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Glimpses

August 18, 2013 by 2 Comments

I caught a glimpse tonight, watching a children’s movie of all things.

I just glanced over at my daughter, who was casually sprawled on the top part of the couch drinking out of a cup.

I could see her. She was a teen. A full-fledged, young woman. Her features were so pronounced. High cheek bones, long dark hair. Those big, dark eyes.

She was sitting on the couch chatting with her with her friend who is here for a sleep over, only I was looking at grown women for that fleeting moment. I was in awe and terrified at the same time.

She was stunning and witty and she still did that thing with her hair that she does now at 8 years old  where she pulls a strand over, pulls it against her cheek leaving a line, and then releases it over and over.

She’s becoming a woman before my eyes and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it.

There are so many things I want her to know. So many things I’m trying to teach her as she grows older.

She still gives me that look of shock when I tell her women are not treated the same as men. Not paid as much. Not listened to in a board room, not given the raises, promotions, or even the venture capital to become successful entrepreneurs. It’s as if I’m telling her fairy tales and she’s awaiting the heroine to swoop in and whisk away all the bad guys and insert a world where all women code, are encouraged to do math,  and are treated equally. She truly doesn’t believe me. Or doesn’t want to believe me.

It’s as if she was blocking it out. She didn’t want to know just yet. She wanted to stay innocent just a little while longer.

#allhailhala

But something tells me that glimpse of a woman I saw on the couch knew. And with any luck, was working with the rest of us to help change the ratio.

Who am I kidding, Hala already has.

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa, Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies

A Little Rebellion is a Good Thing

August 9, 2013 by 5 Comments

Sometimes I totally forget we’re a bit different around here.

Honestly.

And it doesn’t even occur to me until we’re in a situation where we’re surrounded by those who aren’t like us. (i.e. recent trip to North Carolina)

Let me give you a few examples so as to better paint a picture:

I currently have pink hair.

Mama's hair

My husband just spent his Sunday getting two tattoos.

Inked!!!!

I have eight tattoos (only one is visible to the public).

My husband does not wear a suit and tie to work, or carry a briefcase. He doesn’t even wear a button down shirt. We’re talking jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops or Chucks.

We are atheists and/or agnostic (at least I am) at very best.

We discuss the human body, sexuality, private parts,  politics, current events, issues that require deep thought and even global crisis in age-appropriate ways with the children.

We have no trouble pointing out the evils of the world and the injustice and encourage our children to stand up for what they believe in LOUDLY and with real action behind their words. (Our kids have raised substantial amounts of money for causes they believe in- like $1500 for Sea Turtle Relief during the gulf oil spill)

So as my son and I lounged around on a hot summer’s day, he asked me why teenagers are always mean and weird on tv shows. He wanted to know why they fought with their parents or were always ‘grounded.’ I then launched into a rather bad explanation of rebellion. And how we all feel the need at some point in life to show our independence and rebel against our parents.

He cocked his head and looked at me really funny.

Well, how do you think you will rebel when you’re a teen?

What do you mean?

I mean, what do you think you will do to rebel against your Dad and I?

Why would I do that?

Well I’m not sure, let just pretend…

I don’t know…I don’t want to rebel.

Well you don’t HAVE to, I’m just wondering how you might…

This went on and on and on. Until we realized our children would have to be rather over the top to rebel against us. And it’s true. I mean, look at us. We’re 40 or pushing 40 and tattooed, weird haired freaks. Right? Or so some would say.

So I took the same question to my daughter.

How do you think you will rebel?

I just think I’ll be mad at you because I’ll want to go be with my friends and you’ll want me to go somewhere with you. 

But will you DO anything, like shave your head or dye your hair purple (her hair is currently purple and pink) or get at a tattoo because you are mad?

Definitely not. Why would I do that? I can do that NOW and just for fun.

…touche’ my dear.

Which leaves me taking a long hard look at myself and my body. My hair. My tattoos. And you know what? I love it. I love them. I love that my husband and I could care less what the world thinks and we show our children that daily. We are living life on our terms.

He has found an industry that pays him well and supports his family and allows him to stroll into work daily in a t-shirt and jeans. He didn’t have to conform to the suit and tie rat race to ‘make it’ in this world. THAT makes me happy as hell for HIM.

