AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2005

• Craving Slow News Days -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Gratitude -- Regina Walker
• Coming of Age and Reasonable Doubt -- Elizabeth Thompson
• Once Upon A Summer -- Gerry Di Gesu
• Back to School -- Stacey Greenberg

Craving Slow News Days

JonBenet Ramsey. The name of a six-year-old beauty pageant winner shouldn't terrify me -- but it does. Like Danielle van Dam, Megan Kanka, Polly Klaas, and Etan Patz, JonBenet has achieved national name recognition in a way that none of us would ever choose for our own children. And JonBenet's brutal murder represents everything we fear as parents.

It seems as if every other month we add another posthumously famous young victim to this elite, ghastly list. Let's face it, we live in terrifying times. Besides kidnappers who steal our sleeping children, there are parish priests that molest our young innocents. Troubled teens armed with acne and assault weapons spray our schools in gunfire. Terrorists take aim at airplanes, day-care facilities, and the workplace. Nannies shake babies to death. Drunk drivers plow into pedestrians. E.coli poisons our hamburger meat and organic vegetables. Anthrax pollutes our mail.

With all that threatens us and our children, it is no wonder that reportedly 19 million Americans suffer from Anxiety Disorders.

In the months following 9/11, I mentioned to a group of mothers that my family was planning a vacation.

"You're flying? I'm afraid to fly," one mother says.

"My husband WILL NOT fly with the kids," another mother chimes in.

"I'm nervous," I admit. But with more than three billion passengers flying worldwide each year -- air travel is statistically and unbelievably safe.

Logically, and intellectually, we all know that air travel is not risky. But we remain haunted by the Twin Towers Attack. Thanks to our media, we relived that assault over, and over, and over again. And we cannot forget the images of airplanes turned into explosives, and monolithic structures crumbling into dust.

Is the news responsible for our collective parental paranoia? Some would argue that the news merely reports the doom-and-gloom, and doesn't fabricate it. But I say, in this media-saturated worlds -- all facts are not treated equally. "Newsworthy items" tend to be those which are sensational or aberrant.

And so, Americans are fed a daily diet of disaster, tragedy, and scandal. As a parent, I simply do not have the stomach for it anymore. I crave slow news days.

I'm not saying I want to be blissfully unaware or uniformed of world events. I'm just asking for a little balance in news coverage. There are approximately 281 million Americans, and I want some acknowledgement that an overwhelming number of us ARE NOT victims or statistics. In fact, millions of American children WERE NOT kidnapped from their beds last night. Thousands of domestic and international flights took off yesterday and landed at their destinations WITHOUT incident. Billions of people eat UNTAINTED meat every year. Millions of Americans (although not the ones featured in the news) are leading very normal, NON-NEWSWORTHY lives.

Why not report these facts? In these especially anxious times, we need to "accentuate the positive, and eliminate the negative". We need to be reminded about the absolute normalcy of life. And we need to stop repeating grim statistics that do nothing but create anxiety and fear in our population.

Yes, we should be outraged and sickened by the despicable and cowardly crimes committed against our children. Of course the kidnappings and murders repulse and terrify us. But we need to put things in perspective and grieve for these isolated, tragic events -- without allowing them to define our culture or cripple us with fear.

While the media seems to take pleasure in reporting the more aberrant nature of society, the fact remains that few of us will ever suffer the horrific fate of the Ramsey family. For the most part, our own days are completely uneventful (in a newsworthy sense) and devoid of sensational tragedy.

Maybe once we understand this, we will be able to sleep soundly at night, take family vacations, send our kids to school, trust our neighbors, and order hamburgers -- without first reaching for Zoloft.

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2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

This essay was originally published at The Freedom Chronicles and was written in the months following September 11, 2001, when everyone seemed to be afraid of everything and the news only seemed to be making things much worse.

Gratitude

"Dwell in possibility"
Emily Dickinson

I have decided to focus on what is working in my life.

I have been emerging; slowly and with fits and starts, from a very difficult period. I look over my shoulder and see deep valleys and think “I was there?” And though I still fear, at times, that a landslide will return me to the nadir, I am determined to continue climbing up, with all my might and strength.

Zachary is 9 years old and a full-fledged fourth grader. I am amazed at his independence and his strength of character. His hairy shins remind he will never be “my baby” again. Technology of almost any sort is the center of his universe now and his Star Wars obsession persists. In art camp this summer he completed two paintings on canvas. The first was of an X-Wing and the other a Tie Fighter.

