, everything shifts, and Elsa is not just a baby, an idea, a feminist statement, a decision to stay home or continue a career. She is Elsa. She is her own person, separate and distinct from Naida, from her husband Dan, from all of our theories about name changes, marriage and children, and going back to work. She is Elsa, and Naida lives with her, loves her, teaches her things -- every day.
Michelle finishes writing and begins a year of post-doctoral study. And I teach and write, and engage in the occasional political exploit. And we have everyday lives, and we're living them now.
Holding On
Time has a funny way of changing your perspective on life. I remember clearly when I was a child and heard my grandfather talk of the old days, and promised myself that I would never allow myself to grow so old that I would have to grasp at my past like he did.Now I find myself looking back fondly on my younger years, when I would spend uncounted hours talking with friends. An evening could fly by in a flash; spent sharing cheap wine, short stories read by candlelight, and somewhat heated discussion on philosophy. I was a free spirit then, and there was no need for clocks or watches.
Four children and about a decade later, time is my master. And I am left with strictly watching the clock. Instead of ignoring the clock on my computer while I write, I end up checking it practically every minute. There is always something on the horizon to keep track of; from dinner in the oven to the time to leave for Girl Scout meetings or ball practice.
Regret is a difficult feeling to shake. Oddly enough, most of the people I once spent so much time, sharing my innermost thoughts with, really don't see or understand what unsettles me today. They immediately assume that I feel trapped because of the children. They are right, in a very superficial way. I can't just pick up and leave on a whim. Even deeper is the daily reminder of my own mistakes.
I have four beautiful children with two different men, and I am single. Either I was a magnet for disastrous relationships, or a very crafty creature. One very old friend was perceptive enough to compare me to a black widow spider. Granted the men didn't end up dead, no matter how much I may have wanted them to, but my mentality was about the same. Now my problem is that I just can't seem to detach myself from a man who drags me down.
There must be some obscure genetic disorder in many women that causes them to try to cling to relationships that have just about as many chances for staying afloat as the Titanic. If there is, I must have gotten a double dose of it. I know in my mind what is good for me, but I can't seem to convince the rest of me. The temptation to consult an addiction counselor has been increasing daily, since I can't seem to shake the feeling that I absolutely need someone who does nothing for my feeling of self-worth.
If it isn't addiction, it must be a bizarre combination of masochism and martyrdom. I keep allowing the father of my youngest child pull me into a downward spiral of self-doubt and recrimination. All of this seems to be worth everything to me, simply because my deepest wish is that my children somehow end up with a traditional home life. For all of our hot air and high ideals saying that non-traditional families are quite acceptable, I still can't buy it. And I'm still willing to sell out my self-respect to have the typical family arrangement.
My old friends are still left wondering and I'm left speechless when they ask for explanations. It is far too difficult to admit to people, who had known me as a strongly-independent person, that all I really want now is to be able to lean on one person, and know deep down inside that I can always rely on him. Even more difficult is admitting that I never seem to be able to tell that man exactly what I want.
Perhaps it is not really a loss of my own strength, but a change in definition. So much strength is needed to hold onto something that is falling apart. I keep trying to hold onto a relationship with a man I care about and think could be a good father and husband. It is amazing to see what I am capable of, just for the sake of my children.
*******************************
Copyright 2003 Elizabeth Ross
Elizabeth Ross is a 31-year-old mother of four, freelance writer, and editor from Pennsylvania. Her previous experience had been mostly in technical copy editing and technical writing for small foreign software companies seeking to break into English speaking markets. Recently she has been published by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
The Last Day
On this last day of vacation, I wanted to spend time at one of my favorite spots -- Mill Pond in Brewster. My two teenage sons protested vehemently. One envisioned a final day of stalking females. The other, roused from sleep under great protest, proclaimed he wanted to soak up the sun and listen to music. City boys -- not attuned to "bugs and all that nature stuff you like, Ma". But, good mother that I am, I insisted we spend the day as a family. Only my ten-year-old, Nancy, was happy. But then, a spider spinning a web fascinates her, too.
Once at Mill Pond, the kids disappeared. My husband, Rod, and I walked past the mill and the atmosphere immediately changed the tempo of our day. Shifting light and shadow, birds calling to each other, fish splashing to the surface in search of a fat bug -- we had entered another world.
