Pumpkin Delights

Since I've steered a little away from my crafty posts, the next few will be dedicated to the fluffy joy of craftiness and baking.  A few posts back I outlined the mountain of crap I've been navigating this year.  It hasn't really let up too much.  But I've gotten to a place where I can let some of the demands on me float away...like quitting one of my jobs.  That helped.

I know Thanksgiving is already over, but I have 2 super great pumpkin-y things to share.

The first is this adorable pumpkin birdy that my 5 year old made in school:

A little pumpkin, some strands of raffia or straw, a little pinecone, a wooden bead, a little feather and a glue gun--and Wa-La!  Cuteness.

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The other pumpkin delight came from Matt Lewis of Baked Bakery, via Martha Stewart, by way of a friend sharing excess baked goods.  Pumpkin whoopie pies will make a pumpkin lover out of you.  I'm not a fan of pumpkin pie--too mushy,  sometimes watery, often grainy, soggy-crusted...but these, they're worthy of the time it takes to make them.  Do not be afraid to put in the quantity of spice called for (yes, tablespoons, not teaspoons).  Moist and delicious little cake-ettes.  I did only scoop about half of what they recommend for each dollop--made them cookie sized.  They'd be too big for us otherwise, but if you want them big, go for it.

Ingredients Makes 12 whoopie pies. FOR THE PUMPKIN WHOOPIE COOKIES 3 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda 2 tablespoons ground cinnamon 1 tablespoon ground ginger 1 tablespoon ground cloves 2 cups firmly packed dark-brown sugar 1 cup vegetable oil 3 cups pumpkin puree, chilled 2 large eggs 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract FOR THE CREAM-CHEESE FILLING 3 cups confectioners' sugar 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened 8 ounces cream cheese, softened 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions Make the cookies: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or a nonstick baking mat; set aside. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves; set aside. In another large bowl, whisk together brown sugar and oil until well combined. Add pumpkin puree and whisk until combined. Add eggs and vanilla and whisk until well combined. Sprinkle flour mixture over pumpkin mixture and whisk until fully incorporated. Using a small ice cream scoop with a release mechanism, drop heaping tablespoons of dough onto prepared baking sheets, about 1 inch apart. Transfer to oven and bake until cookies are just starting to crack on top and a toothpick inserted into the center of each cookie comes out clean, about 15 minutes. Let cool completely on pan. Make the filling: Sift confectioner' sugar into a medium bowl; set aside. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter until smooth. Add cream cheese and beat until well combined. Add confectioners' sugar and vanilla, beat just until smooth. (Filling can be made up to a day in advance. Cover and refrigerate; let stand at room temperature to soften before using.) Assemble the whoopie pies: Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside. Transfer filling to a disposable pastry bag and snip the end. When cookies have cooled completely, pipe a large dollop of filling on the flat side of half of the cookies. Sandwich with remaining cookies, pressing down slightly so that the filling spreads to the edge of the cookies. Transfer to prepared baking sheet and cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate cookies at least 30 minutes before serving and up to 3 days. First published October 2008

Yumminess.

And now, onto Advent.

Wrestling with the Boy Scouts

In my sometimes vain attempts at enlightened parenting, I have turned to sage parenting books on how to do The Right Thing.  From The Wonder of Boys to How to Talk so Children Will Listen and How to Listen so Children Will Talk, I feel like I've sampled a lot...all to understand how I can support my young boys in becoming masculine, strong, sensitive, kind, empathetic men who will love well and make excellent partners and contribute positively to society.  I've also read most of the panicky articles about the demise of boys, childhood, our educational system (see: recent Newsweek magazines).  It seems boys are the new girls.  Remember back in the 70's and 80's when we needed Title IX?  There were glass ceilings?  There was talk of an Equal Rights Amendment to the constitution?  I'm not saying everything is perfect for women, but if you look at the stats on our current economy, men (especially those in the uber-male fields of construction and the like) are suffering, remaining unemployed, feeling emasculated.  If you look at the stats on ADHD diagnoses, they are rapidly increasing (and in geographical patterns--coincidence?) and mostly assigned to boys.  And women are outpacing men in higher education.  And this either/or dichotomy for gender based success is good for no one. 

One thing I've read and believe is that boys need mentors, particularly as they enter adolescence.  There is a point when young men need someone besides a parent to hold them accountable, to bounce things off of, to be around without the baggage of family, to share secrets with.  They need a tribe to help educate them on the ways of manhood.  Boys (and all children of course) need nature and movement.  In fact, many psychologists see ADD/ADHD as nature deficit disorder in part.  As I started thinking about all of this over the past several months was when I started thinking about the Boy Scouts.  Well, all that, and our experience last summer working at a scout camp a couple of hours from our home--Philmont Scout Ranch near Cimmaron, NM.

I have to admit that I've had several biases against the scouts.  There was a cloud of un-cool geekiness that I'd internalized somewhere in my own adolescence.  Even though both of my brothers had been scouts and seemed to enjoy themselves, scouting seemed to fall out of fashion, either as a function of time or age.  As I learn more about the organization, it seems that the 1980's were generally not kind to it.  And then there were the scandals.  I think the scandals were very harmful to the intention, the reputation and the enrollment of the scouts.  Appropriately so.

