Won't you be my neighbor?

There is an abject evil in the world that has taken our breath away.

The people of Newtown, CT are on their knees, felled by the heinous, unmentionable act of a killer who walked into an elementary school and opened fire on its students and teachers.

The rest of us are on our knees, too: some in prayer, others in despair, and still others as a reactionary double-over from the kick in the gut elicited by an act of such unfathomable terror. It’s hard to speak of normal activities with the sickening, shameful, pornographic violence our world has seen.

Just when I think I’m about to resume the business of my life, new waves of grief well inside me and I think of Newtown where mothers are not Christmas shopping and teachers are not making gingerbread houses from milk cartons. Siblings are crushed, families ravaged—ruined—at a time when rejoicing and gladness should come easily.

In the aftermath of Newtown, one thing that comes back to me is the image of that young girl on the news footage whose sweet, little face was contorted in complete terror as she was lead from the scene with her class.

What kind of untold, collateral damage has been done to that little girl, her friends, her teachers, the parents who got to school and didn’t leave with a child? Above all else, it’s the image of that little girl’s face that haunts me; her confused expression saying what the entire nation feels inside.

Newtown could have been us. It could have been anyone.

Among the processing going on via social media, I love the quote from Mister Rogers:

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world."

Am I the only one wishing I lived in his neighborhood right now?

I have taken to repeating those words when talking to my children about Newtown. I keep telling them—thus, myself—to look for the helpers. Where you see the helpers, you’ll know that’s one of the ways God is working in the lives of these hurting people, I tell them. I really, really want to mean it.

So I’ve started looking around here for helpers. The day of the shooting, I went to pick up my kids from school to find that our trusty crossing guard (the same one who always flashes the “I love you” sign when families pull into the school) had arranged for Santa and Mrs. Claus to stand outside with her and visit with kids. 

I’ve been engaged in several Facebook shares offering, simply, peace and support—no political rants or too-soon petitions—but love, from our hearts to theirs.

I watched our President deliver a nation’s condolences to that broken, bewildered community, and echoed his sentiment and sadness.

I watched a video, posted by my dear friend, of her precious son singing—appropriately— O Come, O Come, Emmanuel at his voice recital. It was beautiful and moving.

I sat in the sanctuary of my church yesterday morning while my pastor and friend shared about the breaking heart of God, whom he imagines to be standing beside us in our grief, putting the world back together. Moments later, the children of our church sang to us about a Savior.

Come, Emmanuel, indeed.

I think some of the real helpers are working with my kids today. I am deeply grateful for the loving, living examples of helpers I see in the schools my kids attend. Our elementary school principal, along with her her staff, is in the trenches everyday—long before we arrive and long after we’ve gone home—working, thinking, creating ways to help kids learn. Often, her efforts aren’t so lofty. I’ve seen days when she worries first about a child getting breakfast, much less acing a multiplication test. I imagine her visceral reaction to Newtown, and want to hug her, thank her and be a helper, too.

The same goes for the teachers. I have no doubt that the teachers of my kids caught wind of Newtown’s tragedy and began a painful process of getting through the day without letting the students see their heartbreak. I’ll bet they were simultaneously counting kids, reviewing lock-down procedures, hugging little bodies and grading papers. That night, at home, I’ll bet they came apart like the rest of us. But today is Monday and there they are: back again to shape our future.

Thank you, helpers. I’ll keep looking for you, and make every effort to be one, too. And thank you, Fred Rogers, for giving us a way to help navigate through this ineffable pain until we find ourselves being your kind of neighbor.

Raise Your Glass, Raise Your Kids, Wear Some Pants

I really like the song “Raise Your Glass” by Pink, and this morning it’s what played through my head as the soundtrack to a busy beginning to this Friday.