My husband started talking to a young teen from Minnesota, vacationing with his family, who had exceptional knowledge of fresh and salt water fishing techniques. I felt sorry for Rod as the boy bragged about the huge number of stripers and blues he had landed in Cape Cod Bay. Rod is still trying to reel in his first "keeper".
I inhaled my surroundings as I sat on the stone wall. Pale sunshine filtered through cobwebs, spotlighting captive insects, twisted leaves and a few gull feathers caught in a spider's trap. Lily pads bursting with delicate white flowers swayed gently in the water. Tangled vines hung from branches around me and provided a refuge where I felt totally alone.
Schools of small herring circled the pond as if on a merry-go-round. Their parents seemed to be herding the youngsters and reminded me of cowboys rounding up cattle. They forced their youngsters over the spillway to start on a downstream trip back to the sea until the following spring when they would return to this refuge.
A catfish and his sister -- prehistoric looking fish with evil eyes, whiskers and a nasty look -- surfaced to trap some herring in the weeds and snatch them up for lunch. A water bug, his body set high on long legs, skimmed the surface of the pond, imagining himself a hydrofoil. Beetles skittered in circles like a child's wind-up toy. Next to me a spotted bug splashed down on to the surface, a seaplane making an abrupt landing. Bass, sunnies, pickerel and perch swam in harmony. Two eels oozed from beneath a patch of weeds, gliding toward the opposite bank. My skin prickled when I saw a water snake slither across the mirror surface.
"Hey look," Chris yelled. "There's a big frog right by the bridge."
Kevin raced to join him and I chuckled as I watched my two nature-haters trying to catch the large bullfrog. My meticulous husband, clad in white shorts and shirt plopped down on the grass, reached into the water, grabbed the frog and yelled, "Quick, get the camera. This is the first marine life I've landed in two weeks!" The frog rested on the grass a few moments, gave us a long, disgusted look and took a giant leap back into the water. Chris captured a large turtle which was sunning himself on a rock. Apparently used to intruders, the turtle showed no fear and blinked at us complacently. The kids wanted to take him back to our cottage, but I suggested we leave him with his family. A few minutes later, a larger turtle, probably dad, paddled gently on the surface, followed by three offspring.
"Look at this little one," squealed Nancy, pointing to the tiniest member of the group who slid off the bank and swam to catch up. My trio stared at me, apparently impressed with my knowledge of turtle family habits.
Too quickly, it was time to leave. We had been here only a few short hours and experienced just a tiny sample of the wonders of this pond community. I imagined the joy of being able to spend a year here. To experience the changing seasons; to hear the hums and cries; to smell; to feel the new rhythm of each
day. To be.
*******************************************
Copyright 2003 Gerry Di Gesu
Gerry Di Gesu writes a monthly column, "On the Bright Side", for The Philosophical Mother. For Gerry's Bio, check out the 411 page. To see past essays by Gerry, CLICK HERE. To contact Gerry directly, email her at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.
What Would Happen If...?
By Susan Krushenick
What if we believed everything we read? What would life be like if we followed all the rules, theories, and earnings imposed on us by the "Professionals"? What would one day of acquiescing to the do's and don'ts of perfect parenting and personal well-being look like? Join me, as I attempt to live one day according to the experts....
I wake at seven a.m. I feel a bit tired, probably because I slept seven and a half hours instead of the required eight. I immediately head for the coffee pot. Oops! I forgot. Coffee is a no-no because, say some medical experts, caffeine is addictive and the tannin found in coffee lowers the immune system. I put away the coffee and remember that somewhere deep in the back of my cabinet sits a box of organic seaweed tea given to me by a friend who is vegan.
I boil the water and place the natural-fiber, biodegradable tea bag into my cup. I pour the steaming water over the bag and oh-my-goodness everything is turning green and black and there are small particles beginning to swim around the surface. I can't say for sure, but I think this tea is sold in toy stores, only it's called Sea Monkeys. It smells nasty, most likely will taste even worse, but at least I'm not catering to an addiction, and I'm not ingesting tannin (whatever that is). I take my first swallow and begin to wonder where, exactly, is this seaweed farmed? Haven't bio-hazardous chemicals been dumped into three-quarters of the world's oceans? That's what the environmentalists said. Maybe these floaters aren't Sea Monkeys after all; maybe they are PCB-induced mutations of the fish formerly known as Jelly.