I’ve always marked important milestones in my life with body art (I got my first tattoo on my 18th birthday, right after I registered to vote). I’ve still managed to be a guest at the White House four times and interview everyone from celebrities to politicians, simply because I can easily change outfits and you’d never know what was underneath. I have made a career based on hard work and damn good work. When I was a professional journalist I investigated, I worked my sources, I climbed my way to the top. As a blogger and non-traditional journalist I’d like to think I became influential and did the same. Even disabled and sick I’ve managed to keep my influence and use my voice to work hard for the things I believe in.

I hope our children take away that they can be who they are and not compromise. They can follow their dreams and not worry about sacrificing their sense of self. They don’t have to fit in a box- anyone’s box- in order to be successful.

And if they really want to rebel, they can just give us heart attacks by voting Republican.

 

 

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

Detroit Guilt

August 4, 2013 by 6 Comments

When news broke that Detroit would be filing for bankruptcy I braced myself for the incoming artillery.

There would be the usual Detroit jokes. The usual bashing and photos of abandoned buildings. All of the things I have come to expect whenever Detroit or Michigan are in the news.

I have yet to unclench my teeth. You guys keep bashing and now Washington is in on the act.

This is what happens when Democrats run your town for decades! 

This is what happens when UNIONS are in charge! 

My jaw is now locked so hard it hurts.

I can’t do this anymore. This fight over the place I was born and raised is now on my weekend morning shows while I sit in Los Angeles, my adopted home. That’s right, I live in Los Angeles.

Yes, let me have it. I left.

I left Detroit.

I abandoned the city and state like so many others. I suppose it doesn’t matter the reason. My husband works in the entertainment industry. His job is LA-centric and that’s just how it goes.

The House I Grew Up In
The house I grew up in.

But what you may not understand is that if I could go back, I would. If I could find a way to be part of the solution, I would. In fact, I am and I have. But none of that matters when you have Detroit Guilt the size of the Detroit River because you live in Los Angeles and can not be a practical, present part of the solution.

We ex-Detroiters…we are a hearty bunch. We find each other in states from California to Florida and band together. My husband laughs. He calls us the ‘Michigan Mafia’ because no matter where we go, inevitably I find someone from Michigan and we bond over our home state.

Detroit Guilt.

We bond over whatever reason we left and we feel the need to defend and remember. Remember all the things we love and all the things we want to help fix. The people. The food. The culture.

We may be Democrats or Republicans but when we talk about the fall of the city we talk about corruption. Something neither party can escape. And something this lifelong Dem always assumed was rampant in big city politics – especially Detroit’s. I never associated my party with the city’s leaders because the city’s leaders were always in trouble. Corruption, unfortunately, has been a mainstay since my childhood in Detroit’s City Hall.

Luckily, good ideas and smart people have always been a mainstay too. Just enough to show me the potential and the glorious past. Just enough to always leave me with hope things will get better.

That hope has never left. Not then. Not now.

We can argue if you think it’s the union’s fault if you want. I find that pointless and an attack on workers. Hard workers. People who, like my grandfather, needed the unions to make sure he could provide for his children and collect a pension. Yes, that word – pension- that has all of DC in a tizzy. The pension that all workers bargained for and received and were promised. I don’t care if times are tough and hard decisions must be made. Promises were made many, many decades ago and I don’t see millions being taken from executive pay. This is just one more way to screw the worker. And now they are finding ways to do it DECADES later. From the very people who kept Detroit going. From the very people who stayed and worked and raised families and poured money into the local bakeries and boutiques and bars. From the very people who gave to your kids’ fundraisers even when times were tough and brought a six-pack when they wanted to bring an expensive bottle of wine. Because that is what Detroiters DO. What hard workers DO.

They also honor their word.

Maybe that’s what all of this comes down to…it’s the people of Michigan. The ones that haunt my dreams and call me back.

Detroit Guilt.

