Feeling YaYa

Dancing with the Stars: A Great Opportunity to Talk to Your Kids

September 4, 2011 by Queen of Spain 23 Comments

I didn’t exactly plan on discussing ‘transgender’ with my children this morning. But it seems a movement of Christian mothers has forced my hand.

A group called the One Million Moms is apparently confused as how they will ever explain Chaz Bono to their children. Now, I’m not sure if their speaking skills are poor, or if their children are bad listeners, but whatever the problem these mothers can’t seem to grasp how to discuss transgendered with their wee ones. Why? ABC has cast Bono on this season of Dancing with the Stars.

Apparently this means some God-fearing women need to sound the alarm that Satan has entered their tv and for the sake of the children, this abomination must be protested. Or something.

On a recent news appearance these up in arms Moms spent the entire segment exasperatedly saying ‘But WHAT will I TELL my CHILDREN???!!!’

Might I suggest they start with the truth? And a simple definition? This really is NOT that hard.

I decided to have the discussion with my eight-year old son first, because I really didn’t want him hearing about any of this anywhere else. It seems if I left it up to groups like the One Million Moms or Fox News, he would come out of it thinking there is something wrong with being transgendered or gay or lesbian or bi. He might even do what kids do, and go along with what ‘everyone else’ was saying, so as not to seem like an outcast.

Being a responsible mother, I see it as my job to educate my kids on everything. The good. The bad. The ugly, and the very ugly- like hate groups parading as Moms concerned about the welfare of my kids.

But as always, my kids are smarter and more kind than most of the population.

So they don’t want him to be on a dancing show? Because he’s being himself?

Well, it’s not that simple. They think he is defying their God. And that you seeing him will somehow screw you up.

Me? Why me? That’s stupid.

But I know how I feel inside. And he knows how he feels. Mom, these people are really dumb.

Yes, I know. But they really think it’s bad.

If I saw one of them I would kick them.

Then we had to have a discussion about why kicking and hurting someone is just as bad. That’s not to say I don’t sympathize with my son. He was frustrated just trying to understand why anyone would have a problem with Chaz Bono. In his eight-year old mind, kicking seemed reasonable for these people intent on hurting someone else.

The conversation with his six-year old sister didn’t fare much better.

It seems these days any talks about love or marriage or boyfriends or girlfriends elicit nothing but giggles from her. So much so that as her father descended the stairs this morning as we talked it over she giggled and hid her face and demanded we continue our discussion later.

I obliged, and then picked up the discussion again with a different tack…

…and we would never make fun of or laugh at anyone different from us.

Of course not Mom. And if I hear someone else doing it, I stand up to them and make a new friend.

Yes. Very good. So what do you think of transgendered people or the people who are upset over this man on this show?

Mom…this is so stupid. I don’t know why we even have to talk about it, except that it’s because they are stupid. Everyone knows that everyone is different. I’m different. This guy is different. Dad is different. Nicky is different. Everybody is different.

For the record, Nicky is our dog. But her words remain true. And to my children, making a big deal about our differences, enough so to bar your children from seeing or experiencing these differences, is so alien to them that I got a lot of eyerolls and ‘why are we even talking about this?’ looks.

So thank you One Million Moms and Fox News for making a big deal out of all of this. It gave me the opportunity to discuss the transgendered community with my children. It gave me the opportunity to remind them that everyone is different. It gave me the opportunity to discuss bigots, hate, and evil. And it gave me the opportunity to show the world that some of us mothers are not afraid to talk to our kids and we know exactly what to tell them: the truth.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa, Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies

11-years Later

August 19, 2011 by Queen of Spain 17 Comments

On the day of our wedding my Aunt offered me my choice of two handkerchiefs as my something old, something new, and my something blue. She had a blue bow and she was going to pin it to whichever of the folded, white pieces of fabric I chose. One was a new and delicate lace. Stunning for a tiny piece of cloth. She had picked it up at a store for the occasion thinking I would want something more striking than the other she offered. This one was a bit less sophisticated. An inexpensive fabric with large lace as a border. She explained to me that it was her mother’s. And it clearly was special to her.

