Of Stuffed Animals and Disappearances

A little over two years ago, when we first moved to this house, my then-partner announced that JT didn't need to have so many stuffed animals. She boxed up much of the herd and stored them in the basement never to be heard from again. JT would occasionally mention the missing stuffies, but soon he seemed to have forgotten about them. He was growing up and sought different toys to play with.

It was an odd decision on her part, but I didn't stop her. Now I think that she was preparing him for another kind of departure from his life. Like the disappearance of the stuffies, which was sudden and unwarranted, she just disappeared from his life one day last June. He was 6 years old. She came back a week later to explain that she was leaving for good. My son shed tears and asked why. She just shrugged. How can the breakup of a family ever be explained? I brought some of the stuffies back upstairs to his bedroom, to surround him with love to replace the loss that Lisa left in her wake.

Afterward, he would occasionally mention her. He would talk about things that we had done as a family. But, as with the disappearance of the stuffies, soon he quit asking about her. And soon after that, he began to reformulate his memories of our family of three to be memories of a family consisting of just he and I.

But here's the ironic part of the story. Since she left, Lisa has provided JT with a steady supply of stuffies. She's brought him the occasional stuffed animal and during some of her weekly visits she's taken him to Build-a-Bear where he has happily constructed new friends to join the herd. He brings them home and shows them to me. Then he introduces him to the herd. And the new stuffed beast then languishes there, sometimes invited to sleep with a growing boy, but mostly ignored.

Somehow I think that this is exactly the role that Lisa has in his life these days. He smiles when he sees her; she's a familiar friend just like the dusty stuffed monkey in the basket in his room. She's welcome for the hours they spend together. But though she may have once been essential, she's no longer a necessary part of his life. She's part of the past, growing further away every day.

Gardening Stock

I come from gardening stock. The neat, carefully weeded rows in the first picture on the right is my father's garden in California. As long as I can remember, he has planted a garden. From the late spring through the early fall, the produce pours in. Strawberries, carrots, tomatoes, asparagus, peppers and squash overflow his brown basket. Some years are better than others. Sometimes your two year old picks all of the strawberries in the early morning dew. Or, in a competition to get the biggest one, your daughters pull up more carrots then the family can eat in a week. I still recall the amazing taste of the popcorn that my dad grew when I was a teenager.

In the winter, my father puts the off-season to good use. Soil is churned and fertilizer is mixed in. He pours over the seed catalog and his copies of Organic Gardening (which he always calls Orgasmic Gardening). Plans are made for the next planting season. I hear tale that he's got plans for an avocado tree next year.

So I come by it naturally, though my garden isn't as tidy and careful as my father's. But it is a reflection of the things that I have been learning my whole life. I planted early this year, but we had a wet and cool spring and early summer. So it was just today, July 30, that my first tomato was ready. With my son by my side, I picked that tomato and a zucchini to go with it. And tonight we supped on a tradition being passed on.

Don't Tell Mom and Dad

I'm serious here, so if you can't keep your big mouth shut, read no further. A few weeks back, I received a speeding ticket. I was guilty and had richly earned the honor so I was polite when the policeman pulled me over. He wrote up the ticket and then advised me to come to court so that that the prosecutor could take away the points.

I had no earthly idea what the hell this meant, but I nodded as if I understood. The children riding in the back seat of my car looked sufficiently scared to death.

When I returned home (by then driving the speed limit and not a second faster), I did some reading. In NJ, you don't just get the ticket for your poor behavior but they assign points to your license and, if you accumulate enough, your license goes bye-bye. I was in NO danger of this, but even a few points will cause your insurance rates to go up. And I surely don't want that. So I made plans to go to court.

Since that day, every two-bit lawyer in the state has come out of the woodwork to mail me a nice letter offering to represent me in court. If it weren't for the fact that I receive a letter about this nearly every day, it would be funny. I've now come to believe that this whole process is just a big scam orchestrated by lawyers.

But, hey, I'm totally down with that if that means no points for me. So in a week or two, I'll set off for court, wearing my best good citizen expression and holding the hand of my charming seven year old, who will be freshly washed for his mama's court appearance (please keep your white trash comments to yourself). I am not above working it, since near as I can tell, that's the whole idea of the system anyway.

And this is New Jersey.

The Barry Bonds Phenomenon

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is phenomenon, specifically what sort of things make other people excited that just don't get you all worked up. Mine is rather a guilty secret: I don't hate or revile Barry Bonds. If he breaks Hank Aaron's hitting record, I'll watch it on television. I'll probably think about what it takes to hit so many pitches in the major league. I'll listen to commentators indignantly announce that Bond's accomplishment is sullied by allegations that he used steroids. And then I'll change the channel.

I won't wring my hands and note the shame of Bonds using steroids to enhance his already phenomenal hitting power. I'm pretty sure that Bonds has used perfromance enhancement drugs. I think it's a shame, especially because he was a talented athlete without the enhancement. But I won't rant that the record must have an asterisk to note that he's a steroid user.