There are abandoned homes and cities and areas all over this country. There are bad parts of town in every major metropolitan area. We hear about them in passing on the news every single night from shootings, to stabbings, to press conferences about revitalization. What is it about my hometown that makes me feel responsible even after leaving so long ago? People move all the time. In this day and age, people move and move and move some more. How many of them still pine for their ‘home’ and still slip and call it ‘home’ when home is clearly 3,000 miles on another coast?

Detroit isn’t a punchline. It isn’t some Democrat or Republican legislative hole where bad ideas go to thrive and good ideas are abandoned. There is certainly plenty of blame to go around and there has been for many years. I know where I place much of the blame and it has nothing to do with political party and much more to do with fear of the ‘other.’

How many of you can tell me right now where the line is back ‘home?’ And you know exactly which line I’m talking about.

When I lived in Metro-Detroit it was right around Beaconsfield. Maybe a street or two over. One side of the street looked beautiful. The other in a constant state of disrepair. Just around the corner is where the liqueur stores and pawn shops and iron bars on the windows began. Just around the other corner you had to squint to find the start of a pothole…even in winter.

When white flight completely emptied the city of a race, it also took many of the jobs. Did you know Detroit’s suburbs are some of the richest in the US?

“Oakland County, for example, is the fourth wealthiest county in the United States, of counties with a million or more residents. Greater Detroit — which includes the suburbs — is among the nation’s top five financial centers, the top four centers of high-technology employment, and the second-biggest source of engineering and architectural talent.” -Robert B. Reich, Chancellor’s Professor of Public Policy at the University of California at Berkeley, Secretary of Labor in the Clinton administration.

Not hard to believe when everyone I know moved out of the city and into the suburbs, my father and mother’s families included, and my family keep moving further north. By the time I moved out of Michigan my parents were near Port Huron. They are now in Florida. The remainder of my family in Michigan are all in suburbs and have been for decades.

So who remains? That line tells the story. It always has. The line between black and white.

They want to say it comes down to pensions. Unions. Republican Governors. 8-years of a Republican President. Decades of Democrat Mayors. No. I say it comes down to what is always comes down to: that line.

Detroit Guilt.

I watched as a kid as our school just over that line got more money than the other. We heard on the news about textbook shortages. About preschool being non-existent for the poor kids because their parents had to work two jobs and still couldn’t afford the extra it would cost. I remember getting involved, by way of working on student newspapers, at places like Focus:HOPE. I remember having a very hard time understanding why the funding was always there for crisp, white, new football uniforms at some of these schools yet not a dime for much-needed classroom materials.

That line was a tricky one. It hurt to realize you grew up in one of the most segregated regions in the country.

It’s one of the rare things I despise about the city I love.

Detroit Guilt. 

There are some big messes that need cleaning in Motown. Really big. But nothing is going to get fixed if all the nation has are jokes and punch lines or the ludicrous idea that my grandfather, as he lays in his nursing home on the West Side (of Detroit) should suffer a deduction in his pension. And yes, I said ‘the nation.’ Because while I am happy to leave many things up to a state and it’s locals…Detroit is bigger than us all.

Even if I throw away the guilt of leaving, and add in helping, this Detroit mess will take innovation and tech and creativity and well.. you get the idea. So I don’t think limiting the pool of talent is wise or advisable if we are truly serious about getting the job done.

Not to mention, showing the city off as an example when different people can reach across the aisle.

And I think I realize why all this Detroit Guilt after all: it’s because Detroit really is about the people – making Detroit like family. Nothing making you more angry, or more proud than family. And nothing makes you feel more guilty.

Family also beckons you home. You may not be able to live with them any longer, but you certainly don’t leave them abandoned. You also may not visit as much as you’d like either, but you make sure you keep up with, at the very least, the latest news through relatives.

Detroit is family. And family is forever.

Filed Under: Feeling YaYa, Royal Kinfolk, Stepford Crazies

Trayvon’s Heart Missing for White, Mom Jury

July 16, 2013 by 8 Comments

I think we need to talk about the other elephant in the room regarding the Trayvon Martin case:

this jury of predominantly white “Moms”- or so I keep hearing.

As if, magically, this will take away any issues of race or privilege or any other issues…simply because all these jurors were mothers and female.