Yuck, I'm firing up the coffee pot. It's seven-fifteen and my two youngest children are awake and filing to the kitchen table. My sixteen-year-old is still sleeping, even though his alarm went off fifteen minutes ago and the buzz is beginning to drill a hole in my brain. I will not wake him, though. Nope, not me, I'm not going to be one of those parents who bails her child out of what is rightfully his responsibility, even if it means sticking my head in the toilet to drown the sound of the alarm.
My kids are hungry, so I grab their favorite cereal: Highly-Colored-Sugary-Something-Os. I can't believe I did that. I can't believe I nearly committed the worst of all nutritional sins. I forgot how terrible this stuff is for them, despite the fact that it is affordable and it does have some nutrients and they are eating breakfast. Quickly, I move to plan B. Okay, who wants oatmeal? No response. Who would like whole grain pancakes? Dead silence. Who wants all natural lightly toasted Kashi made with organic beekeeper honey and wheat nuts? Nothing, not one sound.
Forget this. I pour them both a bowl of candy bar crunch and saturate it with good old wholesome milk. Two percent, mind you, I'm keeping an eye on their fat intake. I sure hope this milk doesn't have any BSRTXYZ, or whatever that bovine stuff is.
My oldest is finally awake, dressed in clothing that looks like used aluminum-foil flattened out, and drinking orange juice straight from the carton. He's been labeled with ADHD and learning disabilities, so his clothing and table manners tend to take a backseat to other more pressing issues, like, where is the last place he recalls seeing his only pair of sneakers? I scroll down the list of his school needs (he found the sneakers). Do you have...what about...where is? He rolls his eyes at me and walks out the door. Freudian belief would say I am an over-involved mother who is damaging her son's psyche. Pop-psychologists would say I am Codependent AND an Enabler, who, because of my own serious dysfunctions, is keeping my son from learning how to become organized. ADHD experts would say I am doing the right thing by helping my son to achieve success in his life so he can feel good about himself.
I would say that I'm developing a major headache and the school bus is outside and I don't know which expert is right. All I know is that his social studies project, the one due yesterday, is sitting on the desk and he is halfway to the bus. Heck with it, I open the door and yell, "Hey, Sweetie Pie, you forgot your project..."
Oh. My. God. I went with the ADHD researchers and totally forgot about the socialization experts. Did I humiliate him in front of his peers? Will they call him a Momma's Boy? Have I ruined his life forever?
I wish I could soothe my frazzled nerves with a cigarette and a mocha latte. Unfortunately, the Surgeon General warns that cigarettes will turn my lungs black, give me every cancer known to human and beast, kill my children from second-hand smoke, give my dog and my fish emphysema, and make my clothes smell icky. What if I just tiptoe into the woods behind my house where no one will see me and -- Oh Shoot! I forgot about Smokey-the-Bear.
I pull myself together and help my two younger children gather their belongings, which by the way, is what I am supposed to be doing for children this age, say the early-childhood experts. I gather their backpacks and give my daughter a quick spelling drill for her test today. Educators like when I do this, it shows I have an active interest in my child's schooling. They say the more involved I am with my children, the better they will do in school. Of course, this theory fell flat on its face in regards to my son; my around the clock involvement did not seem to alter the red Fs on his spelling tests.
Nevertheless, many educators would agree that if my child fails, it is probably due to some fatal deficiency I have as a parent.
The spelling drill is over, I put snacks in their backpacks (and toothbrushes and toothpaste because you know what the dentists say) and shimmy the backpacks onto their backs. Hmmm...I recall hearing something about backpacks. Now what was that? Yes, that's right; the chiropractors say backpacks are harmful. Apparently, the weight of the pack places too much pressure on the spine, which then causes the spine to misalign itself, and a spine-out-of-line means lower back pain, lower energy, a lower immune system, possibly a lower IQ, and a lower bank account from all the adjustments needed to put that spine right back where it belongs.
But, without a sack of some sort to carry all their tools and materials, how will our children compete with the Japanese children? Without their packs, our children will become lost, disoriented, disorganized, uneducated, and destined to underachieve, thus, sending the entire United States economy spiraling downward into a third-world category. What if I bought them wagons?