We have discussed distant stars and galaxies as astronomy has newly caught his wonder and I marvel at how ideas awaken within him for the first time and fill him with excitement and awe. I explained to him what is meant by light years and he responded with genuine enthusiasm. “Mom, that is amazing” and for the first time in quite some time I realized that it really was.
Zachary bought me roses recently and though my youngest son Sam chanted “flowers, flowers” as if to imply he was in on the purchase, Zach took me aside and said “it was all my idea”.

Zachary stood in front of me proudly displaying a half dozen long-stemmed red roses and I realized in that moment how far I have come. Ironically, the flowers came on a day when I truly needed them and I accepted them with great and genuine enthusiasm and gratitude.

I stood in the kitchen cutting the stems and placing them in water when I noticed in a detached way that I was crying. I wasn’t sobbing or weeping but tears escaped as I prepared the flowers for the vase. Parenthood has been a strange journey for me. In my mind I often experience myself as the 24 year old I was so very long ago. Then moments hit me that remind me that the 24 year old me exists only in a place in history and she is not the me of today. As I placed the flowers in the vase, I remembered other flowers, other vases, and other gift givers. I looked over at Zach who was smiling proudly watching me arrange the flowers as artistically as I could.

“I love you Zach. Thank you so much. This was a wonderful gift.”

“You’re welcome mom. I love you too. By the way, you are beautiful.”

With that last declaration he ran away, perhaps of embarrassment. And I found my tears again. Though now they were flowing as I smiled. Unlike other flowers and declarations of love, I could fully accept these gifts from Zach. Life is made up of moments and this moment, I determined, was a keeper. Later we would argue about dinner, bath, and bedtime but none of that would negate the flowers and the sentiments we so freely shared with each other.

I am learning a lot about love from my nine year old son. He is in front of me much of the time but I often don’t see him entirely. I live inside myself a lot. Too much. And my tendency has always been to focus on what I perceive to be my flaws. My flaws are real as I am terminally human but I am realizing as I focus on them, they grow. Like sun on a garden, my attention to my failings empower them, make them stronger, and define who I am. I am left with a perception of myself that I do not like but which I ultimately created.

“You can change that, you know”. My friend of many years knows me well and can sum up what I am trying to say in a line or two. “Just start watering another part of the garden. You are the one with the watering can. You are in charge. Create the future you want and don’t base it on your past. I like you better now anyway.”

So I am working on being grateful because I see now I have opportunities that I denied myself in the past. There are possibilities that I never would have thought existed. And my decision to allow myself to embrace a different future has left me as exhilarated as the notion of light-years. And besides, my nine year old son brings me roses, tells me he loves me, and thinks I am beautiful.

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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker

Regina Walker is a writer and psychotherapist living in NYC. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including Hip Mama, widdershins, Moondance, and Literary Vision. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com

Coming of Age and Reasonable Doubt

By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson

“Quick…she’s here!”

**nothing**

“Guys, carpooling mom is here!”

**the dog stretches and blows one**

“Turn off the television…grab your backpacks…don’t forget your jackets, lunches and anything else you need on a Monday…and GET OUT!”

Next comes the running of many feet, followed by a few air kisses, as the dog begins to bark, the door slams and the picture frames bounce on the wall in a haze of dust and dander.

Thus begins another a Monday -- a new week of orientations, bake sales and cramming for end of the school year tests that will either make or break the grade – and the inevitable end of my patience!

Is it me -- does the end of the school year get super crazy -- or what?

And, with four kids in four different schools this year, I can’t help but think, “Holy crap!”

Can it get any crazier?

And this is where each and every one of you with children -- whether you are single, married, employed or whatever -- inserts a, “Hell yes!” Because, regardless of how concerned or indifferent we may feel about things, if it’s not one thing, it’s going to be another.

Shit happens!

And…Dayum! If there’s not a whole lot of shit out there to go around.

Multiply that by four kids and I’m looking for the nearest thing to a shovel I can get my hands on.

There’s been a lot of…you know…big changes going on here, lately, and I’ll be honest with you –- as always –- I don’t know if I’m coming or going –- again, and like always.

A sufficient amount that, rather than signing her up for nursery school, I decided to keep my four-year- old home with me this passed year because…well…she’s my youngest…and they grow so quickly…especially once they start school. I felt as if I needed to…you know…get to know her a little better.

Does that make any sense to you?

Perhaps not, but suffice it to say that signing her up for pre-Kindergarten last month was a whole heck of a lot easier.