I’ll just go ahead and say it and take the heat: some of the biggest people with racial issues I know are white feminists. Mind you I did not say every, I did not say ALL, I said some. Simply…some.

I found out first hand when I was the first blogger to publicly ask former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton to step down from her run so then Senator Barack Obama could claim the nomination for President. 99% of my hate mail came from white feminists who were shocked and appalled I dared ask a woman to get out-of-the-way for a man. They accused me of being at traitor to my gender. They accused me of being a N-gger lover, out to “impress” the “other” minorities, while ignoring my own. They also told me women needed this more than people of color and I should know that because I AM a woman. How dare I fail to understand their struggle and how dare I put those of color’s struggle above women’s struggles?

So when I heard the jury was made up of a bevy of white females, I did not feel any better for the prosecution’s chances. Even if they were liberal, white, females. I knew all too well the history of racism some of these women carried in their hearts and I knew some believed their plight was far worse than any other minority’s plight. I also knew, deep down, some may be harboring some very racist views.

It was the age-old “but our struggle is harder than your struggle” fight that I’ve watched play out over blogs over the years. Even on my own.

But hey, maybe I was way off base. Maybe my gut feeling was totally wrong and these were enlightened, totally biased free women. Sure they might have the usual issues anyone would have with race and gender and class, but perhaps they were smart enough to put all that aside for the trial and move forward like rational humans.

And then came Anderson Cooper’s interview with one of the jurors. My stomach churned and sadly, I felt like my initial thoughts just might be true. I certainly didn’t feel any better about my theory as to the panel composed of George Zimmerman’s peers. Juror B37 said she had no doubt Zimmerman was “afraid” – my question…how afraid can you be if you take your gun and pursue the person you are allegedly afraid of? But what caught my attention most was juror B37’s comments on witness Rachael Jeantel. “A lot of the times she was using phrases I have never heard before and what they meant…that’s way they talk…” (emphasis mine)

Does she means the way teens talk? Doubtful. I think considering she was discussing her “communication skills” she was speaking directly to race. Directly. Go ahead and click on the link to her discussion of Jeantel. How she felt bad for her. How she felt she was uneducated. Really? She was speaking about her being a teen then? Juror B37 sure tried not to say it, but it was clear to me she was speaking about race.

And to Jeantel’s credit, she was respectful of the juror’s comments, even saying her parents helped her calm down and she was raised to not cuss and respect her elders.

Certainly doesn’t sound like someone who was ashamed of herself or her education to me there Juror B37. In fact, Ms. Jeantel out-classed you and showed her education far better than you did on national television.

So where does that leave us? With a generation gap or a racial gap? Or does that just leave us with those who are upset at the verdict and those who are not?

I’ve been told I’m race-baiting by even bringing up black witnesses and white jurors in this case. But an unarmed black teenager was killed, he was considered suspicious for walking through a neighborhood in the rain, carrying candy and tea. SO VERY SUSPICIOUS that George Zimmerman felt it necessary to follow Trayvon with a loaded gun.

I can’t think of any teen or man who wouldn’t confront Zimmerman if they were being followed. And there sits this jury of predominantly white women actually thinking it’s Zimmerman that was scared. The man with the gun. The man who did the following. SO SCARED HE FOLLOWED TRAYVON. If you are scared and afraid for your life, do you chase after the person who you are afraid of? I’m just asking here. And if you are a white woman sitting on that jury -are you the typical stepford-wife thinking Mr. Zimmerman was oh so brave for following that thug of a black boy daring to traipse through their neighborhood?

Nevermind it was Trayvon’s neighborhood too. Because I get the distinct feeling neither George Zimmerman nor the white, female jurors thought of that neighborhood as Trayvon’s either. Even though it was.

Tie in Juror B37’s comments on Ms. Jeantel and I see exactly how this went in their minds. Yes, I am a mind reader. (That’s sarcasm, people…I’m giving you my own theories here, not fact).

And to say race didn’t come into play is either total denial on the jury’s part or just another sad chapter in the long history of white, sometimes very feminist, women denying the plight of people of color in favor of their own struggles.

This isn’t a competition. We are not post-racial and we are not post-gender and we are not post-patriarchy.