Golly, it's only eight-thirty and I'm feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and emotionally-drained. If I didn't know better, I would say it's because of the morning I am having. But I do know better. I read an article yesterday about depression. I'm depressed. The checklist confirms it. I don't know why I'm depressed, though. Maybe it's because I live in a capitalist society where a person's value is based on how conspicuously she consumes. Perhaps my diet is the culprit: too much fat, not enough greens, way too many Milky Ways. Or, maybe it's because my parents destroyed my self-esteem by saying and doing things they shouldn't have, or possibly, they didn't say and do things they should have? Maybe it has nothing to do with my parents at all. Maybe, I'm genetically predisposed and my spine is out of whack. Maybe it was the seaweed tea. Maybe I should have slept the full eight hours. Maybe I am really suffering from sleep deprivation. Maybe I need to take a nap!
Ah, nothing like a good old-fashioned siesta to cure whatever ails you. I'm feeling pretty chipper and ready to handle phase two of the day, and here come the kids now.
My oldest, as usual, is the first one home. Like clockwork, he runs in the door, throws down his backpack and races to the bathroom. He told me he doesn't like to use the school lavatories, hence his dramatic entrance. I never thought much about his behavior, until today. I'm concerned. Some therapists suggest that pee-shyness may be a red-flag signaling abuse in one's childhood. In fact, I've read somewhere that some people who were abused refuse to use public restrooms because they believe the sound of their own tinkling makes strangers view them as dirty, which is how they really feel inside. Could this be my son's problem? Did something awful happen to him that I'm unaware of and now he feels worthless, dirty, ashamed? OH NO-I have an even worse thought.
What if Freud was right? What if boys DO need to detach from their mothers? What if Freud's Fear of Castration theory is correct and that's what is really going on here? What if my son runs in each day, takes one look at me, and suddenly thinks his penis fell off? What if he races to the bathroom to make sure his appendages are all present and accounted for? Maybe I shouldn't be here when he gets home from school. Maybe I should have chosen to work outside the home, which would limit how many times my son has to look at me and agonize over whether his plumbing is still intact.
I think I need another one of those naps.
On second thought, forget the nap. I give up. My younger kids are walking through the door and the last thing I want to do is tackle the issue of television. I'm pulling the plug on this nitwitted scheme before I start popping Prozac like they're Tic Tacs. From now on, I'm going to rely on my own sensibilities and stay away from all those experts who swear they know what is best for me and my family. I'm saying farewell to doctor office magazines, especially those with self-diagnosing checklists. Adios to nighttime news shows that begin with statements like, "Our hidden cameras uncovered something that is going to scare the hell out of you and make you never want to buy toilet paper again." Arrivederci to the latest in ground-breaking research; and good-riddens to self-help books.
But before I do, I just want to try one thing: Yesterday, after I read the article on depression, I read an article called 371 Ways To Get Him To Take Out The Trash.
Oh look, here comes the ole' Soul Mate now.
***********************************************
Copyright August 2003 Susan Krushenick
What if we believed everything we read? What would life be like if we followed all the rules, theories, and earnings imposed on us by the "Professionals"? What would one day of acquiescing to the do's and don'ts of perfect parenting and personal well-being look like? Join me, as I attempt to live one day according to the experts....
I wake at seven a.m. I feel a bit tired, probably because I slept seven and a half hours instead of the required eight. I immediately head for the coffee pot. Oops! I forgot. Coffee is a no-no because, say some medical experts, caffeine is addictive and the tannin found in coffee lowers the immune system. I put away the coffee and remember that somewhere deep in the back of my cabinet sits a box of organic seaweed tea given to me by a friend who is vegan.
I boil the water and place the natural-fiber, biodegradable tea bag into my cup. I pour the steaming water over the bag and oh-my-goodness everything is turning green and black and there are small particles beginning to swim around the surface. I can't say for sure, but I think this tea is sold in toy stores, only it's called Sea Monkeys. It smells nasty, most likely will taste even worse, but at least I'm not catering to an addiction, and I'm not ingesting tannin (whatever that is). I take my first swallow and begin to wonder where, exactly, is this seaweed farmed? Haven't bio-hazardous chemicals been dumped into three-quarters of the world's oceans? That's what the environmentalists said. Maybe these floaters aren't Sea Monkeys after all; maybe they are PCB-induced mutations of the fish formerly known as Jelly.