Let me start by going ahead with the admission that I did, indeed, take the kids to school in my pajamas. I know, I know. But I really thought I could get them around the building and through the drop-off line without having to get out of the car. It wasn’t just my sparkling personality that made me stand out this morning. It was also the purple flannel polka-dotted pajama bottoms I wore, the long-sleeved t-shirt, the red and black woolen socks and burgundy flats. I topped the whole ensemble off with a super-cute navy sweater-wrap, as though it was the piece de resistance in an effort to salvage my dignity, which I’m pretty sure I left near the railroad tracks on Stewarts Ferry Pike when I realized (with the help of the Music City Star) we would not be on time and I would have to walk the kids in.

I didn’t just want to get the kids in to avoid (another!) letter from the truancy office. Sure, I care about their learning and education; promptness is a part of that. Yeah, I get all that crap. I really just wanted to get them there before I received another shaming look from Front Office Staff And All Around Keeper Of The Keys Mrs. Shamey McTardimuggins.

And today was my lucky day! Because ala Pink, I’m “too school for cool.”

Imagine my delight when I screeched to a halt in front of the school and ushered my kids out of the car, one of whom was still finishing off a French Toast Stick, to find the front door still open. That means no sign in! That means no shaming looks! No tardy today! But they would have to hurry. The door was about to close.

“Ha ha, suckas!” I shouted to the people just pulling into the parking lot. These were the fully-dressed people, with dignity still intact, whom I’d zoomed passed in my fury, humming Pink the whole way:

…So raise your glass if you are wrong, in all the right ways, all my underdogs,
We will never be, never be anything but loud, and nitty­ gritty dirty little freaks…

It was then that I noticed our beloved, highly-professional and erudite principal at the front door, greeting the last of the “on time” children with an equally professional-looking guest. And here I was, secretary of the PTA board, in my flannels. I considered a swan-dive into the landscaping and an Army crawl back to the van, but I think she already spotted me.

So, I mustered what was left of my self-respect and stood up straight, cinching up my sweater-wrap. I waved gracefully and kissed the kids goodbye. (“Have a great day, sweetie! Mommy promises to be dressed when I pick you up after school! Unless I get caught up in a Glee marathon this afternoon.")

Back in the safety of my van, I was thrilled to find that my child left her freshly-poured juice in the car. She loves to drink her juice out of a tiny wine glass she calls the “fancy glass.” I grabbed it and took a long drink of the pineapple-orange ­juice. I was trying to merge in front of a gentleman in a huge, red truck, who had no doubt watched the entire pajama-clad freak show unfold.

Perhaps I’d frightened him. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe he wondered why the hell PTA Mom was dropping kids off in her jammies and swilling what appeared to be mimosas from a wine glass at 8:00 in the morning.

Okay, 8:02.

But he kindly motioned for me to go ahead, and I did the only thing I could think of.

I raised my glass.

The Original BFFs

Not many people have affected my life the way Michael has. We are, as he likes to call us, the original BFFs.

My life was forever changed when our last names placed us in homeroom together at DuPont Junior High in Belle, WV. No sooner had I placed my Mead Trapper Keeper under my desk and smoothed out my Forenza sweater over my stirrup pants with Chuck T. high tops, when Michael turned to me and said something sarcastic. In that moment something happened.

I’ve heard people talk about love at first sight—but this was more than that. This was humor and wit at first sight: I had found my soul-mate. Michael and I hit it off right away. Immediately, I liked him and the way he could keep up with my sarcastic banter, giving it back as quickly as I could dish it out. Our first order of business was to rename everyone in the class. I still occasionally wonder how “Spiral McPermison” and “Mary Jane Von Stonerton” are doing.

We had fun together. Once, convinced that I should learn to cook after I caught a bag of microwave popcorn on fire, Michael donned an apron and set about my kitchen with my mother’s avocado green mixer. Another time, he hid in my bedroom and scared the bejesus out of me when I got home from school. We spent a lot of time at Taco Bell and TCBY. We may or may not have belted out Taylor Dayne tunes into a hair-brush microphone in his car. One of his shining moments of BFF greatness came on my 18^th birthday when he showed up at my grandmother’s house, after our family dinner, with a birthday cake for me, because he knew no one else had a cake for me. I loved him for that. Even if the cake did say, “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Steve.”