She assumed I wouldn’t pick the worn handkerchief, opting for the more presentable, new one. But seeing the look in her eyes I knew she was secretly hoping I would choose her mother’s. A woman I barely remember but had very fond memories of. For a split second I considered the new handkerchief. It was sleek and perfect. But I instead chose the handkerchief you see above, the one already filled with memories and love. The one my Aunt didn’t want to assume I would want, but hoped I would carry down the aisle.

Wearing a beautiful diamond necklace given to me by Aaron as my something new, my Aunt pinned the blue ribbon to the handkerchief and then left another Aunt to present me with something borrowed. I proudly wore my Grandmother’s watch, loaned by my Aunt, on my wedding day. Another family heirloom filled with love and years upon years of ‘in good times and in bad’ between my Grandmother and Grandfather.

I couldn’t have asked for a better way to start my marriage to Aaron. Surrounded by family, friends, and the memories of the marriages and love that made up my heritage. My something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue represented so much. The relationships I watched as a child filled with hardship as well as celebration, and never, ever, lacking in love. The thoughtfulness of my Aunts, the promise of an amazing future from my husband-to-be.

11-years later and I have a better idea of what those small trinkets meant and why they were an important part of our start as man and wife.

It’s no secret we’ve had a tough time lately. ‘In sickness and in health’ isn’t just a saying in our home, and my husband has taken that vow to heart. Not only has he been my support and my strength, but he has embodied everything I hoped walking down that aisle, trinkets in hand, 11-years ago.

I’m not sure everyone can say that about their spouse. Recently we’ve watched as friends divorce and it’s been difficult to see the pain and fear in ending what was supposed to be forever. It’s made me grasp onto Aaron and bury my face in his chest, thankful for our friendship above all. Knowing it’s what sustains us over time and when things get hard. Of course friendship only goes so far as well…and that’s where the love comes in. It’s a balance of the two and how they intertwine that helps over the years, because we can always fall back on being the best of friends.

A love has evolved over the years. And grew stronger as I grew weaker, and as I relied more and more on my partner.

Which is why when I think back to those tokens given to me for our wedding day, I think about how perfect they were. And how thoughtful. It was like receiving the strength and wisdom of my grandmother and my great-aunt, along with the promise and hope and love of my husband. And even now, 11-years later, I hear their voices when things get tough, and all I want is to comfort Aaron or our children.

Not a day goes by that I don’t remind myself just how lucky I am to have found my perfect partner in life. A man who has carried me though the good times and bad on his strength alone, for which I am forever grateful. And I hope I show my love and appreciation enough.

11-years later and we still laugh before bed. The giggles always vibrate the entire mattress and shake my whole body, making me laugh even harder.

11-years later and we still dance in the kitchen, either while cooking or simply cleaning up. Always instigated by my smooth yet white husband who grabs me and holds me close while we sway.

11-years later and he is STILL the one I most want to tell everything, or the FIRST one I want to tell any news.

11-years later and I love him more each day, and hope to see a million more days with him by my side.

11-years later and I still feel surrounded by those memories and those lessons of love that enveloped me while walking down the aisle, and embraced us both as we walked up the aisle as man and wife.

Happy Anniversary

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa, Kaiser, Stepford Crazies

The Bad Parent

July 10, 2011 by Queen of Spain 14 Comments

I’m the Mom, that upon noticing her son has left his laptop in the minivan, will turn around and drive all the way back to school to deliver it to him.

I’m not into teaching ‘lessons’ by letting him struggle during his story writing time by forcing him to put pencil to paper instead of typing, and I’m not into that whole ‘well he forget his lunch so he should just starve, that’ll teach him!’ school of parenting.

By some, this makes me a bad parent.

I also happily let my kids into our bed for almost any reason. We were, after all, co-sleepers for most of their lives and this is where they find comfort and peace. Nightmare? Come on in. Noises? Crawl on next to me. Bad day? A snuggle is just what the doctor ordered.

By some, this makes me a bad parent.

I want to be a safe harbor for my children, not someone they fear. I want them to know they can COUNT on me and their father, that we will always be there when they need us.

I triple check my son’s head after he scrapes it in the pool. Demand ice just in case.