And it's not because I don't care. I don't think that athletes should use performance enhancement drugs. But I'm not surprised when people do so and I can hardly blame them. The fame and the money and the power generated by physical prowess; by a talent randomly handed to you by god, must sometimes be overwhelming. The combination of physical and mental strength required to be a good athlete is a rare one; hard to sustain over the years. How can we be surprised that some people look for a quicker road to athletic success?

In the end, whether he used drugs or not, Barry Bonds is an impressive athlete. One day, long after he's hit his last major league ball, he'll look in the mirror and have to answer his conscience. That's good enough for me.

Real Life Conversations at the Beach

The scene: JT is playing with some kids at the water's edge. I'm sitting with my friend S, enjoying the breeze.

Me: JT's tan isn't as dark as that little boy next to him.

S: Probably because that kid is black.

Me: Well that explains it.

Lunatic Fringe?

Another offering in my occasional series on 2008 presidential candidates.

Republican presidential candidate Ron Paul is an interesting guy. In his 72 years, he's served in the Air Force, he's been a physician (an OB/GYN), and he's served in Congress three different times. The latest, taking office in 1997 as a member of the House from Texas, has given him an opportunity to generate more of a national presence . And this isn't Paul's first bid for the presidency; he ran as the Libertarian candidate for the White House in 1988.

Paul has received a lot of attention lately, mostly because of the web-based excitement he has generated. Though he's a third-tier Republican presidential candidate, his web-based fund-raising has been impressive, raising 2.4 million in the 1st and 2nd quarters of 2007. That's real money.

Added to his fund-raising prowess, Paul's Libertarian history that has gotten folks talking about him. In an era when the voting public is so clearly divided and independent voters may be calling the shots, a candidate like Paul, because of his 3rd party background, is seen as possibly appealing to independent voters.

My response? Whatever.

Paul is a fascinating guy but his political views are unusual, some might say a tad nutty. For example, though he voted against the war in Iraq and against the American Patriot Act (two positions that found him at odds with his current political party), he's also opposed to ANY American involvement overseas. A Paul Administration would get us out of the war in Iraq and, at the same time, we'd drop out of the WTO, NATO and the UN, and curtail all American involvement overseas. That's called isolationism and it was a dismal failure the last time we tried it, right before Hitler brought the world his brand of leadership. It was alliances that brought down Hitler (and communism). It is the lack of alliances that is costing us in Iraq today. I just don't see isolation as the answer.

On immigration, Paul proposes that we totally secure our borders, kick out all illegals, end new immigration, put a stop to talk of amnesty for current illegals living in the U.S. and (this is my personal favorite) bringing an end to birthright citizenship. That ought to show the world that we are the land of hope and opportunity.

Paul doesn't want the government involved in issues of personal liberty, opposing the movement for a national identity card and taking a stand against government interference with individual's financial and medical records. This might make him appealing to young voters who favor such positions. But Paul is also opposed to the right of a woman to obtain an abortion, arguing that isn't an individual right (placing him at odds with both Libertarians and most Independent voters).

In sum, Paul is wacky. And when he's not wacky, he's downright scary. And that's why the 2008 presidential cycle will find him sans the Republican nomination, a victim of his own lunacy.

I'll Take One Progressive to Go

In the 1980s, when Ronald Reagan was the king of Republicans, he and other GOP leaders were remarkably successful at demonizing the word "Liberal." By 1988, the American public had come to have negative associations with the word, thinking it reflected a namby-pampy attitude toward both foreign policy and social issues. Liberals were blamed for the decline in American power in the world, for all manner of social problems, and for the failures of government. The word, and the ideas that is seemed to summarize, was decidedly out.

Bill Clinton, who was really a middle-of-the-road Democrat, didn't try to revive the idea. For one thing, he wasn't a Liberal in the sense of the Democratic leaders who had preceded him ----- Clinton was no Walter Mondale or Ted Kennedy. And, Democrats, just happy to be in the White House again, never really had a discussion of what they were or what they should be called. That meant that there was no real discussion of the ideology that informed their beliefs.

In a way, that was okay because we avoided the dreaded L-word. But it meant that we lacked a description of our guiding principles. Republicans called themselves Conservatives and this conveyed a range of ideas: limited government, fiscal responsibility, investment in traditional social values. But Democrats were just Democrats. And what did that mean?

Lately, I've heard the Democratic candidates for the presidency refer to themselves as Progressives. It's a nice substitute for Liberal, invoking the progressive reforms of the early 20th century; ones that created greater democracy and effective government. It's bi-partisan in a way that Liberal and Conservative are not. Progressives from back in the day were both Democrats and Republicans and they brought us such things as direct election of the U.S. Senate, child labor protection laws, the start of environmentalism, food and drug safety, the income tax (which really was a good thing, I promise), and perhaps most famously, progressives took on the power of large monopolist corporations.

It's fitting that Democrats have finally begun to define themselves, especially now when the nation seems so deeply troubled by who we are and what we believe in. We're fighting a so-called war on terror, with no notion of what kind of society we are defending. But if we can agree to be Progressives, then we will truly have something to defend. It's a way of thinking that looks forward, filled with the promise of making our collective national life better in very specific and meaningful ways.