Imagine what we could do together if we could only see the other’s fight and help. See the other’s pain and history and empathize instead of compare.

If we could only see the facts surrounding the death of a young man and not let things like our prejudice of a black woman’s “education” get in the way of her account of that fateful night.

And if only Juror B37 could have seen into Trayvon’s heart the way she claims she could see into Zimmerman’s. The man who pulled the trigger. Why is it she knew Zimmerman’s heartfelt intentions yet she couldn’t fathom Trayvon’s intentions and heart? Even after the witnesses and those who told of his unarmed walk home. His entirely legal, unarmed, entirely NON-suspicious walk home. But B37 couldn’t find any heart there…

and I can only come up with one reason why…

Meanwhile THIS white, feminist Mom has nothing but a broken heart for Trayvon and his parents. I can’t imagine their pain. I can’t imagine how they must feel after a jury of women couldn’t find reason under the law to put the killer of their son behind bars. I can not speak to the racism they may feel due to this case or the fallout regarding race sweeping through the nation. I can only speak to what I know. and I know white women. I am a white woman.

Sadly I had hoped they would see into the heart of a young boy before they saw into the heart of a shooter.

Filed Under: #suckit, Feeling YaYa, Holding Court

We Blend, Trayvon Did Not

July 14, 2013 by 8 Comments

My Dad walked into the living room and said “Not guilty.”

I inhaled.

He didn’t have to say anymore. I knew what he was talking about, I knew what he meant. My head swirled.

My 10-year old instinctively clung to my left arm. Began petting me. He didn’t understand. He asked question after question.

But how could he just shoot him and not go to jail? How is that ok? Why would he be not guilty? He shot him. You can’t shoot people, right? 

#relayforlife

I had shielded as much of the Trayvon Martin case as I could from the kids, but my son enjoys watching the news with me and truly enjoys discussing the news with me. So many mornings are spent with the two of us talking over current events. I keep things as age appropriate as possible. With Trayvon it was hard from day one. This was a teenager gunned down for doing nothing more than walking home, being stalked by the local neighborhood watch guy, and when Trayvon confronted George Zimmerman, a fight ensued and Zimmerman shot and killed the teen.

Now Zimmerman walks free and all over my twitter feed under certain hashtags like #tcot and others, people were celebrating. On my Facebook page there were exclamations of ‘What a great day for America!’ and so on.

While my son shook with anger and tears rolled down his face. While my daughter did her best to play her game and not pay attention, yet clearly was listening and upset. While I struggled to come up with the words to tell them justice would prevail…silence permeatited throughout our home.

Silence.

Because there were no words.

There was nothing I could say that would make sense or make this right.

The verdict went against everything we had taught them about our judicial system and it went against everything we taught them about how justice was supposed to be served in the end.

My husband talked about how sometimes, justice does not win. We all did our best to explain away the unexplainable.

But the kids clearly did not understand. Hell, the adults didn’t understand.

Later on in the evening my son asked me how we could make it better. My sweet, sweet baby boy wanted to know what he could do to change the verdict, racism, and the world- and he was very serious.

Again, I had no answer for him. My only answer was that he continue to be a great person. And that hopefully, it would be contagious.

This wasn’t good enough for him.

So I told him about a petition to get the Justice Department to open a civil rights case against George Zimmerman to try, once again, to put him behind bars.

He was unimpressed. And I have to say, while I think the petition and case could be worthwhile…Zimmerman walks free while Trayvon is dead. I see no justice there and I see no reason to get excited over the possibility of another trial.

Something my son said keeps repeating over and over in my mind as I think about the verdict:

Mom, what if I walked to go get Hala some candy and you always drink tea…what if I went to get you tea…and that happened to me? But it wouldn’t though, would it? They think I blend in here, don’t they? They don’t understand I’m not on their side…they don’t understand we’re on the kids like Trayvon’s side. That means I can sneak into their talks and find out what is going on and then I can tell everyone and everyone will be safe. They will never know because I blend in. They will think I am one of them, but really I am like a ninja and I will bring all the information back to everyone like Trayvon and US and everyone will be SAFE forever!

