Last Day...

All, I've seen photos of Klansmen in full, um, regalia, in Washington, DC today. It's yet another national embarrassment that this is happening on the last day of the administration of our first African-American president. I am so deeply, deeply ashamed.

My heart and head are so battered I barely have words. My prayers are that everyone who is traveling (either here, or away from here) is safe, and reaches their destination with a minimum of disruption. My prayers are that when my boys ask me why there are people in "costume" in DC right now, I can explain it to them without breaking their spirits.

On my walk this morning, I had a deep sense that tomorrow is actually the worst day in American History from my perspective and in my lifetime. Worse than 9/11. I know that's a provocative statement. Up until 2/1/2014, 9/11/01 was without question the worst day I experienced on earth. But what came from 9/11 was an overwhelming sense of solidarity; it was a day that all Americans could rally to, and say, no, NOT HERE, you cannot have another. Walking up Glebe Road, headed to my car on 9/11 after 3 hours of commuting out of the city, I could make eye contact with everyone and we felt together, despite not knowing each other, despite language barriers.

Tomorrow, I don't think I can make that same eye contact. I don't expect I will feel solidarity in the same way, since some of the people walking around me may want to deport my relatives and friends, may want to eviscerate the educational process for all students (especially my dearest children with special needs), may want to take away my rights. This is why it's worse. I am only one voice to fight for what I believe it right.

We're back to a nation divided. So fractured, I'm a little paralyzed as to where to start.

Be peaceful if you can be tomorrow, friends. We all need kindness, every day. That can be my first goal. It's a great cornerstone upon which to rebuild our national identity.

Post-Holiday Malaise

We all suffer from some kind of letdown after the holiday fanfare that seems to go on forever. I'm not different. I'm spending the weeks after the holidays preparing for the last ever Gonzo's Nose show, and I'm nostalgic but so far dry eyed.

Then...

Then...this came into my inbox:

Jean sent it to me, as we are all unearthing photos related to the band getting ready for the show. She said the caption in her photo album says "Connor's first Gonzo's Nose gig, 6/23/04"

Oh, man.

January makes us tentative now. We're never sure where our heads will be, if it will be extra hard between 2/1 and 2/9 or just normal hard.

This photo makes me cry and makes me so happy. I'm wearing a shirt my dad gave me that I think is still in my closet, and a smile that makes it all the way to my eyes. It's two months after Connor's diagnosis here, and he's out, and looks so healthy (thanks, steroids!) and he's LOOKING AT ME while I'm feeding him.

It's so real, and so normal, and I look happy. Because I was happy. Even though he'd just been told that he had no chance, and that we as parents had pretty much no course but to accept it, we look happy, and healthy, and normal. And Jean caught this because she always, always took photos at shows, and it wasn't restricted to the performers. She documented all of us, as we grew and changed. I was the first band person to become a parent. It's enthralling to see that despite all of what happened with Connor, I still was happy. Happy to be out, happy to share something so important to me with him even though he didn't understand it, happy to have those friends I accidentally came upon by calling a number in the back of a City Paper ad who are now my cornerstone friends.

This picture is going up at home, with his candleholder for the anniversary of his death and then soon after his birthday celebration.

Thanks, Jean, for sending me this important reminder.  Also, for his insanely adorable feet in this photo; I want to nibble those toes. Baby feet are the greatest gift.

Loads of Quiet

It's been hard to know what to write in the last several weeks. I live in an area where most of the adults (and children) were supporting Hillary Clinton, and we all spent more time than I think any of us individually expected recovering from her stunning non-victorious winning of the popular vote in the election. There are so many ways that people are saying that we can get involved, but after all the fake news, it's hard to know what's a real opportunity, and what may be distracting propaganda.

And it's all propaganda, isn't it? The PEOTUS is making "decisions" that seem arbitrary and certainly not in the best interest of the country, so to distract the electorate from that, he's tweeting wildly about SNL, China, Russian hacking, that's he's smart enough not to need daily intelligence briefings, Vanity Fair magazine, Chuck Jones, etc. Then , the media veers off the report on those distractions, and he nominates oil barons who have been awarded the highest non-citizen honor from RUSSIA to be our SoS. What? WHAT?