Yuck, I'm firing up the coffee pot. It's seven-fifteen and my two youngest children are awake and filing to the kitchen table. My sixteen-year-old is still sleeping, even though his alarm went off fifteen minutes ago and the buzz is beginning to drill a hole in my brain. I will not wake him, though. Nope, not me, I'm not going to be one of those parents who bails her child out of what is rightfully his responsibility, even if it means sticking my head in the toilet to drown the sound of the alarm.
My kids are hungry, so I grab their favorite cereal: Highly-Colored-Sugary-Something-Os. I can't believe I did that. I can't believe I nearly committed the worst of all nutritional sins. I forgot how terrible this stuff is for them, despite the fact that it is affordable and it does have some nutrients and they are eating breakfast. Quickly, I move to plan B. Okay, who wants oatmeal? No response. Who would like whole grain pancakes? Dead silence. Who wants all natural lightly toasted Kashi made with organic beekeeper honey and wheat nuts? Nothing, not one sound.
Forget this. I pour them both a bowl of candy bar crunch and saturate it with good old wholesome milk. Two percent, mind you, I'm keeping an eye on their fat intake. I sure hope this milk doesn't have any BSRTXYZ, or whatever that bovine stuff is.
My oldest is finally awake, dressed in clothing that looks like used aluminum-foil flattened out, and drinking orange juice straight from the carton. He's been labeled with ADHD and learning disabilities, so his clothing and table manners tend to take a backseat to other more pressing issues, like, where is the last place he recalls seeing his only pair of sneakers? I scroll down the list of his school needs (he found the sneakers). Do you have...what about...where is? He rolls his eyes at me and walks out the door. Freudian belief would say I am an over-involved mother who is damaging her son's psyche. Pop-psychologists would say I am Codependent AND an Enabler, who, because of my own serious dysfunctions, is keeping my son from learning how to become organized. ADHD experts would say I am doing the right thing by helping my son to achieve success in his life so he can feel good about himself.
I would say that I'm developing a major headache and the school bus is outside and I don't know which expert is right. All I know is that his social studies project, the one due yesterday, is sitting on the desk and he is halfway to the bus. Heck with it, I open the door and yell, "Hey, Sweetie Pie, you forgot your project..."
Oh. My. God. I went with the ADHD researchers and totally forgot about the socialization experts. Did I humiliate him in front of his peers? Will they call him a Momma's Boy? Have I ruined his life forever?
I wish I could soothe my frazzled nerves with a cigarette and a mocha latte. Unfortunately, the Surgeon General warns that cigarettes will turn my lungs black, give me every cancer known to human and beast, kill my children from second-hand smoke, give my dog and my fish emphysema, and make my clothes smell icky. What if I just tiptoe into the woods behind my house where no one will see me and -- Oh Shoot! I forgot about Smokey-the-Bear.
I pull myself together and help my two younger children gather their belongings, which by the way, is what I am supposed to be doing for children this age, say the early-childhood experts. I gather their backpacks and give my daughter a quick spelling drill for her test today. Educators like when I do this, it shows I have an active interest in my child's schooling. They say the more involved I am with my children, the better they will do in school. Of course, this theory fell flat on its face in regards to my son; my around the clock involvement did not seem to alter the red Fs on his spelling tests.
Nevertheless, many educators would agree that if my child fails, it is probably due to some fatal deficiency I have as a parent.
The spelling drill is over, I put snacks in their backpacks (and toothbrushes and toothpaste because you know what the dentists say) and shimmy the backpacks onto their backs. Hmmm...I recall hearing something about backpacks. Now what was that? Yes, that's right; the chiropractors say backpacks are harmful. Apparently, the weight of the pack places too much pressure on the spine, which then causes the spine to misalign itself, and a spine-out-of-line means lower back pain, lower energy, a lower immune system, possibly a lower IQ, and a lower bank account from all the adjustments needed to put that spine right back where it belongs.
But, without a sack of some sort to carry all their tools and materials, how will our children compete with the Japanese children? Without their packs, our children will become lost, disoriented, disorganized, uneducated, and destined to underachieve, thus, sending the entire United States economy spiraling downward into a third-world category. What if I bought them wagons?