I love my son’s big heart more than I can say. In his 10-year old imagination that’s all it takes. Him acting like a superhero of sorts to come save the day for all. Or at the very least, him acting like a super, secret, spy-ninja who can get rid of racism and the bad guys all in one night.

How I wish this were one of those times his imagination’s amazing ideas worked. And it were all just that simple.

That a 10-year old boy’s dreams and ideas could come true and some of this pain and confusion could be erased with good and innocence.

If nothing else, may the world know if there must be sides to take, my son has signed us up to be on Trayvon’s and people ‘like’ Trayvon’s. That means those of color and those who do not ‘blend’ in ‘our’ neighborhood.

Jack has decided we don’t blend. And I’m glad. I don’t want to blend if it means we are anything like the Zimmermans of the world. We’ll happily be just like Trayvon in spirit.

Forever.

Filed Under: #suckit, Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa, Stepford Crazies

That Panicked Race to School that Every Parent Dreads

June 13, 2013 by 2 Comments

The text came from our school’s emergency system around noon. Parents needed to get the school ‘as soon as possible, but no need to panic’ as there was a wildfire burning nearby.

Of course every parent panicked and rushed to the school only to find the small fire was already 100-percent contained by the fire department and the children were never under threat of evacuation. The school was just being cautious.

I imagine that day over and over again only because it’s the call you never want to get…yet, as we know, too many parents have. I imagine what it must have been like to hear via a school emergency text or call, or the news, or a classroom parent that there was a shooting at your children’s school and YOU needed to get there as soon as humanly possible.

As I rushed to get to my kids while the wildfire burned I will admit my car drove itself and went as fast as traffic would allow. The entire time my mind racing with torturous scenarioes in which I found the unthinkable upon arrival.

Those Newtown parents raced to Sandy Hook Elementary and found the unthinkable upon arrival. The other end of their torturous car ride where their mind raced like mine culminated in one of those scenarios coming true. One of those awful thoughts that passed in their head as they didn’t know what to expect as they drove as fast as they could actually came true.

And it is possible it could have been prevented.

Maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part. But if only we had better mental health services in the United States. If only that military style weapon wasn’t available to the general public. If only…if only…if only…

What we do know what works and what doesn’t work. We know that states with loose gun laws have higher rates of gun violence. We know that background checks work.

And while we know there is nothing that will bring back the children of Sandy Hook, or the thousands of others killed in gun violence across the country…we can demand our elected officials do what we know WORKS and STOP those texts and calls and drives where a parent, heart beating out of their chest, jumps in a car and rushes to their child’s school hoping beyond hope to find nothing more than a false alarm.

But we, as Americans hell-bent on remaining gun enthusiasts, know better. We Americans know some of those parents will pull into that school and have to face the unthinkable.

Demand your Congressperson do something. Demand your Congressperson makes sure YOU never have to get that call and jump in your car and make that drive.

They need to know parents are through burying our children in the name of selling more guns. In the name of ‘tradition.’ Because right now the tradition of racing down a road to reach your children, not knowing if they are dead or alive, is an American past time I’m willing to give up.

crossposted at MomsRising

Filed Under: By Order of the Charter, Feeling YaYa, Stepford Crazies

Humiliation on Wheels

May 30, 2013 by 9 Comments

Swallowing my pride. That’s how I feel every single day I step out of the house.

Some days are better than others. I feel stronger, I feel thinner, I feel like I’m wearing armor.

Inevitably it all comes crashing down at some point. Because really I just pretend all day that everything is ok. Then the phone will ring, like it did today, and the company that provides my disability insurance wants to schedule a day long mental test. They want to find a way out of paying me and it looks like their next move is to show my brain is either sane or insane. Regardless, it is just one more test and one more trial and one more finger pointed directly at me saying “why aren’t you well yet?”

I’m not well yet because this is a chronic problem, assholes. And I am getting somewhat better but I’m still sitting with an IV in my arm getting infused with drugs constantly to keep me this way. Please explain to me how one is supposed to work while tethered to an IV three days a week for six hours a day? Grrrrrrrrrrr.

I long for the days when my inflammation marker tests would come back low and we’d all cheer. Now they bounce up and down and I don’t bother to even report the results to anyone. It’s all just so mundane and life, now. Boo. Yeah! Booo. Horray! Boooo. That’s pretty much how it goes.