I've Got Myself a Bike-Rider

From my vacation journal, written on 7/11/07.

When I first became a single mama, I was seized with a host of fears and anxieties. I think that this is to be expected --- it's scary enough being a parent when there are two of you, let alone suddenly finding yourself a single parent, as I did one Friday night. I'm not really sure why, but I had a tendency to focus on the most irrational of my fears. Tops on that list was the fear that I would not be able to teach my son to ride his bike without training wheels. I spent hours worrying about this problem.

JT has wanted to ride without training wheels for the last year and a half, but he's been afraid to try. Fear of failure was too great for him to manage. He's always been tentative about trying new things. Having a parent suddenly walk out didn't help. But when you are a child, so many of your daily experiences are new things. Trying something new is unavoidable. With that in mind, last summer we mastered what we could and I tried to put my anxieties on the back burner. We attempted riding without the training wheels a few times. I'd run behind holding the back of the bike, giving advice and encouragement. But he was afraid and it didn't happen. The trainers stayed on the bike throughout the fall, winter, and spring.

In the intervening year, JT has grown more confident. He's learned to master reading and the razor scooter that A & M gave him for Christmas became a big favorite. He rode it all winter long, even in the cold. When the weather turned warm, he rode for hours, whizzing up and down the street, a blur of speeding boy. It gave him confidence in the power of his body, a very good thing.

At the end of June after we had returned from California, one afternoon I casually suggested that we remove the training wheels and practice riding his bike on the grass, where a fall would hurt less. To my surprise, he was willing to give it a try. So we took off the training wheels and brought the bike to the backyard. He had much better balancing skills and was nearly an instant success. We moved to the driveway and then to the front yard. He was riding without training wheels!

But he still couldn't start off without my hand to stabilize the back of the bike. So that was our task at the campground on our first Monday. There was a nice paved road ringing our campsite. He and I both knew that road could provide hours of bike-riding fun. But he'd need to start off on his own. We spent about 20 minutes practicing before he had mastered the skill. Now he can ride on his own, stopping and starting as he pleases. It's a beautiful thing to behold. As of this writing, he's already pedaled several miles around the campsite and we still have 9 more days of vacation.

It's somehow fitting that just as I complete my first year as a single mama (and have lived to tell the tale), JT has mastered a skill I worried I would be unable to teach him. Nearly every day, I still wonder why it is that Lisa left. I wish that I didn't have to be a parent alone. But every day of every week; month after month, with the immeasurable help and support of family and friends, I am raising this boy to be a strong, independent young man. And whether the task I face as a parent is little or big, I am beginning to believe that I can do it.

Tiger Rules

I finally figured out a reason to use the Photobooth application on my computer ------ to snap a picture of Tiger, sitting on my lap while I try to write. Tiger insists on this arrangement despite its discomfort for everyone involved. Why? Because he's a cat, that's why.

Bodies and Beaches

From my vacation journal, written on 7/8/07.

For as long as I can remember, I have had, at best, an ambivalent relationship with my body. At worst, I really hated my body. This led to the usual host of problems, as you might expect. When my partner first walked out on me last year, my immediate response was to retreat to my old set of comfortable anxieties about my body and assume that she left me because I wasn't thin and beautiful. I stopped eating, not by design, really, but because I simply could not eat. I picked up the pace on my eliptical trainer, sometimes running twice a day.

And miraculously, as I used my body more and more for tasks requiring strength (keeping up with the garden, hauling laundry up and down two flights of stairs, chasing a busy six year old, and, of course, the magical eliptical), I came to accept the body that I have. I don't have slim hips or slender thighs and I never will. Without the right sports bra, I am in danger of getting a black eye. But I am strong and sturdy. And my body gives me the power to do all the things that I need it to do. I can lift 60 pounds of boy and carry him upstairs when he falls asleep in the car. I can unload the groceries and carry heavy bags onto the front-porch without breaking a sweat. I can carry my book-laden school bag, laptop computer and lunch bag and run up the stairs at work (quicker than the teenagers anyway). I can easily peddle 6 miles with JT on the pull-behind bike. I can run 4 miles on the eliptical and enjoy the fact that I am hot and sweaty afterward. My body no longer feels like it's holding me back. It feels powerful.

But perhaps the greatest sign that I have come to accept my body came at the beach on the first Sunday of my vacation. We had ridden our bikes there and the time came to change into my swimsuit. There is no official place to do so at this beach and so I wiggled out of my shorts and t-shirt (and the steel sports bra) and changed right there in the open. Then, wearing my swimsuit, and with actual confidence in my body, I walked along the beach with the boys. I may not be the skinniest girl on the beach, but damn it, I can outrun some of those skinny girls. And I am strong.

I often joke in a self-deprecating manner that my body was built for comfort, not for speed. That's still basically the case. But now I like this body; I'm comfortable in it. After nearly 40 years in this skin, that's an unexpectedly delightful discovery.