We’ve endured some heavy-duty issues in our lives, too. We’re 40 now people—we have jeans older than some of you. So, we have encountered some crazy juju, the most notable of which was a rift between the two of us that lasted the duration of the 1990s and took us all the way past the birth of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.

Alas, the original BFFs hit a major snag somewhere around the early 1990s. About the time Vanilla Ice was hotter than hot, our epic friendship cooled off. As in: frozen. Stone cold. Brrrrrr.

It is a long, complicated story whose details don’t need re-hashing. But during that rift, we missed out on so much: Ross/Rachel, Clinton/Lewinsky, the unfortunate onset of “japris,” my wedding, his coming out, the OJ trial, the SNL Spartan Cheerleaders, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, Ace of Base, Titanic, and Y2K. While Will Smith was “Gettin’ Jiggy With It,” we were nowhere near a much-longed-for reconciliation.

During our junior year of high school, Michael and I had the good fortune to end up in the English class of Carol Recco, teacher extraordinaire and all-around fabulous person. She, more than anyone, was privy to the genius of our wit when she poured over those weekly journal entries wherein Michael and I penned, with Pulitzer-like finesse, all the teenage angst and euphoria of (depending on what was being served in the cafeteria) our young lives.

But one big thing wasn’t being written in Michael’s journal: he is gay, but he wasn’t telling anyone. Why, I’ve wondered? But the truth is, it was Belle, WV in the late 1980s and life was not an episode of Glee. (If only!) An adequate safety net did not exist for Michael the way it may today. I think back on that hilarious, attractive, smart, wonderful boy that I loved for all the right reasons and my heart hurts that he couldn’t feel safe telling even one person—even me—that precious part of himself. We were Will and Grace before Will and Grace were cool.

And that is exactly how our reconciliation happened. One blessed day about six years ago, at different times, we both had similar conversations with our beloved Mrs. Recco. She casually mentioned to each of us how much the other would love to reconnect. (Mrs. Recco has always used her super-powers for good instead of evil.)

Finally, we connected in a phone conversation that lasted a few hours. There were tears, there were apologies, and there was story after story in a remarkable reunion that brought us back to that friendship we had so missed.

“This is so Will and Grace,” I said to Michael.

“I’m signing us up for the Amazing Race right now,” said my BFF.

And just like that, we were back, settling into a comfortable banter just in time for me to deliver my third child and Michael to find the love of his life.

Today when I crack open my senior yearbook I see the once and future BFFs, now two grown-up friends.

I see a strong, still-handsome, still-funny, good man unafraid of who he is. He is blessed to be in relationship with an equally good and wonderful man, and it is my great pleasure to know and love them both.

I see a younger version of myself and want to tell her, “Wait until you see the wonderful gifts life is about to hand you. Also, the late 1990s involve knit pants and matching vests. Try to avoid that.”

I’m not sure I believe that everything happens for a reason, but I do believe people are in our lives for a reason and I am so grateful to have Michael in mine.

And thank God for the reunion because there is always so much for us to discuss.  With the fleeting drama of an election year, a divorce for Tomkat and—God, help us—Honey Boo Boo, it’s nice to have a BFF that endures.

Zero is (still) not a size

Ladies, yet again we are being judged for our physical appearances.

In the last few days, Wisconsin news anchor Jennifer Livingston has made headlines for confronting the rude author of an offensive email targeting her weight. Livingston, who aptly pointed out that she is “much more than a number on a scale,” took the high road by using the uncalled for remarks about her appearance to bring attention to Bullying Prevention Awareness Month, which happens to be this October. Livingston admonished viewers who may be experiencing ridicule for any reason, to stand up for themselves.