WHAT?????????????

I just...I just can't. Meanwhile, we hurtled through the first Thanksgiving as a country as divided as 1860, and now on to the holidays of Hanukkah and Christmas. and we're still pretty tentative. I worry about violence popping the bubble around my home, even though it seems hilariously far-fetched. You know what else sounded far-fetched? Donald Trump winning the Republican nomination for the presidency. Also, Donald Trump winning the election. And yet, hilariously, both those things came to pass regardless of how hard he seemed to be trying to NOT be president.

So what now? When I was a child, we watched the news nightly as a family. I am not sure I want my kids to watch the news because what if it isn't actually the news? How will they grow up learning to be citizens of the United States, and of the world, if I can't show them reliable information about the state of the country and the world? They are already children of the internet - how can I show them that most of what they find on the internet is wildly inaccurate?

And how can I do all these things, on top of the already Denali-esque pile of things-to-do I have daily anyway?

So, while these rocks tumble around in my head, I've been quiet. Because I'm pretty sure we ALL wonder how to parent and live and survive this spectacular showcase. It is, in fact, tremendous. Never once in my life did I think I would live in a time of such division and anger. It forces me to consider - will we ever be post-racism? Post-afraid-of-people-not-like-us? Post-anything? Or ultimately, are we all more closed off than we ever considered, and at the end of each day it's are MY people safe?

I dunno. It's a lot to consider. For now, mostly, I just try to be nice to everybody. Except at the people who drive poorly. Them I yell at.

It's Mourning In America

This morning I woke up with the same feeling in my body and my soul that was present on February 2, 2014.

How can this be reality?

But it is. And I despise that there is a trap door here. I was truly not expecting this one. I thought it would be close. I know how much people hate Hillary. It's clearly beyond reason. But I was not expecting this trap door.

And when I got home from an appointment this morning, I found this rebellious bloom in Connor's garden. A November blossom.

Keep the faith, friends. Connor came back to visit me today and helped dispel that feeling I woke up with.  I'm giving myself today to recoup my strength. As you know, I have practice at that, so now that I've done it, it will be faster this time. It will bolster my desire to do good. To be good. To practice compassion. To remove complacency. To remember what this country is about, what I am about, and what power lies in me.

Being the Best I Can Be

I am so lucky.

I was raised in a family where the gender dynamic was not even close to even. We weren't just female-heavy in our ratio. Females are dominant in our family. Not only in my nuclear family, but in my extended family of cousins too. It was a matter of fact that we are strong women. We were raised by strong women.

I was also raised by a strong man who believes to be very depth of his being that each of us can be anything we want to be. ANYTHING. I cannot think of a single time in my life when my father treated me differently than my brother. Want to play sports? Great, let's get your geared up so you can play your best. Need to practice? Let's hit the driveway. Tough spot in school? Let's sort it out. You have rehearsal? Let's get you there and home again safely. It wasn't only him, but when I think back, as far back as I possibly can remember, I never had my father say "you can't..." to me except in two instances:

1. When I wanted to wear my Emory University shorts inside out to the state finals in my senior year for basketball. My reason - the shorts were the only red shorts I owned but I was there supporting my team, not Emory. His reason - just no. Turn em back out. I glowered, I muttered under my breath (hm, wonder where THAT trait comes from) but I did it because I tested him completely throughout my adolescence and that was the first NO he gave me.

2. In my third year of college, when I became enamored of clowning (yes, clowning) and decided that once I completed my degree I would join the circus as a clown for a year. That got a big fat nope from him too.

I am so lucky.

