Wherefore Art Thou, Gloria Steinem?

I am a child of the Sixties. A child of change (before Obama made the phrase popular). Raised in a traditional Sixties family, I saw my father go off to work each day in his suit, carrying his briefcase. My mother stayed home in our compact split-level on a quarter-acre lot, within an easy commute to New York City. Suburban bliss, the American Dream.

I remember the Vietnam War, Kent State and Janis Joplin. I remember Woodstock. In eighth grade, we petitioned the faculty at our school to allow girls to wear pants to schools (prior to that life had been skirts and dresses, although snowpants were allowed for inclement weather). When I was a freshman in high school, our “radical” librarian subscribed to MS. Magazine—to some this likely signaled the beginning of the end. Feminism had arrived. And I signed on.

I was never a radical feminist. I appreciate the difference in the sexes and in sexuality. I don’t want to be a man; however, I want the same advantages, academically and professionally. All I ever expected was mutual respect, across the board. I want everyone to respect each other. It’s easy, it’s the Golden Rule.

Dreams were shattered this week with an incident in my office. During a professional gathering, a colleague [male] told an inappropriate joke and personalized it by using one of the young (attractive) woman in our workgroup’s name as the main character. I have a sense of humour and have been known to tell a relatively lascivious joke to my intimate friends---but NEVER in a professional situation. I don’t think of myself as a prude.

As the aforementioned co-worked told his ‘old school-boys’ club’ joke, the room got quieter and quieter. People exchanged glances and shifter nervously in their chairs. When the joke was finished, they laughed politely. Our director was red-faced but said not a word. I steamed silently.

Like a pressure cooker, I finally reached the boiling point and spoke to our director, and he called a meeting with the ‘jokester’ for this morning. In the meantime, other women, who have more subordinate roles in our organization and much more to lose by speaking out, did not make their opinions known about ‘the joke’ and the situation. Even the victim didn’t want to stir the pot, or confront the jokester. There is still an atmosphere in most offices that speaking out is dangerous to one's career.

I’m devastated that women feel like they have to accept this behavior, make excuses for it and not raise flags. I’m worried that if they don’t speak up, life will move back to the 50’s. If someone is not involved in the fight for rights, do they then take those rights for granted? Somewhere along the way, we've stopped educating out daughters about civil rights; we've begun to assume they just have them.

And the jokester, a slap on the hand. He had to call the victim and apologize but his comment afterwards was that "she really wasn't bothered by it. I call bullshit.

Words That End in -UCK

I have a few....

For the teachers....

Puck

Chuck

Luck

Muck

Tuck

Suck

Yuck

....And one very special one.

FFFFFFFFF

We are a month into 2nd grade with the Twinadoes. And I'm in tears almost every evening.

Spelling. We have spelling.

(Ordinarily, I LOOOOOOVE me some spelling. I can spell. I am noted for my spelling. I'm a walking dictionary. I know all the rules and I apply them. AND, I know the exceptions).

But 2nd grade spelling? Weeping.

I could handle the first week: side, slide, pride, inside.

Last week was more challenging: painted, mailed, opened.

This week: OMFG. ?Studied? ?Replied? Hurried?

In Kindergarten and First Grade the goal was to get the children to write unabashedly and to not correct themselves. The goal was expression. No spelling rules were taught, no drills were hammered into their brains.

Suddenly, in 2nd Grade, we're not teaching them 'study' 'reply' 'hurry' and teaching them to make the 'y' an 'i' and add -ed. We're not teaching rules, we're just teaching memorization.

Now, each night, I'm hauling out the 'whiteboard' and teaching school....rules, drills, and memorization. The Twinadoes are getting it; we're building skills and I'm learning patience.

But I think about all the kids in the school district that don't have me for a mother....that have single parents, or parents with undue stress from unemployment, or parents that have many more little kids, or chronic illness...or maybe don't even have a high school diploma. How do children in these family situations excel? Or even just make the grade?

How do we fix this gap in school curricula? Do we inspire young teachers to think differently? Do we work through our school boards to change curricula? Do we need to attack things at a state level?

.......confused.....

Time Passages

What a difference a year makes in the lives of your children and your relationship with them. A new college year has begun for my older children and, instead of needing me less, they seem to need me more.

Case in point: When G. entered her freshman year at her college, which is just 45 minutes from my home, she gave me strict instructions:

Don’t expect to see me until Thanksgiving.
Don’t ever drop in unannounced.
Don’t comment on my Facebook page.
Don’t expect to visit every week.

As an intuitive mother I realized that these were necessary steps in breaking away and learning how to fly. I wasn’t upset; I didn’t feel diminished or dissed. It was what it was.

G and her roommate with just a small portion of her stuff.

Fast forward a year. I took her and her Van. Full. Of. Stuff. to college at the end of August, on a Thursday, I think. She called on Saturday, texted me on Sunday and asked me to come take her out to lunch on Tuesday. On the following Sunday, we entertained G. and her roommates on the boat and a week later took them all out for G.’s birthday dinner.

Suddenly, I’m needed and wanted and it fills my heart. She is growing, blossoming and making life decisions. And she is including me in those decisions—I don’t make them for her, but I give her counsel. I hope it’s good counsel. I never had that with my mother. No sharing of feelings or chinks in the façade. I don’t doubt that my mother loves me and I, her but there is little honesty. I know my mother but I really don’t KNOW her. Who she is on the inside, who she was before being a mother, what she has achieved, what she has lost.