I'm specifically referring to pedophilia.  And the violation of a scout is on par, in my mind, with the crimes perpetrated by the Catholic church.  The leaders of both are held in trust and esteem by the scout and the parents.  Violating that kind of trust is one of the ugliest, most vile kinds of abuse.  I clearly recall lying in my hospital bed after the birth of my eldest son, watching the reports of pedophilia and molestation by priests, and the cover-up and shuffling of the perpetrators by the Catholic leadership on the news.  I remember vividly, only hours into motherhood, thinking that I would kill someone if they did that to my boy.  Literally.

So there's that, and then there's the issues of the 1990's:  the 3 G's--Girls, Gays and God.  The girl thing, not such a huge issue for me.  Gays--problem.  One part of the problem is that in both the church and scouting fallout, gays have been equated with pedophiles.  So Not True.  It's the same as believing all heterosexual men would be attracted to little girls.  And if there is a gay father or community member who has gifts, time and positive mentorship to share with boys, why should he be banned?    It is still the policy of the scouts, upheld by the Supreme Court since they are a private organization, to exclude gays.

On the God issue, I'm torn.  There is a compulsory component to scouting that is called the "Duty to God."  And supposedly they don't care what religion you are, but you have to believe in something.  Buddhists, Hindu, Jews, Muslims--they all have their own badges.  The Unitarian Universalists got into a tiff with the scouts over the gay policy--very anti-unitarian.  You can be anything at all in the scouts but a non-believer.  As a recovering Catholic, evolution believing biologist who is struggling deeply with issues of higher powers, this puts me in a slightly ambivalent, slightly uncomfortable position.  We are still sorting out where we sit--the pew or the pillow--on this issue.  Our family tendency is closer to Buddhisim than anything else.  But we have time to figure some of that out.

After our experience at the Scout camp this past summer, my reservations about enrolling my son were put on the back burner.  What I saw were hundreds of adolescent boys (and many, many young women) who were in the midst of lengthy backpacking treks through the wilderness of NM.  There was heartwarming camaraderie amongst the troops and with their leaders.  There was physical stress, immersion in nature, history, beauty, solitude.  There was personal triumph.  There were a few fights;  my husband cared for a couple of boys who'd gotten into a fist fight and had some minor injuries.  They were forced to spend the night together in the medical tent and figure it out or be sent home.  It worked;  they re-joined their troop the following day.

We spent most of our time with the staff.  There were a LOT of college aged kids employed to make the 40,000 individuals passing through Philmont either on expeditions or training seminars have a fun, exciting, seamless experience.  I was in awe of how this place functioned so well, with at least 1000 scouts turning over every day.  And these kids were kind.  They were just plain old college aged kids, not drinking (alcohol was strictly forbidden...but not in nearby Cimmaron), living in tents for a summer.  They were really nice and the whole experience was ridiculously wholesome.  We also got to ride horses, shoot archery and air rifles, make oodles of crafts and our own leather belts.  We hiked and spent really quality time together and then separately with our age matched co-horts.  In spite of the uniforms and my fear of quasi-militaristic indoctrination, it was really fun.   My kids ask about when we are going to return all of the time.  S, the 5 year old, told me that he wanted to stay there forever as we were drifting off to sleep together one night in the tent next to our cabin.

So that, combined with the fact that I keep finding people that I really like and respect tell me about how they attended Philmont 20, 30 or more years ago has nudged us into scouting.  The adults I've met who were scouts are all kinds.  Jewish East Coaster who was a scout into his 30's and came to Philmont on a train at age 16...Black physician who is still active as a scout master...corporate attorney/former Wall Streeter who has become a cub master...really fun friend/fellow doctor who now practices in New Zealand.  All open minded.  All more or less liberal folk.  Not religious in my mind at all, really.  Certainly not discriminatory in the least.  And they have volunteered or are volunteering their time to serve as mentors for other young men.  I have found that there is no stereotype to scouts and their leaders.  Just folk that are interested in learning, teaching, mentoring.

It is critical to know the scout masters or anyone you leave your children with of course!  But I'm thankful that my son's soccer coach, and friends and fellow parents at our children's school are our scout leaders.  These are people I trust.  The scouts also have a booklet that parents discuss with their children that has really good information generally about situations where a child could be put in danger.  The organization has also put into place mechanisms that should obviate opportunities to violate children.  On the inclusivity front, our local scout leaders put out a letter saying that they personally would not discriminate against any scout who came out as gay.  They would not enforce the organization's policy, and they are subtly fighting it.  I think that given the community that we happen to live in, it couldn't be any other way.  However, I wonder what the policy means for the country and for boys living in more conservative places.

It feels a bit retro, the scouts:  whittling and carving, wrestling, races, knot tying, secret handshakes.   In our tech driven culture how do the seemingly old fashioned tasks of whittling, knot tying and the like help him?   Those things hone his dexterity and connection to the earth.  How will carving a pinewood car help him succeed later in life?  The race will teach him about success and more importantly, failure. In our time of accelerated maturity, hyper-stimulation by media of all kinds, exposure to violence, being able to bring simple skills and joys back into focus feels right.  Instead of living in a virtual world with virtual friends, he's in the natural world, figuring out how things work, navigating challenging relationships with other actual boys. There are also sessions on wilderness safety, water safety and first aid.  He's developing a consciousness about dangers in the world and safety from them.   Of course the scouts do not have a monopoly on these activities and lessons.  It's just one avenue, a boy-centric avenue, where boys are loved and appreciated for their boyness--with snips, snails, puppy-dog tails and all.  They can be physical, occupy large space, compete...be themselves in their tribe.