Keeping up with my crazy schedule, and a four-year-old happy, has proved to be quite taxing. She and I need a break from each other and I believe that four afternoons come September would be a welcome change for the both of us.

Halfway through the orientation visit, and participating in their circle time by spelling her name, “H-O-P-E, but just call me Hopey, ‘cause ev-wee one duz!” it was apparent to everyone, including me, that she was very ready to start her journey towards independence, and that I was not. Because I spent most of the morning, turning towards either the dinosaur center or the craft table, wiping at my eyes in a constant effort to compose myself.

What is wrong with me?

Yes, I know, I’ve recently turned 41 and have read a sufficient amount of information concerning the onslaught of pre-menopause -- not to mention the added burdens of stress and water weight gain -- enough to fill and confuse an elephant.

No pun intended.

And then there’s dealing with my father’s retirement –- or, more accurately, the complexity of his inability to do so – and considering both my mother’s and father’s failing health, I’ve been trying to balance nurturing my children and planning for my parents future, as well.

I’m not complaining, mind you.

Although I find myself feeling exhausted and overwhelmed with very little time on my hands, more often than not, I can’t help but believe that I owe them as much.

It’s hard to explain.

How do I accurately find words, for the sense of urgency I experience whenever I think of my parents, which will seem logical or make sense to anyone else but me or, quite possibly, to my brother?

Oh, I could easily relate stories of my parents growing up with little food, or very little else, in Eastern Europe. How my grandparents -- two of whom weren’t educated beyond the third grade and another widowed with three children and forced to marry a second time unhappily out of convenience -- were left with little choice but to raise their children in an atmosphere of constant struggle and serious emotional imbalance.

I can imagine my father running out of school, and almost hear the awful whistling warning of imminent danger, as he and the rest of his classmates frantically made their way to safety, underground. I can almost smell the peanut butter -- dropped by the American Red Cross -- and imagine its taste on fresh baked bread, that my four-year-old mother DID NOT HAVE to bring to school, and the teacher’s chilly voice, dripping with insensitivity, saying, “And what am I supposed to spread this on; your hands?”

But, I can’t imagine their terror or the hunger they felt.

Because, I never had to.

As fate would have it, they were given the chance to choose a different life for their children. They worked hard, made sacrifices and always made it a point -- even though finances were always a struggle –- never failed to make my brother and I feel as if anything were possible; unfortunately, leaving very little savings for their future.

So, yeah, everyone’s got problems and the world may not be a better place, but there’s very little I can do to change that -- and even though I’m grown and have children of my own, I still need to learn that I can’t be everything to everybody. Still, how can I not, at least, try to give a little something back?

I owe them that.

“Hope is more than welcome to stay for lunch today.”

The assistant teacher’s voice surprised me and I shook my head a little which, I was sure, made me seem totally disorientated and not just a basket case.

“No, but, thanks very much.”

**looking at watch**

“I’ve got to make an appointment for her.”

**eyes go wide**

“Oh, is Hope not feeling well?”

**confused look**

“Oh! Um…no…I’ve got to make an appointment for my mother and take my father to the doctor.”

Now, she looked just as confused as I did.

“A child’s work is never done, eh?”

And, as I type this, my parents are closing on a place I found for them, in a happy little adult community, where I’m hoping they will spend the rest of whatever time they have left together, happily, and perhaps will afford them the time to take care of themselves.

It may not be the most earth-shattering or environmentally important news, ever -- just as my son’s losing his first tooth soon after my oldest daughter’s getting her first period may not matter in the grand scheme of things –- it’s but a small step towards my coming of age.

And that, my friends, is what life is all about.

I think?

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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson

Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.

Once Upon A Summer

I remember when it seemed only movie stars had swimming pools and there were no beach clubs or municipal pools. When we wanted to cool off, we ran through the sprinkler or attached the hose to the top of a stepladder, marveling at the rainbow as the sun shone through the spray.

Families owned one car and Dad took it to work every day. Mom could stay home and relax because kids couldn't ask, “Where are we going today?” They just played in their own neighborhood. Mothers didn’t have to work to make ends meet and kids didn’t need summer camp. No one had much money but no one seemed to mind either. We didn’t know we were missing any fun.

There were no summer sport leagues. The kids on the block got together after supper, played stickball in the street or marched around the corner to the school playground to play kickball or softball. No TV, video games or mopeds, but kick-the-can, hide-and-seek, tag and SPUD.

No one went to summer school for enrichment or make-up work. And somehow, we all learned, passed on to the next grade and managed to cope with growing up. When we were bored, we were expected to entertain ourselves and mom could say, “Get lost”, without feeling guilty.