Golly, it's only eight-thirty and I'm feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and emotionally-drained. If I didn't know better, I would say it's because of the morning I am having. But I do know better. I read an article yesterday about depression. I'm depressed. The checklist confirms it. I don't know why I'm depressed, though. Maybe it's because I live in a capitalist society where a person's value is based on how conspicuously she consumes. Perhaps my diet is the culprit: too much fat, not enough greens, way too many Milky Ways. Or, maybe it's because my parents destroyed my self-esteem by saying and doing things they shouldn't have, or possibly, they didn't say and do things they should have? Maybe it has nothing to do with my parents at all. Maybe, I'm genetically predisposed and my spine is out of whack. Maybe it was the seaweed tea. Maybe I should have slept the full eight hours. Maybe I am really suffering from sleep deprivation. Maybe I need to take a nap!
Ah, nothing like a good old-fashioned siesta to cure whatever ails you. I'm feeling pretty chipper and ready to handle phase two of the day, and here come the kids now.
My oldest, as usual, is the first one home. Like clockwork, he runs in the door, throws down his backpack and races to the bathroom. He told me he doesn't like to use the school lavatories, hence his dramatic entrance. I never thought much about his behavior, until today. I'm concerned. Some therapists suggest that pee-shyness may be a red-flag signaling abuse in one's childhood. In fact, I've read somewhere that some people who were abused refuse to use public restrooms because they believe the sound of their own tinkling makes strangers view them as dirty, which is how they really feel inside. Could this be my son's problem? Did something awful happen to him that I'm unaware of and now he feels worthless, dirty, ashamed? OH NO-I have an even worse thought.
What if Freud was right? What if boys DO need to detach from their mothers? What if Freud's Fear of Castration theory is correct and that's what is really going on here? What if my son runs in each day, takes one look at me, and suddenly thinks his penis fell off? What if he races to the bathroom to make sure his appendages are all present and accounted for? Maybe I shouldn't be here when he gets home from school. Maybe I should have chosen to work outside the home, which would limit how many times my son has to look at me and agonize over whether his plumbing is still intact.
I think I need another one of those naps.
On second thought, forget the nap. I give up. My younger kids are walking through the door and the last thing I want to do is tackle the issue of television. I'm pulling the plug on this nitwitted scheme before I start popping Prozac like they're Tic Tacs. From now on, I'm going to rely on my own sensibilities and stay away from all those experts who swear they know what is best for me and my family. I'm saying farewell to doctor office magazines, especially those with self-diagnosing checklists. Adios to nighttime news shows that begin with statements like, "Our hidden cameras uncovered something that is going to scare the hell out of you and make you never want to buy toilet paper again." Arrivederci to the latest in ground-breaking research; and good-riddens to self-help books.
But before I do, I just want to try one thing: Yesterday, after I read the article on depression, I read an article called 371 Ways To Get Him To Take Out The Trash.
Oh look, here comes the ole' Soul Mate now.
***********************************************
Copyright August 2003 Susan Krushenick
Regarding Zachary
When my son Zachary was a newborn, I became suddenly and acutely depressed. I guess I was technically in a post-partum depression, but all I felt was a deep hole that appeared to have no bottom. My son became out of focus to me; a blur who was both acutely real and absurdly unreal.I felt as though I was in a dream tunnel, alone, and being sucked to someplace dangerous. My husband and family and friends revolved around me in a detached orbit, yet I felt unable to connect with or touch them.
I had tried to breastfeed Zachary during the first few days. But by the time I left the hospital, five days after his birth, I had already relented to my depression and started him on formula. For several days later, my breasts felt engorged and sore and my OB suggested that I place bags of frozen peas over my breasts. For days I wandered around our apartment in my sweatpants; weeping and holding bags of frozen vegetables over my aching breasts; regarding Zachary with both sadness and longing.
I felt the fear of my situation and the responsibilities I had now acquired, both knowingly and obliviously. My thoughts focused on how inept and ill-prepared I was for the task that I now faced. People visited, gave advice, told me to get as much sleep as possible ("nap when he naps") and even brought food. Still most visits felt like intrusions.
I wanted to curl up and disappear. I wanted to run away and escape from what was now my life; my family. And throughout the sadness and fear was also a profound sense of guilt. A mother should not feel this way. I should feel instantly and completely connected to my new son. I should be merged with this miracle that I had wished for. I should be filled with gratitude that he was healthy and beautiful.
I would watch him peacefully sleep in his crib with its matching bedspread, sheets, and bumpers...and feel a painful sense of emptiness and longing.
What was wrong with me?