So with some caveats, I have enrolled my son in Cub Scouts. And now every Wednesday evening, C comes home beaming about his latest scouting adventures.  The real proof is in my son's joy--it's just plain fun.  He's not one to be mysterious about his emotions.  If at all buried, they usually emerge when I'm lying down with him in the dark at snuggle time.  So far it's all good.  But my hope is that the activities, the lessons, the group dynamic and ultimately, the mentorship, help in shaping my son into a great man, one who can navigate a future world we cannot even imagine.  And when the time comes that he does not tell me his secrets in the dark, there will be another trusting adult to hear him out.

Talk to Me Baby

Fall is underway in all of it's golden-leafed, azure-skied glory!  Here in the southwest, we have had a warm, dry month of September, save one day of solid rain which helped to wrangle the dust.  It was also a frightening preview into the housebound winter months with three active boys who are occupying more space every day.  C literally grew 2 inches in a few weeks.  One week his pajama bottoms were too long and the next they were high-waters, 2 inches too short.  He dressed up for my sister's fancy birthday dinner in hand-me-down skinny jeans and a button up shirt, and I thought, Dear God.  This is a pre-preview into adolescence.

The other changes I've noticed in my eldest are that his incessant talking has quieted.  He used to chat non-stop about whatever entered his head.  It often left me confused, trying to construct a line--or at least a thin flexible string--of logic and connection from whatever our last topic was to the present.  He would bring up things that I could not believe he would remember;  things that happened when he was two and three years old.  These were not even things that would have been planted memories or family lore, those things talked about and reminisced about so that pretty soon the child mind cannot know whether the memory is the actual event or the construction of the mind's eye.  Astonishing at times.  So, his questions have slowed...his constant narration has ceased.  His mind is still just as active and I have an even harder time trying to discern his references as there are now larger pieces left out along the way.  He is overall quieter, still fights with his brother, and loves to make up jokes.  Pretty good jokes at that.
 

A few weeks ago it worked out for he and I to venture on an eventful hike together, just the two of us.  We had been talking of summiting Wheeler Peak, the highest point in New Mexico for some time.  On Labor Day the opportunity arose, the weather was good.  His daddy couldn't join us as we hoped, but C still wanted to go for it and so it was mom-son time.

Well.  Moms.  If you ever, ever need to talk with your son, take him on a hike.  We were out for 5 hours and C talked non-stop, just like he used to.  I've heard that the male species doesn't do well with eye to eye contact--it can be threatening.  Side to side talking works better, or discussions while doing something else like fishing works because it occupies their hands and allows them to open up in a non-physically confrontational way.  I've seen this work with my husband.  I've seen it work in the car, even.  On that hike, C filled up that vastly open space with everything his little eight year old self was ruminating about.

It makes sense biologically that male and female brains are programmed differently.  Of course!  Women gaze into eyes, feeling, making connection.  Men have a task, they have a need to fix a problem.  Come on, we all know it and isn't it time we accept these facts?  And it's okay.  Let's have realistic expectations, for goodness sake!  I read a mostly excellent book called The Wonder of Boys that addresses these differences and needs.  A recent Newsweek was devoted to the differences in development between the genders.  Let's stop trying to fit the square pegs into the round holes.  Let's all just stop expecting people to act outside of their brain biology.  Not that dudes can't be sensitive and make eye contact.  Or that women can't be warriors.  But we really need a return to the authentic-self gender paradigm...though I'm not exactly sure when that happened....

Not entirely surprisingly, it turns out that C's concerns are so incredibly different than mine.  I had figured that was the case, given that everyday I ask him in some new and creative way how his day was and for such a smart little guy, darn if he can't ever remember.  Even if I phrase it as a specific question, such as who did you play with?  What was the most interesting thing in your day?  What was the worst part of your day?  What did you learn in Spanish class? Same.  Nada.  I, for multiple reasons, have been concerned about his school experience and wanting to make sure things were going along well, appropriately;  trying to understand the class dynamics;  trying to understand how his reading is going.  According to him, a straight-faced "fine."

Well, what he's concerned about is Star Wars.  We talked for a good three hours about the various characters, which movie they were in, which team they were on, who were my favorites, who were his, how old I was when each movie came out.  And on.  And on.  And questions about the film making, the direction, the story.  The other two hours was about the Bugs Bunny/Looney Toones gang.  Now, don't get the impression that we have a lot of screen time.  Quite the contrary.  But he was fascinated by the 'old fashioned' and still very funny cartoons.  We'd gotten the complete collection of Looney Toones discs during a weak and nostalgic moment of WalMart shopping.  He has questions about the animators, the production, the voices, the stories, the references.  Way more--WAY more--than I know about, and way way more than I thought about when I was exactly his age watching them on Saturday mornings.

Many of his questions were about getting the stories right--especially Star Wars.  Given the non-sequential release of the films and the fact that he's only seen three of the six movies, I think he was trying to get some details filled in.  But he was busy categorizing the characters, placing them on the appropriate "team."  He was categorizing things in that black and white, good and evil dichotomy that eight year-olds require.   He was casting himself into those roles as well, trying on those people and seeing himself as a warrior, seeing what would be worth fighting for.  What would be worth putting one's life on the line for?  He already knows that (spoiler alert!) Darth Vader is Luke's father as part of cultural lore, but that they fight on opposite sides absolutely fascinates him.  How on earth does Annikin become Darth Vader?  Of course he's not seen that movie--too scary.  Star Wars really is an archetypal movie; Jarjarbinx and Ewoks be damned!