A bike trip to the park was a big deal. Not on a ten-speed but on a Schwinn with balloon tires that made the ride an endurance test. The bike was safe, the lake clean and the fish living there grew larger every year.

Our homes didn’t have air conditioning so we all sat outside every night to cool off with some homemade lemonade and watched the stars and fireflies brighten our evening. Hot dogs, well-done over a homemade charcoal grill and a glass of root beer shared with friends under the grape arbor was a fancy barbecue.

We seemed to have more friends than neighbors. There were few fences but lots of holes in hedges to cut through to the next yard. When it was too hot to move, I would lie on the porch glider, watching the clouds and dream secret dreams. Or watch a spider spin his web and marvel at the scurrying ants carrying food to their families in the anthill, one crumb at a time.

We didn’t have to work at enjoying summer — we just did.

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Copyright 2005 – Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her collection of essays, “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl”, is available on the web from iUniverse.com and amazon and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net

Back to School

Recently we were invited to the first ever Anthropology alumni party at one of my former (childless) professor’s houses—the professor we all feared in school. Even though I received my Master’s in 1999, I always feel like a bumbling student in her presence.

The invitation to the party clearly said, “Bring your spouse, children, friends, and a dish.” My spouse, also an alumni, and an excellent chef, really wanted to go. I hesitated to bring my rambunctious toddlers (ages 1 and 3), remembering from past parties that Ms. Professor had a lovely home filled with handmade furniture and fabulous Oaxacan folk art. “Do you want me to call my mom and see if she can watch the kids while we go to the party?” I asked Warren as he filled a black, fish-shaped platter with BBQ sushi. My three-year-old’s ears perked up as he smiled and said, “Party? I want to go to a party!”

When we arrived there were about ten people in attendance, and they were all over the age of thirty. My one-year old spent about two minutes clinging to me until he discovered a very cool Sharper Image type light with illuminating hairs protruding from the kitchen island.

“Please honey, no touching…” I pleaded in front of several nervous onlookers.

“Oh it’s fine,” replied Ms. Professor. Hmmm…is she for real? I wondered. The boys wasted no time committing themselves to an in-depth study of the light. They stroked and yanked it, flipped the on/off switch on and off, etc. I took a deep breath and looked for the beer.

The hairy light eventually lost its appeal and they headed toward the stairs. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. You get the point. It was actually the best place for them since there was nothing to break…um, except a bone maybe. I wanted to redirect them to the living room, but was wary of the alluring array of plastic cups filled with assorted liquids.

As soon as my husband placed his beer on the table, my one-year-old leapt from the staircase and started a full run towards the coffee table. Warren let him suck on the bottle (which attracted more than a few stares) while I tried to interest him in his sippy cup (that I naively filled with organic milk at the house), but he catapulted it across the room in disgust. Meanwhile my three-year-old was busy climbing on the exercise bike that was doing its best to hide behind the sofa.

In the split second it took me to look Satchel’s way, Jiro grabbed a cup of orange soda off the coffee table and poured it down his face, shirt, shorts, legs, shoes, and onto the floor. Ms. Professor was nowhere in sight and several people grabbed napkins to assist with a quick clean up. I took off Jiro’s shirt, exposed his most excellent belly to everyone’s delight, and made a quick run to the car for an extra shirt. Little Buddha caused everyone to instantly forget the orange soda incident. I actually received numerous compliments on being such a competent and prepared parent. Just by having an extra shirt!

I started to relax a bit. By this time there were several other kids running around. Oddly enough they were all girls. Two of them were dressed in their Sunday best and acted like perfect little ladies. A cute five-year-old sat at her parents' feet eating broccoli, celery, carrots, assorted fruit, and BBQ sushi. The only other toddler made her way around the room informing guests that she had taken her shoes off all by herself.

As I was chatting with some old classmates in the kitchen, I noticed an assortment of really cool animal figurines on the drink table. I picked one up, a lizard with jeweled eyes and a wiry body, and went over to my two children who were again happily playing with the hairy light, and pretended like the lizard was going to bite them. Satchel immediately lit up, and like a normal three-year-old, attempted to grab the lizard out of my hands. At that point the magnitude of my error dawned on me. They were rapt by a host approved “toy” and I interrupted them to garner interest in the Oaxacan folk art that was busy playing dead.

My professor’s husband was only a few feet away, pretending to be Mr. Carefree, but I knew better.