Ordinarily having started horseback riding as part of my therapy would get me a pat on the back, but we just don’t talk about it. Getting excited means the possibility we will all be disappointed. I’ve also been doing more around the house (well, when I’m not feeling lazy…I’m a terrible housewife).

I’ve been trying to do more, while minding my limits. Going on field trips so I can be the Mom that can do things, not the one that stays home and does nothing. This past field trip was particularly hard for me.

If you’ve ever been to the LA Zoo you know it’s big, and has hills…lots of hills. And it’s usually packed with kids and sunny and hot. Disastrous combo for a Mom with Lupus and RA and Shogryn’s and Fibro and Raynaud’s and and and and and. So instead of packing a sack lunch and sending my 2nd grader on the bus with a gaggle of her friends, I had to do it the Erin way and rent a motorized wheelchair so I could attend.

I can’t just leave well enough alone.

This is my theory though: I can sit on the sidelines forever and keep pushing my limits every once in a awhile…or I can learn how to live with this illness and work around the hand I have been given. I will tell you right now, it would have been so much easier to stay home. It was the day AFTER treatment and I wanted nothing more than both kids off at school and me on the couch with my DVR’d Gilmore Girls and my feet up. I hate showing my moon face in public, I hate getting dressed to try to put a tent over this misshapen steroid body…staying home was the easy way out.

So naturally I couldn’t stay home.

I went to the damn zoo and rented the damn rascal scooter thingy and tried to laugh my way through it all. I did.

Because I humiliate myself for @aaronvest

But inside I was crying. Talk about pride swallowing.

I got the usual dirty looks I get whenever in a wheelchair, but almost more-so in the motorized version. It’s as if they think you just don’t want to walk the zoo.

Hey look at the fat girl in the rascal!

My daughter and I made a game of it- with her having fun keeping pace next to me if I slowed down or sped up. We both agreed we needed to try this next time at Disney, instead of having Daddy push my wheelchair. We giggled and had a fun day- with her learning about her chosen animal’s life-cycle and hanging out with her school friends. Just as it should be.

There is no way I would have lasted had I tried to walk. There is no way I had any business being there were it not for the motorized wheelchair. And even though part of me felt so very defeated to have to resort to such measures and to look like…well…to look the way I did…I’m glad I did it.

It was humiliating and freeing all at once.

I know that’s horrible of me to say. But there is a certain stigma that comes with being in a wheelchair and I was just getting used to that. A motorized wheelchair? Now come on…that’s a level that kicks it up another notch. And that will certainly take some more time to get used to. However it gave me the freedom to be present and in the moment with my daughter. It still wasn’t easy and I can’t imagine doing anything like that often…but for every once in a while, I can swallow my pride if it means giving back some “normal” to my family. Although I’m not sure how “normal” all of that is. A new normal maybe. One that allows me to do more, to be more.

Speaking of being more, I’m trying not to become just a lump of nothing while I wait for my body to right itself. I quietly enrolled at the local community college and took two online classes this past semester. I tried not to make too big a deal of it because frankly I wasn’t sure how it would go.

There is no way I can sit in a class yet. So online was my only choice. I didn’t have to be online at any certain time, which meant my endless treatment sessions and never ending string of doctor’s appointments were ok. It was what I could do, when I could do it. So I thought…what the hell? I can try, right?

No, I never finished my degree. I was working as a reporter and anchor while my class was graduating. At the time, it was a no-brainer. How could I turn down working in my field for classes in my field? By the time I was 23 I was anchoring the afternoon news and had bought my first home. However it still nags me that I never finished. Especially now when I talk to the kids about how important their education is and why they need to go to college, etc. So…back to school I go. Slowly. One class in the fall, online…maybe two depending on my health, treatment schedule, and how well I think I can handle it all.

At least this limit pushing experience didn’t require swallowing my pride as much. I’m actually very proud of myself. I’m doing my best to add things to my life that my body can handle and that give me some purpose. Not that getting up everyday and being a mother and wife doesn’t give me purpose, but I need to reclaim what Lupus has taken. I need to take back at least some of my life.