And co-incidentally enough, as we went on our journey, my little warrior never once complained.  I'm not saying this to brag...I'm saying it in surprised awe.  The first 2 1/2 miles were a steady climb, and the last 2 were straight up.  We took poles and paced ourselves.  As we got higher up the mountain, the wind became fierce and the chill it brought was significant.  We were prepared with jackets, etc., but there were moments where I thought I was going to get blown over.  He bravely, steadily and constantly moved up that mountain, perhaps inspired by his own thoughts of his heroes.  He had a few moments where he was scared, and he literally talked himself through it.  He was ready physically and spiritually to test himself on that mountain.  I was one heck of a proud and humbled mama bear, close enough to step in but far enough away to let him test himself.

On our way back down, our anxieties melted away.  The wind died.  The day heated up to a pleasant warm.  We were skipping our way down and laughing.  Pure joy.  And side by side we talked;  I supported him just by being there in facing that mountain in the company of his heroes and villains, and I watched him succeed.  And really, this was his doing--not mine.  I can't take much credit on that one.  But lesson on communication and priorities--learned.

And here's to many more hiking adventures to come!

Time is on my side...mostly

I was very, very worried when I had my eldest son repeat first grade.  I thought that he would be teased and called stupid.  He is far from that, but I recall a stigma attached to being "held back."  I remember my own harsh 6 year old self's thoughts about those others who were slow, couldn't read well, didn't "get it" in school.  I didn't understand what was "wrong" with them. The labels were swift and irreversible, in my mind.  He is a boy, born in the summer, and so on the tail end of his school co-hort. The first time around, we enrolled him in first grade after kindergarten without any concern.  Both my husband and I had been on the very young end of our classes and we thought it didn't do us any harm.  There weren't any red flags in kindergarten, and he had a group of boys in his class that would be close in age which we thought would protect him from being too much of an outlier.  On he merrily went from kindy to first grade.  I thought things were going along just fine at the beginning of the school year.  Then at our first parent-teacher conference in the fall, the teacher hit us with what felt at the time like a small bomb--C was having problems.  It might be something serious, diagnosable;  it might just be his age and development.  Wha?  Huh?  He was having a hard time completing his work, wasn't able to follow directions precisely.  He lagged behind the class.  He required one-on-one attention from the teacher most of the time to finish writing sentences, drawing pictures,  creating forms.  He had some issues socially integrating with his classmates. 

After my husband and I absorbed the news, we proceeded to systematically evaluate things easily correctable.  Doctor visit-okay.  We had his eyes checked.  Twice.  Hearing-fine.  We tossed around the over-diagnosed/easily medicated ADD/ADHD.  I researched it extensively.  By the end of spring of that year, I had a reading specialist evaluate him for any "processing issues."  Since he's in a Waldorf school, arbitrary grade-level reading tests were meaningless.  Sure enough, she detected some slow processing--he took an excessive amount of time translating visual pictures into words.  But he was only six, and no one wants to label a six year old (except for maybe their classmates).  It was hard to not feel like valuable time was being lost by not labeling him.  But she confirmed "likely" dyslexia.

I actually experienced moments of sadness--grief--in realizing my perfect little boy was in fact not perfect.  My ray of sunshine who would create worlds of magic...marred...abnormally wired, compared to most everyone else.  I felt anguish that he would have to struggle through life with dyslexia (or something).  Then I would think of children and families with real problems.  Real sickness, real behavior issues.  Leukemia.  Accidents.  Death.  It seemed not such a big deal after all.  I got over it and began to internalize the real meaning of the issue.

Part of that acceptance was in letting go of my expectations for him.  We all have that as parents.  High expectations of a child can be a very positive thing.  But preconceptions--expectations for--are a mistake.   This child loves stories and I felt that once he could read, the world would open up to him.  I saw him as bright and likely an early reader--which would be a de-facto confirmation of his gifts and interests.   I had been an early reader, so of course he would be.  No one in either my or my husband's families had had any real learning issues, I didn't think.  Somehow, in seeing how much he loved to hear stories, I neglected to see how hard letters were for him and how he shied away from writing.  What has taken a while to incorporate fully into my understanding, is that reading--processing ability--is only one kind of intelligence.  Just because someone isn't wired to easily learn to read (some 30% of us figure it out without formal instruction, and another 30-40% get it with minimal teaching) does not mean that they aren't bright.  I've known dyslexic people my whole life;  I just didn't really ever fully understand what it meant.  Of course, I have always believed the cliche that everyone has a gift to share no matter their education level or whatever...I just never thought that a "learning disability" would apply to my kid.  And, Oh, how I want to take back any judgment I ever made.

Once again, through my children, I am humbled and continuing to learn.  I had driven myself and my son crazy working on letters and words with him.  Not drilling him or anything, but even casually working on it was painful.  I've stopped.  I'm going to leave it to a specialist.  But in the mean time, we had him repeat first grade.  It helped to sort out what was in fact developmental from what is likely organic.  By the end of his first first grade year, he had made strides and was much better able to finish his work.  He wasn't as easily distracted by sounds and people.  He'd 'worked hard' to catch up.  He'd also had bedtimes full of tears, calling himself stupid.  Over that first summer break, my husband and I had an epiphany that we should just have him be the oldest in his class instead of the youngest. We checked it out with his former teacher who had since moved schools, and he was fully supportive.  He had not recommended it in the end of the year, probably partly because C is sweet, not a troublesome child.  Not disruptive and screaming for attention.  But he thought it would be a great thing for him.