I want my children to have a complete picture of me---all my flaws and fabulosity. That is a good gift.

What a Long, Strange Trip Summer It's Been.

Please pardon my absence, it's been a long summer that suddenly has been chopped off at the knees. My sentinel trees on my drive home from work are rapidly changing from greens to reds. I'm caught off guard. I have a son that is a junior in college, a daughter that is a sophomore and the twins are second graders. Michael Jackson is finally buried; Ted Kennedy died and some parents are keeping their kids home from school tomorrow for fear of their children hearing the President's address. WTF. I told you it's been strange.

I'll be happy to regale you all with stories of the summer's antics but rather than start that odyssey now, I thought I'd share with one of the most poignant moments of the past month. In my youth, I was not a tremendously huge fan of Ted Kennedy--I remember Chappaquidick and even as a ten year old, I was suspicious. Then he faded from my radar for a few years, only to rise as the Lion of the Senate in the past few years. Slowly, I developed an appreciation for the man; I was sad when he passed. Maybe because it was an end of the era--the Kennedy's are history, no longer the present. I watched bits and pieces of the funeral but luckily was there to see all of the prayers of intercession. Teddy got the final word in; you KNOW he spent months crafting these. He rocked us all from the grave. God bless him.

Our prayers for our country, and our world:

For my grandfather's commitment and persistence, not to out worn values but to old values that will never wear out. That the poor may be out of political fashion, but they are never without human needs, that circumstances may change but the work of compassion must continue. We pray to the lord.

For my grandpa that we will not in our nation measure human beings by what they cannot do but instead value them for what they can do. We pray to the lord.

For what my grandpa calls the cause of his life, as he said so often, in every part of this land, that every American will have decent quality health care, as a fundamental right, and not a privilege. We pray to the lord.

For a new season of hope that my uncle Teddy envisioned, where we rise to our best ideals, close the book on the old politics of race and gender, group against group and straight against gay. We pray to the lord.

For my uncle Teddy's call to keep the promise that all men and women who live here, even strangers and newcomers can rise no matter what their color, no matter what their place of birth, for workers out of work, students without tuition for college and families without the chance to own a home. For all Americans seeking a better life and a better land, for all of those left out or left behind, we pray to the lord.

For my uncle's stand against violence, hate and war, and his belief that peace can be kept through the triumph of justice and the truth justice can come only to the works of peace, we pray to the lord.

As my uncle Teddy once told thousands and millions, may be said of us in dark passages and bright day, and the words of Tennyson, that my brothers quoted in love that have a special meaning for us now. I am part of all that I have met though much is taken, much abides. That which we are, we are. One equal temper of heroic hearts, strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield, we pray to the lord.

For the joy of my uncle Teddy's laugher, the light of his presence, his rare and noble contributions to the human spirit, for his face that in heaven, his father, and mother, his brothers and sisters and all who went before him will welcome him home. And for all the times to come when the rest of us will think of him, cuddling affectionately on the boat, surrounded by family as we sailed in the Nantucket Sound. We pray to the lord.

For my grandfather's brave promise last summer that the work begins anew, the hope rises again, and the dream lives on, we pray to the lord.

Lord, hear THESE prayers.

Impatient patient



[this entry has been written under the influence of vicodin, I'm sorry]

My right knee and I have had a love-hate relationship ever since I had some arthroscopic surgery 13 years ago to remove the remnants of my ACL and some fragments of meniscii. We survived nicely with the use of an external support for skiing until I fell down stairs at my parents' in February. Ultimately, I decided it was time to do something before I actually needed a full knee replacement. The picture above details how I spent my last week. Good times.

I can report now that I am up and walking without crutches, but will be in a brace (crotch to ankle) for another 5 weeks (more good times). I'm also coming out of the vicodin stupor...what a nasty drug. I don't understand how anyone could abuse it. Who thinks a high is worth constipation and nausea (TMI, i'm sorry).

I've watched every movie on Showtime, HBO and TBS; caught every update about MJ, Farrah, Billy Mays and Sanford as soon as they broke and followed everyone else's lives on Twitter and Facebook. Thanks for keeping me entertained, guys! (And for the record, Harold and Kumar is REALLY funny when you are jacked up on hydrocodone).

And, I've also thought about the healthcare system in this country (or rather the lack of it), especially after watching 'SICKO'. I'm lucky. I have two health insurance plans (only because either one alone doesn't cover our needs) and I'm fairly savvy about paperwork and medical issues. That said, I'm already overwhelmed with insurance issues...When do you need to call to get pre-authorization? Why is one office visit covered in full; but the next one isn't? How many recorded options does one have to sit through to finally get to speak to a real person? (these insurance companies are getting smart--pressing '0', even if they didn't instruct you to, no longer takes you to a human being).

r>

I can't imagine the trauma of seeking care if I were poor, non-English speaking, or naive. I can't believe that I get one standard of care while another gets a lesser. (Case in point: I have unlimited physical therapy torture visits. My son (who had ACL surgery last December under his father's insurance) was only allowed four visits). Life was much better before we lived in a world run by HMOs.

We need single payer....anything else will just complicate this mess even more. I would be much happier if some of my premiums went to provide health care for another American, rather than to support some wonk at an HMO that can hold other people's lives in his hands.