I had it all. Or at least, I felt like I did.

I want it all back. Yesterday. And it’s taking so long. And it’s so hard. And for every step forward there are two steps back and for every leap I cheer there are dangers I just ignore. Just when I think the testing is done and the blood work is over and the treatments can be spread a part a bit…I’m joking about setting up a cot at the doctor’s office because it’s all I do. It’s my life.

It’s not the life I want.

So that means some pride swallowing, some more white trash rascal scooter jokes, and maybe…just maybe…a diploma.

This battle is so much harder than I anticipated, in ways that I didn’t see coming. But I won’t let it take me, or the life I worked hard to build. I can’t. I’ve built a life that has everything I ever wanted, with an amazing husband, two awesome kids, a job I love. Before all the drugs I was at my ideal weight, I was active and happy. I will be active again. I will be happier. Lupus can not rob me of everything. There are ways around things. There always are. If that means I have to find the Erin way in other situations, I will. If that means swallowing my pride again, I will.

Yes. I’m getting my life back. New, improved, different.

Now to just convince everyone around me to join in on the fun.

Filed Under: #SUCKITLupus, Auto-Immune Menu, Feeling YaYa, Stepford Crazies

Look for the Helpers

May 29, 2013 by 1 Comment

I’m not sure about your school, but ours sends what amounts to robocalls whenever they need to reach parents and guardians quickly. Texts, emails, phone calls- they all go out in a blast in an attempt to make sure everyone knows exactly what is going on, be it a rainy day dismissal process or, like what happened recently, a possible evacuation due to a nearby brush fire.

It was the same week the nation watched in horror as a tornado tore through Moore, Oklahoma and our hearts ached an unbearable ache as we saw the destruction of the schools wrought by mother nature.

So when not 48 hours later your school gives you the option to evacuate your child, you hop in your car and drive like a bat out of hell to evacuate your child.

Water & Orange & bagel break #relayforlife

It’s about 7-9 miles from our door to school. I’m not sure how long it took me to get there but I can tell you I was glad to see the fire trucks and sheriff’s sirens flying past me on the freeway…all headed in the same direction. It meant they were there to help (look for the helpers says Mr. Roger’s Mom!) and it meant I could follow them just as fast as I wanted.

By the time my children were in my arms firefighters had already done an amazing job, containing the blaze with skill and asskicking. But needless to say, hours later sitting in the living room, the three of us sat closer, held on tighter, didn’t move from the other’s sight.

Imagine yesterday sitting in treatment with an IV in my arm when the phone rings again. I see the call is coming from a mother I know works at the school. There is another fire. This one further away and is not threatening the school in any way, but my 2nd grader saw the smoke on her way to lunch. Cue fear. Cue nerves. Cue wanting Mom.

With a gratefulness I can’t even begin to repay I got to talk to my daughter and reassure her that she was safe, that the fire was far away, and the smoke she could see was just smoke and wasn’t hurting anyone. The firefighters were doing their jobs, the parents didn’t need to come, school could go on as usual…but if she wanted, Dad or I would find a way to come get her.

With the love of our Mom friend and hearing my voice, she mustered the courage to stay calm and remained at school for the last three hours of the day. This meant Dad didn’t have to take time off work. This meant I didn’t have to miss a much-needed treatment that had to FINALLY be finished so I can begin my next round when school is OUT for the year.

Her brother, who is usually much more sensitive than she, didn’t even know there was a fire.

I talked about what happened with both kids when they got home. Reminded them just how hard everyone at school works to make sure they are always safe, and how Dad and I would never let them be anywhere near a fire if it wasn’t safe, and we’d be there as fast as we could if we needed to be.

I found myself answering simple questions like ‘you mean if there is another fire, or a tornado, or a shooter…’

And I had to agree even though I couldn’t believe the words were coming from me… ‘yes, we will be there, and they will keep you safe until we can get to you, no matter if there is a fire or a tornado or an earthquake or a shooter…’

…and my voice trailed off and I fought back tears because the last thing they needed to see was that I too, was scared.

Filed Under: By Order of the Charter, Feeling YaYa, Stepford Crazies
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