So we gingerly approached the school and I wrote a letter to the parents of his former class, asking their help in explaining to their kids what was going to happen, hopefully easing the transition and limiting the teasing.  The school gave us their full support.  His classmates and friends gave him no hassle.  The grade above him did tease him a bit, unfortunately.  But that is part of life, I guess.  I can't protect him from everything.

In that repeat year, I did not work at all on reading unless C asked to.  I just let him be.  I let him do the work of his second first grade year uninterrupted.  His teacher said he was a leader in his classroom and socially.  He could sit and complete his work.  About ninety percent of the issues from the previous year vanished.  He has, in spite of the teasing, come through more confident.  He still, however, cannot hardly read at eight.  He is, still, dyslexic.  But at least now, there is clarity and a path.  And I have learned so much, so incredibly much, about slowing down on pushing a child through school, hitting arbitrary milestones at proscribed points.  I can certainly see how and why they came to exist.  But applying population based norms to individuals sucks.   And applying my experience, believing that just because my son is of my genes that he will be like me or his father, is just plain ignorant.  And then there is the profound difference between the boy and girl brain...that is a whole other story.

I've decided that I will probably keep my other two boys "back" as well, so that they will be on the older end of their classes, but we'll see.  If you read Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers," he makes compelling arguments in support of it.  I had thought we might only see the benefits eight years from now, but they were apparent immediately.  Really, why should we be in a hurry to "get our kids through?"  The six years of elementary school go by exceedingly fast.  And a year of development between a five and six, or six and seven year old--it's a significant portion of their life.  Sometimes it's when you don't push that you feel no resistance and things move ahead on their own.  A small part of me keeps waiting for some developmental wiring in C's brain to connect and for reading to magically begin for him.  Other parents, especially those with boys, relate stories such as this.  One day their son picked up Harry Potter and off they went reading into the sunset.  Maybe that will happen.  But I think not.  And it's okay.  It's truly a "learning difference," a brain wired in a way that learns differently than most of us, and because of our learning systems, a disability.  So humbling.  And part of what makes him magic.  And what made me a peter pan kind of mom.

Man in the Mirror...

So my eight year old threw me for a loop the other day, as children do.   We were listening to Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror," one of my favorite songs MJ songs, and one of my son's favorite, period.  He said to me, "Mom, do you know what he is talking about--making that 'change?'"   You know, that dramatic point in the song where there is a pause and a choral "Change," a poignant key change in the last verse of the song.  It has a gorgeous gospel feel.  I explained my interpretation of the song, how social justice and cultural change start with one person--yourself.  Blah, blah, blah.  And he said, "I think it is about him changing from black to white."

Oh.  Hmm.  Wow.  Difficult parenting moments aren't always what you think they will be.  So I ask him how it would make things better for a person to be white and not black.  Well, life is just easier.  C was thinking it would make his world a better place, not the world...I think.  Oh, Jesus.  No.  Not in the era of a black president.  No!  And he's stuck to this, mentioning several times MJ's deliberate change to white.  "Oh, that's when he was white."  "The Jackson 5 is when he was black."  There are some murky post-Thriller times.   I suppose if you look at this from his eight year old perspective, from one who didn't live through the 70's and 80's, watching MJ grow up and transform from child phenom to King of Pop to freakazoid, the change looks quick.  I think this all really started when he died last June.  I had some MJ on my iPod (come on, who doesn't?) and C liked it.  One of his songs would pop up on shuffle and he'd want me to repeat it ad nauseum.  If you can separate all the weirdness out, he really is good, and his music just makes you wanna shake it. In all of the post-mortem retro-spectacle, one could really see his evolution in fast forward.  Cute dark brown, afro-haired child...to knife-thin nosed, long straight haired white "guy...."  C has also commented on how he really sounds and looks like a female...but still goes in the category of male, I guess.  Children have that need for things to be black and white, concrete, well-defined.  So.  MJ became white (did he really have vitiligo?), but still a guy.  And why not?  One can change their appearance quite dramatically through modern surgical and pharmaceutical techniques.

Between that thought-provoking conversation, a recent Vanity Fair article on "Thriller", our watching "This is It," and then stumbling on a 1992 biographical movie on the Jackson Family last night, it's time to process.  I don't want to give the impression that we have any kind of obsession with the Jacksons.  Really.  Just some convergence.  The whole family enjoyed watching "This is It."  It is really good--especially if you watched his music videos growing up during the cool days of MTV.  But even if not, you get a very rare glimpse at MJ in his creative realm.  The concerts were a massive production, each song a work of theater-art, music, dance.  You see him working lovingly and patiently with the musicians and dancers.  You witness his artistic vision and genius.  He did not look days from death.  His voice sounded great, his signature moves intact.  The boys were all up and doing their own best moves, looking rather, um, white in the process.

What struck me, knowing what we know (and think we know) now about him, were the contradictions that abound.  He sings about human nature--he, who surgically altered himself so far from anything remotely natural--telling us to "tell him that it's human nature."  He saunters around the stage with a gorgeous, scantily clad woman, trying to seduce, explaining about "the way you make me feel."  Hmmm.  Really?  And it doesn't matter if "you're black or white."  Huh?  How conflicted was he?  How much did he loathe himself to alter his physical appearance so fundamentally?  And how can I explain these contradictions to a questioning child?  Was he an artist, singing his heart and truth and experience?  Or was he a performer, singing what he thought others wanted and trying to make as much money in the process?  I suppose it is a little of both.  And a lot of irony.