I was so outspoken, sassy, strong, pick-your-synonym if you don't like mine when I was in high school that it inspired fear in boys. I attended an all girls high school, but the first day I had to go to the boys high school, 4 times the size of my own, I walked down the center of the hall there, between rows upon rows of lockers and hundreds of boys, with my head up, my eyes open and ready for a challenge. Many, many times I was challenged there. Every time, I refused to back down. Even to the point of being escorted to their office for a conversation with their Dean of Students whose responsibilities included handling the problems students. I wasn't even one of his students.

Because of how I was raised, it never occurred to me that I needed to be quiet, or unassuming, or demure. Naw, screw that? I was female, I was human, and I would not be denied my rights as a human.  Before anyone ever made the astonishingly simple relation that human rights apply to all humans, I believed that and tried to live it. And I was never punished for living that way, not even by the Dean of Students of the boys' school.

I am so lucky.

I went to college without a single concern about being safe. I have always been safe, even when I made stupid choices of epic proportions. I'm certain I made them. I probably have friends who can verify them! But I stomped out of college unscathed, and I know so many women who did not. I wish I had done more for them.

I am so lucky.

I worked at a wonderful place for a decade. While there, I was promoted to an executive position in my office, and a male partner asked me after the announcement if it made sense that I was an executive since I wasn't even 30. My response, carefully stated since I'd learned to be wiser with words as I matured, was to say, "Why not? No one else was clamoring for this."

It never came up again, and he was one of my greatest champions while I worked there.

I am so lucky. And it's time for me to start pushing that luck out of me and into those who will come. My sons, who have privileges so deep they cannot even begin to fathom them, and whose interest in social justice inspires me. My community, which has much of what it needs but can always make room for improvement. My country, which has suffered terribly in the last 15 months in an ugly electoral cycle that is certainly not the first of it's kind, but without question the most televised one. I may write Ryan Murphy and tell him that next year he needs to do American Horror Story: Election.

But I am so lucky. And tomorrow, I vote.

Well, That Was Interesting

The boys and I just returned home from delivering a congratulations card, balloon and small floral arrangement to their teacher whose first baby arrived yesterday. It was our first non-emergency visit to the hospital together ever.

As we left the building, we talked about when they could meet the baby (we dropped everything at the nurses' desk at the ward, not wanting to disturb her) and that they had to be healthy so their good health could protect the baby, etc.  As we drive out of the parking garage, Tucker asked, "Does everyone who dies come to the hospital?"

No, I said. Not everyone. When Connor died, they brought him here. They wanted to know why. So as I drove home in the blinding late afternoon sun, I tried to explain about resuscitation, and why their brother was brought to the hospital. They seemed to understand immediately why the EMTs took him straightaway, which was a relief.  But I had to explain to them why their father and I had decided years prior to not resuscitate their brother should he suffer a lack of oxygen. To their eternal credit, they seemed to understand. They both said, how sad it would be if he could have done less than he did.

And then Tucker, who cannot be pessimistic it seems unless it relates to me being "the worst", said, wouldn't it have been amazing if they HAD resuscitated him, and he was all fixed and could do everything?

Yes, my man. It would be, in fact, miraculous.

They were both on board with this miracle, and much of the rest of this ride home was a discussion of how cool it would have been to have Connor come home and be the most amazing big brother.

Good Lord, they try me most days, but my kids are pretty amazing. I'm a lucky Mom to have them here with me.

What Makes A Long Life?

Lest you think that last week's post would predict a continued rough patch, we had a really great weekend.

But today is actually one of the biggest days, and one of the biggest trap doors, even though I knew it was coming.

By the end of today, Drew has officially lived longer than Connor. This year will be a series of 10th birthday parties for Drew, and his friends, and every time I will celebrate the amazingness of those roughly 3654 (thanks, leap years!) days. Inside, though, the realization that the decade, the double digits have been breached and it will make me sad to know that with all the things Connor did accomplish in his short life, that wasn't one of them.

But, he did live roughly 3280 more days than they told us they expected. That's a pretty good over. If I were better at math, I could interpret that better. But I'm not, and have accepted that.

One week until Drew is 10. He's very excited. Which means that he won't see anything from me except for huge smiles for him.