I couldn't sleep. And I couldn't stop crying intermittently throughout the day. And I couldn't make myself feel better. The depression was interrupted only by the guilt that crept over me for feeling the way I felt. My family worried and hoped this would pass. Before I left the hospital, a nurse saw me crying, while ineffectively and painfully attempting to nurse Zachary. "You've just got the baby blues," she said with a smile. This was normal then. All new moms feel this way. It will get better I thought. But it didn't.
When I saw my OB for my six week check-up she commented on how tired and drawn I looked. As had become my habit, I burst into tears and she regarded me carefully. She asked me the requisite litany of questions: "How was I sleeping?" (I wasn't) "How was my appetite?" (I didn't have one) "Was I feeling hopeless? Was I quick to cry?" I scored incredibly well or profoundly poorly depending upon the interpretation.
And then came the suggestion of an anti-depressant. I am a social worker so I was surprised by my own resistance and denial. I didn't want to take an anti-depressant --I didn't want to need it, but clearly I did. I started on Prozac begrudgingly and focused initially on the side effects. It did start to work though a few weeks later, and my relief was beyond description.
I needed to feel better, so I took Prozac. But I deeply worried the medication wasn't going to work. My true fear was that this feeling of desperation was going to become my chronic condition. And I anxiously imagined that my family would slip further and further away.
By about week four, I noticed, almost as an aside, that I was enjoying pushing Zach in his stroller through our neighborhood. I was having fun dressing him in the absurd infant clothes we had received from our friends and relatives. His toothless grin (or was it gas?) enchanted me and I would look into his hazel/brown, ethereal eyes and connect.
Months went by and each morning included my ritual swallowing of my miracle pill. About ten months after starting the Prozac, I slowly stopped it. By Zachary's first birthday, I was happy and enjoying life again.
I have met other new mothers who give birth and seem to effortlessly embrace their motherhood role with apparent bliss. I have met mothers who, like me, struggle with their own demons (chemical or psychological) that are awakened through birth. I have met others who fit neither extreme and instead transition into parenthood with the usual bumps and joy that accompany any other life change. I am unique in some ways, but not so unique in others.
My depression returned after the birth of my second son, but it was not as profound. I had expected it (and feared it would return) so I responded quickly and almost dispassionately.
Zach is now seven and Sam almost 2 ½ and the memory of those early months are fading. But as I write these words the sense of awesome desperation awakes slightly, regarding me, then fading away once again.
***************************************
Copyright 2003 Regina Walker
Reflections
I'm feeling rather reflective right now. After all, it is exactly a year ago that I launched this little webzine, The Philosophical Mother. At the time, the copy was sparse and was mostly comprised of my own writing. I also knew very little about web design, search engines, domain names, blogging, or anything else related to the Internet.I did know that I wanted to write about motherhood and that most of the national glossy magazines seemed far removed from my own experiences. Since I didn't have a budget (nor the time, knowledge, or experience) to start my own print magazine, I decided to take advantage of Yahoo's free and cheap services and dive into the wonderful world of virtual publishing.
I am proud to say that this little webzine of mine has grown considerably in that past year. I have been able to publish almost 100 original essays from over 45 different mothers from all parts of the country, and the world. The Philosophical Mother now has three regular columnists, one cartoonist, and six ongoing weblogs. We have a community here, and it is growing.
Personally, I am delighted that there are other mothers out there, like me, who refuse to be labeled or remain quiet about their experiences. For too long, our stories have been ignored and denied. But I know, and you know, that each and every one of us experiences motherhood in our own unique way. These individual stories are the ones that interest me most. I'm not interested in maternal generalizations or fitting in with some culturally-defined image of motherhood. I am interested in defying expectations and uncovering the truth. Mostly, I just want to share our stories with each other.
I thank all of the writers who have shared their submissions this year. I am continuously amazed by your courage, honesty, and ability to write while also engaging in the arduous task of nurturing and raising your children. As long as you keep writing, I will keep publishing this webzine.
Looking ahead, I now know that the actual writing is going to be the easy part of this whole publishing gig. The stories will continue to come, I'm sure. But the marketing/business aspect of this venture is what continues to frustrate me. I'd like to be able to pay my writers. But how do I do that without charging a subscription fee or finding advertisers? I know that I have to build my mailing list, because only then can I prove to advertisers that I have some "desirable demographic" they are looking for. But this takes time, which is time away from writing and editing.
I hope you will continue to support our writers, by taking the time to sit back and read what they have taken the time to write.
*****************
Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
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