You cannot doubt his talent.  We hear how his childhood was robbed from him, his father abusive.  He was clearly immensely gifted and was pushed very hard to hone his skill.  He seemed to light up while performing, and shut down when offstage.  He loved what his father was making him do, but he hated his father.  He was a boy who came of age in the time of Black Power;  a black man who has the biggest selling album ever (still to this day), and who changed the face of pop music and American culture.  He blurred the line between rock, R&B, pop;  he had truly mass appeal.  A hero for blacks...who wasn't really black in the end.  What do we learn from this?  And why is it easier to be white, as my son says?  We live in a very culturally diverse place, though there are not many blacks.  My husband and I make a very pointed effort to discuss race and our country's and region's history.  Again, looking back over the past 2 years, C has seen my husband and I talk at great lengths to each other and to him about the significance of our black president.  Regardless of what you think of Obama, we cannot forget that only in his lifetime, have Blacks in this country had equal civil rights.  We talk honestly about who Martin Luther King, Jr. was, and on his holiday pulled up films of his speeches to watch (thank God for youtube;  the result was the drawing above).  We really aren't that many generations away from slavery.  But having a black president doesn't clean the slate and make it all okay.

So my hope is that, bathed in a partial understanding of the history of blacks, my son has made that determination--it is easier to be white in this country;  or at least it has been up until recently.  I'd like to think it has already changed...but I'm white.  I don't know.  And I don't think anything in Michael Jackson's life was particularly easy...I guess we'll never know whether it was easier for him once he was white, either.  Certainly not publicly, but personally--pointedly looking in the mirror and not seeing his father--maybe it was.  Thankfully we have not had to broach the subject of alleged pedophilia...yikes.  Or his five female dressed mannequin "friends" he had as a young adult...the monkey, Bubbles...Neverland and his Disney obsession...the hubris and the timidity.  Was he just a lonely, sensitive soul?   A peter pan not wanting to grow up, trying to capture the essence of childhood magic since his own was lost?  Or did he take his love of innocence to a level of sexuality and pedophilia?  Was he molested?  We are definitely not there in our conversations, but I don't know what I will say to C when he does learn this information.  C now has a vague notion of the concept as I unfortunately had to partially explain to him why I wouldn't let him change alone in the men's room at a very large public pool this summer, in spite of his insistence.  Why would our culture, why would I personally, hold up this icon?  Partly because we do not know for sure.  Partly because he was immensely talented.  Partly because Americans love a spectacle.  Anyone going through a grocery store check out line knows for sure that our stars belong to us.  Maybe should we just take the artist/performer's work for it's surface value, not dissecting the person underneath.  Just let the iPod shuffle and groove.  But he was so fascinating!  He had it all, though no matter how much, it was clearly never going to be enough.

I will continue to speak honestly to my boys when they inquire about uncomfortable subjects, providing them information when they seem ready to handle it, hopefully striking a balance between satiating their curiosity and stretching them just a bit.  Though we are a part of a Waldorf school, I don't eschew media entirely.  We limit screen time, but I feel that media literacy is part of life and provides children with a cultural currency.  And movies, music, stories--they are art.  They hold powerful stories, lessons and messages.  Do we have a responsibility as parents to provide our children with controversy-free entertainment?  Might it make things cleaner, easier?  Sanitized?  Sure, but that is not reality, and it's soooo boring.  I suppose they are going to have to absorb, little by little (I hope) the messy nature of us humans.  The artist as well as his work.  And maybe that is part of MJ's appeal--he was fatally flawed, just like so many heroes;  it brought him down to earth like the rest of us.  I suppose that when they inquire more about MJ's strange life and doings, I'll be as truthful as I can;  or maybe I'll just sing a few bars about "his human nature."  MJ and the cadre of ruined, addicted pop stars affirm my desire to slow it all down and let children just be.  Stay out here in the boonies, let my kids grow their hair long and shaggy, wear crazy costumes/clothing, and stay as unplugged as possible.  And I will continue to do my part as best I can, to make the world a better place, looking at myself in the mirror every day and when needed, make that change.  But the real kind of change...the one I think MJ was talking about...maybe, I guess.

It's the journey, not the destination....