The email Livingston received not only called her obese, but also a poor role model. Come on, crass stranger, really? The man who sent Livingston that dim-witted email wasn’t privy to the inner-workings of her life and soul. She is a mother of three young girls. You can bet that as she got ready for work that morning, before getting to her office and finding the vile  email, she was packing lunches, signing permission slips, tying shoes, brushing pigtails, giving hugs, fixing boo-boos, settling arguments, scheduling meetings, and asking herself if she remembered everything. She likely shared a brief kiss with her husband, fed the cat and grabbed a Luna bar on the way out to the minivan—because that’s how real women function. No one gets to accuse her of being a poor role model, least of all someone who admittedly doesn’t watch her news show. How would he know what kind of person she is?

But to me, the most heinous part of this whole thing is that a perfectly competent, lovely, smart woman—who does not mirror society’s concept that physical beauty is borderline anorexia—is being called out for her size at her job as a television news anchor.

Since when should a woman have to answer to a random stranger—or anyone— for her size?

Since always, that’s when.

Aren’t you tired of it, ladies?  Isn’t enough enough? And while it’s a complete travesty that Livingston was judged, not by her ability, but her appearance, perhaps an equally deplorable reality is that most of us still try our damndest to stay engaged in some ever-illusive pursuit of a “better” body.

Don’t misunderstand—I’m not discarding the benefits of a well-rounded plan for self care that includes physical activity, rest, nourishing food and some kind of balance between our physical, mental and spiritual selves. I’m very invested in mine, and encourage sane, healthy behavior as much as possible.

Unfortunately, our culture still judges women on the way we look. Just last week, there was a scuttlebutt around Lady Gaga’s admission that she has struggled with an eating disorder since she was 15-years-old. Simultaneously, she was being raked over the coals for gaining weight. Duplicitous media messages about her alleged weight gain flew all over the web prompting critics and fans alike to speak out, and Mother Monster herself to post pictures in her skivvies with a message to fans:
  “To all the girls that think you’re ugly because you’re not a size zero, you’re the beautiful one. It’s society who’s ugly.”

Amen to that. Besides, zero is not a size. It’s just not. One, five, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty—all sizes. But zero? Not so much. I recently voiced my concern about this to a very nice sales associate at Anne Taylor Loft, which not only offers a size zero, but a double zero.  A double zero! Less than nothing!

Last night I cruised by the magazine rack at the grocery store. I saw 33 magazine covers featuring women who would qualify as supermodels. Only one was a woman of color; most were blond. I’m certain none of them were even average-sized, which is somewhere around a 14. Designers for Hollywood starlets make samples in sizes 2-4. Maybe Livingston’s critic spends too much time in the magazine aisle at Kroger.

Like many women, I can’t remember ever thinking I didn’t need to lose weight: not when I was 10 years old and far too young to be concerned with such issues; not when I tried (another) fad diet at 13, and threw up at the dinner table; not when I weighed 112 pounds and was as bootylicious as I’ll ever be; maybe not even today. Even as I write this, I’m fresh off a high-intensity workout with a friend. But I do remember what happened to my body to change the way I think about it.

I had three babies. I got pregnant, grew these human beings inside me, ate to nourish both of us, and miraculously delivered them into this world safely, un-medicated and in complete awareness. Then I used my body to nurse them—each of them for more than three years, giving them the best possible start, and if you want to get technical, a boost toward avoiding obesity later.

That changed everything about the way I see my body: every curve, every stretch mark, every gravity-controlled part. Remarkably, it brought about a new confidence, a sense of “I’m pretty frickin’ awesome!”

So, I will continue my frickin’ awesomeness and try not to let the detractors emailing inane comments get in my way. I have things to do. I have to counteract for my kids the idea that they should fit into some cultural idea of acceptable beauty. They are already pretty frickin’ awesome the way they are.
 
And to Jennifer Livingston, keep that spam folder in your email active, and keep doing a great job.
You’re not a disgrace, you’re not responsible for the physical health of La Crosse, Wisconsin and you’re most definitely not alone.