I don’t take my eyes off my daughter when she’s in the middle of a riding lesson, reminding her to keep her heels down. Giving her other instructions when I see her slacking a bit, fearing her lack of concentration will lead to a fall.

The idea that they will learn not to do something…be it by hitting their head in the pool or falling off a horse…is absurd to me. Who wouldn’t learn that way? But more importantly how many other ways can we teach our children the ‘right’ way without allowing them to feel pain or get injured.

Again, by some, this makes me a bad parent. I’m not allowing them to experience certain things on their own, so they can discover on their own what not to do.

I call bullshit.

Why let them discover something I can easily teach them? Why allow them to have so much as a scrape when I can stop it from happening? I’ve heard things like ‘It’s good for them! Makes them tough! And independent! Builds character!’

Trust me. My daughter is plenty independent and she didn’t need to reach up to a burning stove to feel heat to know it. My son has plenty of character and knows exactly who he is and what he wants to be without having learned ‘the hard way’ what happens when he forgets something- absent-minded like his Dad, always so smart and focused to the point of missing some minor details around them.

No, I’m just not that kind of parent. It’s not how I operate and it’s not what I find acceptable when it comes to rearing trusting, sweet, and smart little ones.

For one, they deserve my best…and for another, they are intelligent people who deserve my respect. I’m here to teach them and protect them, not to rule over them so they cower when I enter a room.

So I guess that means they won’t go without lunch and they won’t be afraid to crawl into our bed when the thunder booms…and if that makes me a bad parent, then I’m happy to be the worst the world has ever seen.

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa, Stepford Crazies

White House Twitter Town Hall

July 7, 2011 by Queen of Spain 3 Comments

A few thoughts on the Twitter Town hall as my body recovers and I fly across the country to hug my kids and kiss my husband:

It was weird to have a tech event in a room that looks like it should be hosting some ornate ceremony in which people used the words ‘thou’ and ‘four score’ instead of ‘tweet’ and ‘hashtag.’

The President made it very, very hard to tweet his responses in 140 characters. My fingers still hurt.

I got to do this:

And any day I get to talk about social media, Detroit, Lupus, and health care to White House staff…I’m a happy camper.

You can watch the Twitter Townhall in its entirety at WhiteHouse.gov.

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa

Camp WhoseACrazyMamma

June 22, 2011 by Queen of Spain 13 Comments

I felt sick sending my kids to camp today. That pit of the stomach sick, gnawing and ripping at my heart as I wondered if this was the right time to give my children new challenges.

My children are used to a certain level of sheltering. A protection that can’t last forever, nor will it hold at all times for all things. With my sensitive son and his Tourette’s and OCD, and my daughter’s strength and wit and silliness, enrolling them in a non-traditional school was a no-brainer. My quirky family fits in well and our little oddities are welcomed with open arms.

Toss in my illness, and never-ending doctor’s visits, hospital stays, and treatments which cause stress on them both, and their social interaction ends up more limited than I would like. But it’s hard to host playdates when I’m hooked to an iv and I hate relying too much on the kindness of other parents as they offer to shuttle my kids back and forth from their homes and nearby parks.

All of this adds to the social awkwardness that gives our family an extra dose of that quirk we’ve carved into our community where we have no need to acknowledge or hide.

And then came summer camp. A wonderful opportunity presented to us with swimming and archery and drama and crafts and everything you’d expect, except it is outside of our hometown and very traditional. Things I never really gave a thought to when excitedly signing them up, until my son came home after his first day relaying a story to me about how he was called names and made fun of.

My heart sank, my gut hurt, and I realized I had not prepared them for ‘traditional’ camps or schools. For what passes these days as ‘normal’ out there in the world. We had so carefully carved out a community that fits us, fits them, that I feel I have failed in showing them the ‘other’ side of things and trotted them off to camp where we’re the only minivan in the valet line and very probably one of the only families attending a casual, progressive, and accommodating non-traditional school.

I felt like I threw them to the wolves.