After a four month hiatus from my fledgling blog, I am back.  Writing, of course, takes a certain amount of mental and emotional energy.  Given the hurdles that I had to clear over the spring, I had to recoil:  board re-certification exam that occurs once every ten years, is expensive, requires brushing up on test-taking skills as well as mastery of all the new scientific and clinical information that has accrued in the decade, and wanting to not fail;  major abdominal surgery to repair some of structural damage done by three pregnancies with 9+lb baby boys;  new and exciting and very time-consuming projects at the company I'm the CEO of (it's not as fancy as it sounds) requiring multiple meetings in our hospital and medical community that I literally can't step back from even though I'd like to;  escalating hours in my "real job" of doctoring at the hospital;  organizational, scheduling and bookkeeping duties related to my husband's small business/corporation as well as our household (The Calendar could be contracted out as a part-time job in itself);  duties related to being member and secretary of my children's school board of directors, and the attendant spring-time issues of major budget and financial decisions;  end of school year celebrations, plays, field trips, parties; planning the three-week camping/road trip that commenced immediately following school and Memorial Day weekend;  usual duties of life, home, wife, mother including (but not limited to) daily breakfast, lunch and dinner preparation, chauffeur duty to and from school and scattered after-school activities, diaper changing, laundry, daily (up to thrice) sweeping of the dusty floor in the dirt house in the dusty high plains desert, bathing and fingernail care and hair brushing and inspection of children to insure weather-appropriate and reasonably matching clothing with location of shoes and any necessary accessories, such as coat of varying weight, hat for either warmth or sun, gloves in winter and sunscreen in summer;  keeping my self from getting over-extended, over-tired, cranky, catty and maintaining my sanity with runs, painted toe-nails, and a clean car (to feel some sense of control, I suppose).  Oh, and trying to be a good friend and good wife (and I mean that in the best possible way) while trying to stay engaged in the social and political world around me.

Sound ridiculous?  Yes.  I don't list it all to sound boastful or complaining at all.  It's just taking stock, which vacations often prompt me to do.  And it's similar to many people's lives.  Yes, David Byrne, how did I get here?  And I purposefully tried not to get here.   I try to avoid getting or feeling over-extended.  I try to be a peter pan kind of mom, after all.  Seriously, I still think of my primary job as parenting, wife-ing, home-making.  Then comes being a doctor, and then the other stuff comes after that.  It's no wonder that it feels, as most would agree, like my life is flying by, my kids are growing up fast.  Every day that I see patients in the hospital (and as an internist I see adults, mostly older ones) at least one tells me how quickly it all goes by, to enjoy my children, even the hard parts, how special it is to parent a young child, how lucky I am, how these are the best years of my life, the years of milk and honey.  I agree with this and bear it in mind constantly.  I've tried to structure my life such that I would be present for and relish all of those fleeting moments in my children's lives, even the most painful and annoying ones (and aren't they unfortunately plentiful?).  I have the same feeling about my family's health--given all of the things that can go wrong and the tragedies that befall wonderful people every day, there but for the grace of God go we.  I've also recognized in my self-analysis and attempted life balancing that I become a less-effective, disaffected, isolated person if I only parent.  I like feeling productive and connected, feeling like I'm contributing to the world, and earning my own paycheck.  And so I let the other things in, one by one, because they are important.

Well, thank God for vacations.  My husband and I bought a camper van in the winter in anticipation of road trips to come.  We did a big one last summer with great success (and a 1, 3 and 7 year old to boot) in my family car and commando style tent camping.  We decided that while the boys are young, road trips plus/minus camping, would be the way for us to go.  We bought a Sportsmobile van.  Inspired by the freedom of the road, the freedom from the airport security process, and the rare opportunity to be spontaneous, we planned on a three week trip north through the Rockies.  I'd like to say it also is economical, and except for the actual purchase of the van, it is!  Our goal for this summer's trip was to hit several National Parks/Monuments, and maybe catch up with some old friends along the way.  We were aiming for some big guns, Yellowstone, Grand Tetons and Glacier, with side trips to Rocky Mountain and Dinosaur.  Mission accomplished, and then some.

The beauty of a road trip, when done as the trip and not for the agonizing purpose of getting across the country in a hurry, is that the vacation and attendant psychological freedom begins as soon as everyone is belted in the car and you pull out of the driveway.  As it always is, both my husband and I had to put in extra time before (and less enjoyably now after) the trip to clear our life's path for the journey.  I felt only capable of taking one day, quite literally, at a time.  But then, hitting the road and driving north, we were again taking things one day at a time.  The difference was that at home I was performing duties proscribed and penned on The Calendar, and had to do each of those duties as a matter of course or in preparation for something else.  I couldn't look ahead, lest I get distracted from the duty at hand.  I had only so much time to do each thing.  I had one day to pack for the trip two weeks ahead, and one day to pack two days ahead.  Every other day in April and May were accounted for. 

On the road, and with only a few reservations (out of necessity, at campsites in the national parks) we took things day by day, and drilling down more microscopically, moment to moment.  We could side trip here.  We could stop there.  We could keep going on the road if all were content or asleep.  We could stay an extra day in Bozeman or Glacier or Ouray because we were having an extra good time.  Much to the delight of my husband's wanderlustful soul, we could be spontaneous.  We could linger.  We could roam.  And, save for our occasional use of smartphones (of which the GPS mapping and direction capabilities were stellar), we could eschew the "real world" and live in the moment with the kids.

All that a child really wants from their parent is attention, love.  Since we had no other distractions, they could have it in spades.  We also went where we, the adults, wanted to go.  It was a win-win, no compromise.  We've never been to the glorious Yellowstone and, thank God and Teddy Roosevelt, we could all go and benefit from and enjoy it's fruits.  We saw geysers and wolves and mud pots and bison and grizzlies and raging waterfalls and the yellow stones of their grand canyon.   We rode bikes as a family.  We ate marshmallow pancakes for breakfast.  The older boys became Junior Rangers.  We lived and slept by the sun and moon and not the clock, apparently staying up late and sleeping in.  We let our oldest have a bit of supervised autonomy.  We also saw dinosaur bones, crossed the path of Lewis, Clark and Sacajawea, saw moose, elk, several bird species, and grizzlies.  In Glacier, we saw the namesake ice, dwindling as it is, set upon jagged peaks and against cobalt blue skies, floored by crystalline lakes.  It was magnificent.