Extreme Makeovers: Cheaper than marriage counseling?

Someone once told me that if a couple could survive painting together, their marriage would survive anything.

True, that.

We’ve just spent most of our kids’ college savings on an Extreme Bedroom Makeover: Walker Edition. (Ha, ha, kids! Just kidding! Of course we didn’t, really. We don’t even have a college savings for you. Keep those grades up, smarties!)

We’ve spent the better part of three weeks re-arranging, re-assigning and re-decorating rooms for the kids. Now, the boy has a room of his own and the girls are shacked-up together. They look great. I’m talking Pinterest-worthy, people.

An interesting dynamic unfolds when people start decorating together, which is really just a microcosm of real life. In our case, one of us (okay, me) likes to think and ruminate on how things should be. The other (guess who?) hears me say out loud that I might like the idea of stripes, and has the entire room taped off and ready to paint before I can return from the other room with my color swatches.

You have to be careful what you say out loud around a man of action.

“Hold on a minute!” I said, when I happened upon my beloved, poised and ready to stripe the girls’ room in a Parisian Pink. “Dude, Parisian Pink was yesterday. I’m leaning toward Perfectly Pink now.”

He looked at me sadly, brush in hand, as though I was supposed to rush a decision like this. Hello?! These things take time. When I told him I may not even want to do stripes anymore, he seemed to have a small aneurysm.

I get him. He’s a do-er. Maddening as it is for a big-picture gal like me, his detail gets the job done. This is part of the delicate balance that we’ve learned to achieve.

And he gets me, too. I need to ruminate. I’m not just pondering where to put the new bookcase. I’m grieving the stack of board books that will no longer be on the shelf. I’m not just practicing serious Feng Shui with that gimormous van load of donations for Goodwill, I’m weepy that the little size 3T Osh Kosh Halloween sweatshirt, photographed on little Walkers at pumpkin patches all over middle Tennessee, has been relegated to the “give away” pile. It takes me a minute, y’all.

There is also a tricky equilibrium in how to decorate. What I mean by “tricky equilibrium” is I have to reign in my sarcasm—a lot—when other people like to have opinions about my decorating ideas. More than once, I’ve had to take a deep breath and remember it’s not ALL about me. Mostly is it, though. I’m the one pouring over Pinterest and practically getting slapped with a restraining order from Nate Berkus. No one else knows the delicate placement options of a chevron stripe. Well, do they?

I’m barely used to the idea that my husband has an opinion about home decor, but now the children are depositing their two cents. I get it: they live here, too. But do they have to have their own thoughts, ideas and preferences?

Oh, wait. Of course they do. That’s how we’re raising them: to be “independent thinkers” and “individuals” and “self-possessed people.” Damned good parenting. Now look what we’ve done! We’ve gone and taught them to think for themselves!

Now that we’re in the home stretch, everyone is very pleased with the results of their new rooms. My current challenge is letting them actually USE their rooms. I mean the new digs are so organized and pristine. Yesterday I almost cried to find a pair of dirty socks on a brand new hot pink rug. A pair of ill-placed Converse All-Stars gave me dry heaves.

Thinking ahead, I went to share a new idea with my man of action to find him putting the finishing touches on the final room. “I’ve been thinking,” I announced, which always yields a look of sheer terror on his handsome face. “Would this be a bad time to tell you how I think we could re-model the den to include another room?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Okay,” I said, content with keeping it to myself for a while, or at least until the paint dries.

That’s the beauty of ruminating. The idea will still be there when it’s time to do anything with it. And, thankfully, so will my man of action.