Of course my son was steadfast and strong and brave. He had stood up for himself to the boys, and he had told his counselor. He even made other friends within his group so as to avoid the kids who immediately labeled him as different. But he was also hesitant to return. After talking to me he felt better about giving it another try, and left this morning happy and somewhat excited to attend.

My husband had a talk with his counselor, and we have no doubt the camp will keep an eye out, but the bigger issue was my failure as a parent to see this coming. I should have known better. I should have realized I couldn’t just plunk my kids into that atmosphere and expect them to conform and blend.

I’m proud that my kids are unique. That they are quirky and odd and brilliant and creative with hearts of gold. And I know I can’t shelter them forever from cruel comments and bullies and jerks and all the things that go bump in the night.

There was a large part of me that wanted to immediately yank my kids from camp and keep them with me all summer, and a small part that knew sending them back this morning was the right thing. Letting them learn, supervised, that sometimes people are assholes but those assholes shouldn’t ruin your good time. I would never let it get to the point where my child was sick over attending or anything more than typical kids being kids…but that didn’t make hearing what went on any easier. And this was just very tame kid social circle stuff.

I am, however, thankful my son knew enough to handle his own issues at camp and then talk with me about it all. He wasn’t afraid to confide in me, talk to his counselor, or go back and have fun. Clearly he’s taking it all much better than his mother.

And of course it didn’t stop me from telling him I would stand at the ready to string-up anyone who dared mess with my kids. My plan is to let meanies dangle from the camp flagpole by their underwear, which elicited many giggles and astonished looks from my children, shocked Mom would say (or do) such a thing.

But then we talked about how that would make ME the bully, and tactics they can use to fend off any kids at camp who seem to want to cause trouble.

There are so many things we want for our children. We all want them to get a good education, learn right from wrong, become good people, etc. etc. etc. But there is so much more we don’t want for them. I don’t want them to feel heart-break, or to be picked on. I don’t want them to dread school or a certain clique of classmates, or even new experiences like summer camp in another town. But all of those things means never falling in love, never finding new friends, and never venturing outside our comfort zones.

Which is why I dutifully packed up lunches and swimsuits and towels and sunscreen this morning and sent the kids off to camp. Everything in me wanted to just forget it, and keep them home. Because it was safer. Because it was easier. Because we have all just had enough lately. But I sucked it up, hid my tears, and watched them go.

They deserve to have fun, they deserve to find new friends, and they deserve a normal childhood with all its trappings and rewards.

And I can only hope I won’t fail them again.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa, Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies, tic-toc

36lbs of Might

April 11, 2011 by Queen of Spain 5 Comments

I gave Red Feather a nuzzle on Sunday, again thanking him for keeping my baby safe during her second horseback riding lesson.

It seems my just-turned six-year old has found her calling.

I know every little girl loves horses. I did at her age. I still do. I’m not sure what it is…for me it was that whole fuzzy, furry, lovable ‘pet’ thing…but also the power associated with a horse. I felt much more than my age when atop a horse. And my tiny peanut of a daughter…all 36lbs of her…must feel strong and sure as she grabs the reigns and clicks her heels.

36lbs and she’s telling this majestic creature where to go and what to do…and she does it without hesitation and without fear. Her tiny voice yelling “JUMP!” or “Woah!” is really enough to make you laugh a bit, thinking this powerful animal will obey…but Red Feather dutifully does as she commands, thus giving her confidence and even more spunk as she attempts to post at a faster trot.

And a cowgirl emerged.

Maybe my little girl’s love of riding won’t last long. Maybe this is another phase. But I doubt it. This is the two-year old who wanted nothing more than to ride a horse. This is the three-year old that wanted nothing more than to ride a horse. This is the four-year old that wanted nothing more than to ride a horse. This is the five-year old that insisted for her sixth birthday she was getting on a horse.

…and now she may never get off.

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa, Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies

Candles and Pink Coats

April 7, 2011 by Queen of Spain 16 Comments

Someone is going to have to rent a storage unit when I die and move all my shit into it’s sorry, cement walls because my husband does not know which candle in our house was used during our wedding.

Ok let me back up.

Everyone needs to stop, find those they love, and explain to them what they want when they die. This might be as simple as what to do with your jewelry, to what you would prefer happen to your children after you are gone.