I was moved to tears on multiple occasions, by the sheer beauty of it all.  The creatures flourishing in a wild and natural habitat, the blazing beauty of our surroundings, the wonder at the history of this amazing land.  The grace and beauty and imperfection of our family.  The wide-eyed light in my boys as we visited museums and visitor's centers and saw a wolf.  And I could just be.  And so could the kids.  Of course, they still fought and whined and cried.  And it rained.  But I wasn't hurrying them to get shoes on, to make sure they had lunches, to tick off items on the agenda.  We could transcend the minor annoyances of the day. I watched each of my three boys leap forward in some way.  C (who turned 8 on the trip) knows the natural world in a very deep way, wanted to plen aire paint, and internalized the meaning of an ecosystem, explaining to the park ranger in Glacier the ecology of the mountain goat.  S (age 4) went from drawing fisted scribbles and scratches into careful renditions of identifiable scenes, dramatically and literally overnight, creating a portfolio of pictures of us, animals, trains, busses and other things I will put in the scrapbook of our trip.  F (age 2) learned to love camping, developed a flexibility not easy for toddlers, and began to compose more verbose sentances.  It was just lovely.

And so, in re-entry, I am trying as I always do, to bring part of that vacation into real time.  Isn't that the purpose of vacation?  Mental and physical relaxation and the kind of frame-shift that we can incorporate into our self to bring more joy?  Can I bring the zen of living freely in the moment into balance with a scheduled life?  Well, that may be overly ambitious.  But it has pushed a re-set button in my heart.  It has put priorities into perspective.  It has re-connected me to my ever-evolving children.  It gave me a burning desire to just live in vacation mode.  Thank goodness it's summer and I can hold on to that, at least for a little longer.  It's life: one great big wide open road trip.

My Funny Valentine Project

I love making Valentine's with the boys.  This sweet but semi-superfluous, semi-contrived holiday falls at a time when we've recovered from Christmas craftiness, and I need a project to focus on while we are mid-winter housebound.  In the past we've made fortune cookies out of felt with love notes inside, made flowers from cupcake papers, and made collages from magazine cutouts.  This year I was more excited than the boys about our project.  They did enjoy it, but I loved it.  Partly because it was an extremely green project, and I could feel so super good about it all.  Partly it was super practical, and partly it was goopy fun.  Hopefully I'm not being too smug about getting two of the three "R's".  We made paper and sprinkled it with wildflower seeds so that the paper could be planted--recycle AND reuse!!  Or is it double reused...or double recycled...hmmm.

I  went through piles of remnant construction paper and old abandoned art projects, collecting all of the scraps of paper I could.   It was fun looking at old cutout colored paper in relief and partially finished drawings from the kids, knowing that art and energy would go into these Valentines.  I got to reflect on previous artistic obsessions, such as the letter X.  I divided the paper into 4 piles of color groups--pink/red/purple, blue/green, brown/yellow/orange, and black.  I found 3 buckets and a small trashcan, and tore the paper into one inch-ish size pieces.  The boys helped some with this--since I decided to go big and do four batches (can I do anything little?).  If the project had been smaller they would likely have been able to tear plenty.  I added white paper (all recycled) into all of the buckets and then covered the paper with warm water and let it soak for a couple of days...mabye four?

I started the project thinking I could finish it the next day but that didn't work...it really only needed to soak for 24 hours.  But, I had work and various other interferences and I began to imagine all kinds of disgusting microbes festering in the water.  That didn't happen--well at least not to a significant and smelly point.  Probably partly because I put the buckets in our storage room that's nearly as cold as a fridge.  So I worried for nothing.

Anyhow, the next step was putting the paper with LOTS of water into the blender and making the glop.  This was the kids' favorite part, except for the baby, who hated the loud noise the blender makes on 'high.'  I collected window screens not being used in the middle of winter and placed them over the bathtub.  I got some plastic wrap and a half cup measure and went for it.  I had to experiment a bit with how to shape the paper.  I was trying to make hearts, which I more or less did, but that was a little tricky for the kids to achieve.  Their paper was a bit more free form and amorphous...and sort of thick, but pretty.  I achieved the heart by making a "V" with the glop, touching it up with my fingers to make it round and pointy, sprinkled on the seeds, then put plastic wrap over the top and pressed to shape and wring out excess water.   The tub turned into a rainbow.  The black and white paper turned a pretty purple.  The pinks and reds stayed true.  The brown palette glop made a lovely au natural peachy-tan.  The green and blue turned a muted minty color.

We then had several screens full of glop that dried overnight--super quick here in the dessert during wood stove season.  The paper peeled right off of the screens once dry, and had that lovely organic-looking soft edge.  Then I made up a little poem to explain what the paper was for:

Plant Me!

When Valentine's gone

And winter is done

Plant me in the ground

Give me water and sun

Soon flowers will show

And my friends will know

No matter the season

Love will always grow!

Cheesy enough?  Cute anyhow.  I attached these little poems to the hearts with yarn and had the kids write the "To" and "From" parts.  We had so much glop that I made some extra squared and rectangular papers and used them as background mattes, printing out some photos and mounting them on the paper for family Valentine's Day gifts.

I'm looking forward to planting some of these when Spring arrives.  With over a foot of snow on the ground and more falling from the sky as I type, it seems so, so far away from now.  At least we can dream about it.