“Uh, honey, um, don’t touch the lizard, it’s just for looking,” I said ineffectually as I put the figurine behind the Sprite. Before I could even let go, Satchel was right my heels, reaching for another figure—a brightly painted wooden dragon. I was starting to sweat.

“Honey, those aren’t toys. Don’t touch them,” I said firmly, feeling like a complete asshole.
I turned away for a split second, instinctively, to check on Jiro, when I heard a crash. I saw detached wings, a foot, a tail, and several Anthropology alumni silently heading for another room. I threw myself on the floor and prayed that the pieces would somehow snap back on, but when I saw shards of wood, I knew there was no hope. I gathered the pieces, told my husband to take the boys into the living room, and went in search of the professor’s two favorite students (who had suggested she throw the party in the first place).

Paige was talking to a nearby group about filling out a survey. “Paige, I need you now,” I said from across the room as I clutched the pieces of the dragon behind my back. She came over, took one look at what I had in my hands and freaked out. (Not the reaction I was hoping for.)

“Oh my god, we have to tell Mr. Carefree, because if Ms. Professor finds out from him, she’ll take it better,” she blurted out as she shooed me into the pantry.

“No, we have to hide the evidence and pretend like it never happened!” I said.

“Let me find a bag. And Jamie. Stay here,” Paige instructed as she ran out of the pantry.

Meanwhile I prayed my husband was keeping the boys out of trouble.

Paige came back with a garbage bag. “It’s clear!” I cried.

“It’s all we’ve got,” she said. “I’ll hide it in the back, and then we’ll tell Ms. Professor later.”
I liked this plan. “Will you tell her who did it?” I asked.

“We’ll just say it got broken,” she said.

“Good plan,” I agreed, relieved.

Just then Jamie came in. “I’ll glue it back together. She’ll never know.”

“Ooh, I like that plan too,” I said, somewhat high. My adrenaline was pumping.

Jamie, the best hostess ever, said, “This isn’t a kid-friendly house and she should have put that stuff away if she was going to have kids over.” I listened and nodded enthusiastically.

“I mean, those figurines look like toys! And that antique bike she has in the front room is the next thing that’s going to break!” Jamie continued.

I was laughing at this point, buoyed up by my co-conspirators. We left the pantry feeling as though everything was completely under control. I went in search of my husband and the boys. I found them in the living room.

Playing on the antique bike.

"Who wants cake?" I asked. They looked at me, looked at the bike, and then looked for cake.

"Come on," I said. "This way..."

I plopped them on the floor next to all of the sweet little girls and let them eat cake. As they happily shoveled it in their mouths, I watched as the crumbs started to pile up on the fancy carpet. Jiro unknowingly rubbed some icing in with his butt as he scooted closer to his plate. I realized that nothing was safe in this house. I was exhausted from the never-ending damage control and told Warren we needed to make an exit soon.

I found Paige again and told her we were leaving. "You're not going to tell Ms. Professor until after the party's over, right?" I asked, fearing a scene after our departure. (I pictured us frantically trying to buckle the kids in their carseats before peeling out of the driveway as Ms. Professor ran out of the front door to lecture us.)

"That's the plan," she said.

"Okay, I'll call her tomorrow and apologize,” I said. Or send an email…

Jamie came over just then and said, "Don't worry. I told Mr. Carefree..."

"You did what?" I asked exasperated.

"He's totally fine with it," she continued. "It isn't a problem at all."

"Really?" I asked.

"Really."

"Did you tell him who did it?" I asked, wondering if I had managed to fool him with my *cough* stern lecture.

She kind of smirked, but in a nice way, "He knew who did it right away...But really, it's okay."

"Okay," I said, relieved, but not convinced.

I got Warren and we wrangled the boys up to leave. Jiro immediately went berserk. He clearly was not done playing with the hairy light even though we'd been there two hours. I so didn't want to blow my cover when we were in the home stretch. I scanned the kitchen and spotted some tortilla chips. I thrust one in his little paw and he stopped screeching right away.

"Here, let me give you a plastic bag so you can take a bunch home," Ms. Professor said as she awkwardly grabbed Jiro's chubby little cheek and made some cooing noises. I smiled, said our thank yous, and left happy that I wasn't getting graded anymore.

When I called Ms. Professor a few days later to apologize, she couldn’t have been more gracious. “I wouldn’t have left those things out if I was worried about them breaking,” she said. And I believed her. “Please come again soon. I really miss seeing you,” she said.

That’s when I realized that I am the one with the red pen, circling all of my mistakes, not her.

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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg

Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.