9/11 and coffee cake

On September 11, 2001, as the center of the universe lost its pulse for a minute, I baked an orange coffee cake.
   I was getting ready to go to Hana's house for our weekly lesson. Hana, my friend and student, was a young Muslim mother from Iraq and a refugee to the United States; I was her ESL teacher.
   Baking a cake was all I could think of to do. Frankly, it was the only thing I had all the ingredients to bake. (How do I offer some comfort, I wondered? Is there protocol for the world falling apart?) I pilfered around for orange peel. I pulled the cake from the oven--maybe a moment too soon. Oven off and towers down, I rushed to Hanna's. I never did find orange peel.
  We spent the remainder of the morning watching the news, side by side, on her couch. I want to remember us huddled together, holding on to one another--Christian and Muslim, American and Middle Easterner, mothers, sisters, daughters--but I think we probably just sat sort-of close to each other. Our young daughters were playing with toys. We shared a slice of coffee cake and Hana offered something to drink. We shared a lot more than that, too. She was afraid for her family in Iraq, who like so many, had suffered under Saddam Hussein. I wondered silently what it was like for her husband at work that day. I was struck by her gratitude to be in the U.S., despite the distance it put between she and her family left in Iraq. We mourned the losses unfolding in front of us.
   In the coming years I would remember Hanna and that morning spent on her sofa. When people talk about what they were doing when the towers fell, I remember, too. I think about how significant it is to me that, on a day that served to create division and ineffable pain, community happened--on the edge of a sofa, over a slice of orange coffee cake, while our very futures played together on the floor.

Adventures in Babysitting, circa 2012

The Walkers are on a quest for a new babysitter. Our beloved Rachael is off to college.

Rachael has been our official go-to girl for a few years now. For her 16^th birthday, my husband printed off and gave her Map Quest directions to our house. My oldest child gets some of her cute hand-me-downs. My youngest child thinks she’s as pretty as Barbie (in fact, she’s much prettier and far more real). The rest of us just think she’s cool. The thing about Rachael is that she’s just enough of a kid that my kids don’t realize their being supervised; but she’s just grown up enough to get all of my pop culture references.

We’re all a little sad to let her go.

Who will let the kids play games on her phone and watch too much Disney channel? Who will build forts in the den floor that the kids insist on leaving there for days? Who will let them wash her car with lots of soapy water, then let them slide off the hood into the grass? Oh, wait…NO ONE will do that. We have to draw the line somewhere. Epic night for the kids, though. It’s still talked about neighborhood-wide.

And how, oh, how will we manage date night without her?!

But I’m not one to procrastinate. Just kidding! Of course I am! I’ll avoid finding a new sitter as long as I can, possibly even texting Rachael’s college advisor with an emergency request for her to return home to help avoid a close call with WMD (Walkers Missing Date night).

And while I would love to keep Rachael around to maintain Most Favored Babysitter status, I know what waits for her.

I know she is about to embark of the time of her life. I know she is about to meet lifelong friends and have priceless experiences. I know she’s about to step out into that magical space between childhood and adulthood that will shape who she becomes. I know she’s about to challenge every belief her family holds dear and examine what she’ll keep and what she’ll let go.

I know she’ll head east in a few days, her trunk loaded down with all the stuff she thinks she will need, which I imagine to include some camouflage bibbed overalls, some rocking heels, a flat iron and a volleyball.

I know she’ll do great, and I want her to. I want her to shine her sweet, funny, smart light all over east Tennessee.

Incidentally, I had a brief conversation this morning with a potential new sitter. (Let’s not call her a “replacement.” As if.) This person is someone who already works with children, is capable and comes well-recommended.

So when I let her know of our next planned night out, she let me know she would think about it and get back to me.

What’s that, now? THINK about it?! Don’t you know who you’re dealing with here, sister? Not just anyone gets to watch the Walker kids. They’ve come to expect a certain quality in a sitter.

Sure, this new change will be all right. On paper, she fits the bill just fine. She’ll take care of our kids with expertise and vigilance.

But will she let them soap up her Honda?

Alfred Hitchcock said, “A good film is when the price of the dinner, the theatre admission and the babysitter were worth it.”

With Rachael, they always were.