Morbid, I know…but necessary, even if you are not facing a life threatening disease.

Which leads me to what I want, and how you all will need to force my husband to keep everything I own until it can be properly sorted, because he’s going to throw away our wedding candle.

You see we have been having these important conversations and the other night I expressed to him that I didn’t want him to throw anything of mine away. I mean, I don’t want him to go all Hoarders on everyone, but that he needed to hold on to nearly everything so that when the kids are older and wiser they can sort through it all and decide what they would like.

This lead him to looking at me with that look he always gives me, the one that is half ‘you are insane, woman’ and half ‘go on.. go on…because I’m going to totally make fun of you once you finish explaining.’ THEN he proceeded to say something like ‘that’s crazy… I mean, like that candle over there, I’m totally throwing that out’ … which lead me to screech something like ‘YOU MEAN OUR WEDDING CANDLE??!!!!’ which made his face drop slightly, realizing he had no clue that was our wedding candle and he was busted, before blubbering some nonsense about me having too many candles around the house and how the hell was he supposed to know…blah blah blah. Thus totally confirming my suspicions that I need a storage facility for all my things to be kept in after I die.

Is this all making sense yet?

Let me take another deep breath and try again.

See that pink coat I am wearing in the photo above? I had been teasing my friend Gregg that I was going to will him that coat upon my death, because he got such a kick out of my purchase and subsequent flaunting of said coat. It amused him greatly that not only would I just up and buy an obnoxious, vintage, hot pink house coat with a faux fur collar and broach…but then wear it out to an event where he could snap photos of me in the monstrosity. It made him laugh. And it made him laugh even more that he could take that picture you see up there, complete with me drinking a dirty martini.

This morning I woke up to find out Gregg lost his battle with cancer.

Gregg who was supposed to be the one to take the obnoxious pink coat off my hands when it was my turn to leave this world.

My wedding candle sits on my dresser. The pink coat remains in my closet. And everyone needs to have these conversations, because sometimes you wake up and the whole world has changed.

Now I’m off to rent that storage facility…unless one of you promises to do it for me.

Gregg, I will miss the hell out of you my friend.

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa, Holding Court, Men and their duckcamps, Stepford Crazies

Zig, Zag, Zap

April 3, 2011 by Queen of Spain 13 Comments

A lot goes on in an eight-year-old brain.

Imagination runs wild, darting through blasts of genius and chaos and inventions and chores, my son only seems to calm down when in my arms at bedtime. I’m not sure what finally shuts off in his head, but the switch is flipped and he can nestle next to me and serenely tell me about his day, about his worries, about his ideas without the swirling and swirling that usually takes over his brain.

This is the boy that, like his father, doesn’t stop moving. This is my son that does ‘laps’ in my house from wall to wall, sprinting between Lego constructions. But this is also the boy that tonight, curled next to me and snuggling said, ‘Mom, why don’t you blog about how I like to lay with you at bedtime.’

And lately he never wants me to blog about him. Or take his photo. These are all requests I respect as he gets older and can not only read what I am writing, but also can and should have some control over what it is put out there about him on this world wide web.

So tonight, as he’s next to me watching as I type, I want him to know that I can feel how calm he is. I want him to know that if I could, I would take that peace and bottle it, and send it with him as he goes off into the world every day. That safety, that quiet.

But I also want him to know I wouldn’t trade it for the brilliance that is inside his sometimes chaotic but beautiful mind. While it may be hard for him to make sense of all the ideas firing left and right and up and down and back and forth- they are his ideas. His amazing thoughts and dreams. And one day he will harness them. He will learn to control them. And he will not need that bedtime zen he gets from hearing his mother’s breath and heartbeat.

He tells me as I write this that snuggles at bedtime are the best because he gets to be with me, yet I am here all day. I say it’s not just that he’s with me, it’s that he’s calm. He’s tired, he feels safe, as though he can turn off some of the zips and zigs and zags and zaps that never seem to end in his fast-paced body.

Yeah Mom, that too…but I have you here and I wish you could just be with me all the time, then I could feel like this forever.

Me too baby. Me too.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa