Eulogy

On July 4, 2001, I watched my son take his very first breath. Five years later, almost to the very hour, I watched my stepfather take his last. There are many things that I could say about my stepfather but there isn't any easy or concise way to explain what he meant to me. So, I thought I would share a letter that he wrote to me on my 30th birthday. I hope the letter will show you the kind of man he was and the kind of love he showed us all.

August 31, 1998

Hi Vikki

I know you don't wish to hear about it but that dreaded "30" has crept up on you just as it did with us all! Anyway, Happy Birthday with all my thoughts and love just for you!

As a stepfather, I reflect back to many, many happy thoughts of you as a small girl, the things we did together. I can still see you clearly fighting to get up on a pair of little red skis. Oh, how you cried, "I can't do this!" The lake went up about a foot from all those tears! Then, a few years later, I was so proud of you when you skied slalom. You were so determined then as you are now!

Another time, we went car shopping for your first car and came upon that very ugly duckling you named Freddy Fiat. You said, "I can't drive a clutch. I can't drive a stick shift". But, we went down on Swartz Road one evening and you drove and drove until you mastered the stick shift. This brought on even more tears.

Then came the day Mom and I drove you to a college in far away Iowa. We took all of your worldy possessions into your dorm and made small talk before letting you off by the library. We said our goodbyes and you said, "I'll be fine". As we drove off, I looked in the rear view mirror to see you walk away and, now, I can tell you it was my turn to have tears in my eyes!

As always, you have been determined to complete what you set out to do and I am sure more tears came with the struggle. I can only hope the next thirty plus years are as kind to you as they have been to me and that you will have as many good memories of the past as I have.

All my love,

Les

Going to Kansas City

It was just a month ago when my family spoke of platelets, white blood cell counts and hemoglobin numbers. There was chemo and transfusions and hope for a few of those good days the doctors kept promising with each new treatment. Then, about a week ago, my stepfather said that he wanted nothing more. I was relieved and was ready for his pain to be over.

I was safe in Minneapolis with my own family and friends. I had geographical and emotional distance which lend themselves nicely to my defense mechanism of choice: intellectualization. I could provide support and suggest questions for the hospice nurse and social worker. I could review with my mother the health care directives that my stepfather had signed. I could do what I have always done in our family...I could guide them. I had made peace with the fact that I would never see my stepfather alive again. I planned to come down as soon as he died to help make arrangements and to provide support for my mother and sister. Then, something I never expected happened...my mother asked me to come help her care for him in his last days.

I came up with a long list of reasons why I could not help. I have no vacation or sick time. I have two small children. Our house is under construction and it's pretty chaotic right now. In the end, I realized that I needed to do it. So, I made arrangements with my supervisor to take Family Medical Leave and began planning with my family. I planned to fly to Kansas City for the last week of his life. I would keep in touch with the hospice nurse so that I would have information to help me decide when it was the right time to go.

I did not expect that time would come so quickly. I did not expect that my sister would call me on Friday morning and tell me that he had gotten much worse. I did not expect to miss my son's birthday. Yet, here I am in Kansas City, blogging on my mother's computer. I don't know what the next several days will hold.

Boy or Girl

It starts early, the need to define children by their gender. The pink or blue cards on the hospital bassinets, the color coded baby blankets and onesies. My 9 pound baby boy was described as a “linebacker” and my 9 pound baby girl was simply a “big girl”. The hospital is only the beginning…the assumptions people make based on gender never end, the need to categorize people continues throughout life. Because of all of this, I believed that the environment was the primary determinant of gender expression. I believed that, in the absence of gender expectations, there would be no absolutes. Then, I had children.

When we saw that penis in the ultrasound, we were excited by the opportunity to raise an incredible man to send out into the world. We believed that our son, raised by two lesbians, would be free to express himself in any way he chose. We would encourage him to wear pink, to slap on a pair of fairy wings, to flit about in meadows and to play with dolls. Our son would be strong and sensitive – he would take on the world but be able to process his emotions with the best of ‘em. When we allowed him to express himself, however, he became a different person than we imagined. There are no fairy wings – there are basketball jerseys and soccer uniforms. There is very little flitting about on tip toes - there is running and jumping and shouting. He doesn’t want to wear pink – he likes bolder colors. People see him out in the world and say he is “all boy”. We cringe because we know he fits the stereotype. He is the strong and sensitive boy we hoped for, though the image of what that looks like has changed for us. Ultimately, he is just Miguel. This is who he is.

When I got pregnant the second time, we assumed we would have another boy and I was excited to have a shot at a different boy experience. That was not to be – we had a girl. Zeca is only 16 months old and we don’t know who she will become. For now, she is chubby cheeks, brown eyes, strong legs and a stout package of determination. In public, people refer to her as “he” and it’s hard to know if it is the lack of hair or her way in the world. I fight the urge to tell people that she is not actually a “he”. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter because she’ll be put into a box soon enough. For now, we choose her clothes and her style but someday that will change and we no longer pretend to know what she will look like. We hope for certain things but prepare ourselves for others.

Gender expression is so much more complicated than nature versus nurture. The two can never be separated. I have come to realize that if I truly want my children to be free to express themselves, I must allow all possibilities – not just those that fit with my politics. It’s hard. I still picture that sports-shunning, fairy boy and I can’t help but hope for a girl that frowns at the frills and bows but, ultimately, they are my children and I adore them in all of their complexity.

Taking Shape

I haven't posted any pictures or updates on our addition lately. We have been busy choosing light fixtures, fans, paint colors, flooring and woodwork. The recent progress has been dramatic and it seems like most things will be finished in the next couple of weeks. They are painting the rooms right now. Next week, they are laying the hardwood floors and doing the tile. The carpet for the upstairs master bedroom will be last. They will also finish the external siding next week. Check out our new bedroom!

My Apologies to Betty Friedan

This morning, as I was buckling Miguel into his car seat, I said, "I love you so much! Do you know that?" He asked, "Do you love me even though I killed a spider?" I said that I did but would prefer that he didn't kill things because every living thing has a purpose in the world. We then discussed the roles that various insects and animals play in keeping balance in life. We discussed aphids and ladybugs, mosquitos and bats and lions and gazelles. He then asked, "What do people do?" While my cynical mind turned over a multitude of terrible things we do in the world, he spoke again, "I know what a mom is supposed to do...clean the house!"

Let the Chips Fall...

Last week, I ate a bag of Frito Lay Fritos and I glistened like a shiny salt lick for the rest of the day. I don’t know why I chose the Fritos – I never ate them as a child and that is my usual impetus for bad food choices. Today, I went to grab a sandwich and decided to pick up some chips to go with it. The only chips offered at the deli were Miss Vickie’s. I had never heard of Miss Vickie’s chips and, despite the fleeting thought that Vikki eating Vickie’s chips might somehow bring bad luck, I picked up a bag of Lime and Black Pepper chips. I’ve never really come across this particular flavor combination despite Miss Vickie’s assurance that she “crafted this recipe to bring you the flavor of a less hurried time”. I’m not sure what about a black pepper and potato limeade brings back the days of old but I could be missing something, being all hurried and modern as I am. As I crunched and cringed, I did a little research on the brand. I wondered, “Who is this Miss Vickie and why is everything on her chip bags written in English and French?” Well, I did not find the answers to those burning questions but I did find out that Miss Vickie’s chips are made by Frito Lay. My bad chip choices have come full circle.

Priorities

It’s easy to drown in the details of daily life. We lose ourselves in lunches to be prepared, appointments to schedule, laundry, dishes, errands to run – an endless set of tasks on our mental “to do” lists. Sometimes, it feels like there are countless things to remember, countless things to do to keep a household with two young children running smoothly. I leave those details behind only to go to work and drown in the chaos and drama created by co-workers who have Borderline Personality Disorder. I clench my jaw and become consumed with lost files, tense e-mail conversations and fears about my professional reputation. It is easy to don the negativity like a ratty old jacket, zipped up tight. It’s easy, so very easy, to be lost.

Then, something happens. I return home and my partner is making food for a picnic and the children are excitedly circling. We go to Lake Harriet and the evening is impossibly perfect, filled with children and friends, laughter and conversation. We get to watch our goofy boy perform on stage, get to hear him sing like we know he can but hasn’t in a single rehearsal. We get to see our baby, who is becoming more of a little girl every day, walk unsteadily down a hill, lose her balance and roll the rest of the way down only to stand up at the bottom and laugh. We see our children hugging and kissing their friends, their arms draped casually over each others shoulders, a comfort that is truly a gift. We watch the children playing tag and their smiles are large enough to make my headache fade and my jaw relax and my lips curl into a smile for the first time since waking. The sun is setting over the lake and we must all say goodbye. The children call out to each other as we walk to our cars and they are content. They say goodbye without tantrums or begging because they are full, their time together has been enough. We drive home, my partner’s hand on my leg, our son sleeping in the back seat, our daughter babbling and playing with her toes and I am, once again, overcome with the realization that there is nothing more important than a sense of belonging. There is nothing more important than recognizing that you are surrounded by so much love. We carry our children into the house and they settle into their beds. The house falls quiet and, as we sit together and reflect on the beauty of this evening, I find that I am free from that ratty old jacket. My body holds no more tension and everything is in perspective…

Camp

Miguel and his friend, Luca, started at Camp Kici Yapi on Monday. Miguel loved camp so much that he came home after the first day and told us that he was sad. We asked why and he said that he was sad because there were only 4 more days of camp left. On Monday, Luisa dropped him off. Yesterday, The Mistress of the Flans dropped him off. Today, it was my turn and we talked about it this morning.

Miguel: You haven’t dropped me off at the bus yet, have you?
Me: No, today is the first time.
Miguel: Are you excited to see me ride the bus by myself?
Me: Of course.
Miguel: I go all by myself. You don’t go with me.
Me: (Miguel now snuggling in my lap) I know. Would you like to stay home and cuddle with me all day instead?

He quickly pulled back and looked me straight in the face, his smile unsure and his head tilted in suspicion. He responded, “nahhhh” and gave a nervous laugh. We cuddled until leaving for camp. We picked up Luca and, as we drove to the Y, they chanted:

Cherries on cheesecake
Cherries in a pie
Cherry bus is number 1
And we’re the reason why!
Yay Cherry Bus!

Their smiles were incredible, so full of joy and so carefree. Their bodies vibrated with happiness and I could feel it when I rubbed against their little bodies. We waited on the sidewalk for the bus to come and they did their own thing. I watched them talking to other kids, watched Miguel play so sweetly with a little girl close in age to his sister, watched them twitch and dance in anticipation. The bus arrived and before I could envelope them in my arms for hugs and goodbyes, they were out of reach. Luca was already in her seat and Miguel was on the stairs of the bus. He looked back at me, gave me the biggest smile of the day – the smile that said, “Do you see me? Can you believe this?” and I smiled back. He scrambled onto the bus and into his seat. He poked his face out of the bus window and yelled, “Did I forget anything?” As much as I wanted to tell him that he forgot to hug me, I yelled back, “Honey, you have everything you need!” The bus pulled quickly away and I could see him waving to me as they turned the corner and disappeared.

Ethics 101

Good morning class. We have a very interesting ethical dilemma to consider today. Yes, in the back, Mr. Taylor is it? Yes, you’ll have a chance to argue your points. Take out your notebooks and let’s get started!

Let’s say that you decide to return to work full-time and that you must put your youngest child in day care. You have never used a day care center before, so, you search the city you live in for the ideal place for your child. You see all sorts of places that seem to have taken their decorating tips, and possibly some of their staff, from Russian orphanages. After an extensive search, you find the perfect place for your child. The environment is beautiful, the center follows the Montessori philosophy, and all of the people you meet appear to be kind, loving people. You sign up on the spot, despite the high cost.

Your child starts at the center when she is 9 months old and everything is working out well. She bonds with her caregivers. The teachers prove themselves to be the lovely people you thought they were. Your child thrives. The months pass by and your child is now 15 months old. You spend a morning hanging out in your child’s classroom and discover that your child’s teachers do not have health insurance. The management of the day care center will only pay half of the cost of insurance, so, neither of the teachers can afford it because they are also underpaid. One of the teachers is an older woman who tells you that she cannot afford to pay for the doctor’s visit to get the prescription for her blood pressure medication renewed. You ask what she will do and she tells you that she will have to stop taking the medication. They cannot qualify for Minnesota Care because the employer pays a certain amount of their health insurance costs. You may assume that the teachers did not disclose these things to you to gain your sympathy or assistance. This conversation took place in the context of a larger conversation about how the world has gone to shit…ahem, I mean that the world is facing a set of unique challenges.

Now, what do you do in this situation? Do you:

a)Do nothing because it’s not your fault and there is nothing that you can do anyway
b)Ignore the issue and spend more time talking to the teachers about the weather
c)Discuss your concerns about fair pay and health insurance with the management in hopes of creating change, though you may cause trouble for the staff or be asked to leave a day care center that you really like and your child likes
d)Research alternative health care options for the staff and present your findings to them
e)Remove your child from the school in protest, though you have been told that issues of fair pay and health insurance occur in every day care center
f)Research unions for day care workers and provide that information to the staff
g)Stop talking to the teachers and wear dark glasses when you drop off and pick up your child
h)Eat lots of chocolate

There are many more options and you could certainly do any combination of the options listed above. What would you do and why? Please leave your assignments in my comment box and, if you have questions, I’ll be in the corner eating a candy bar…

Top Ten

When I became a parent, I knew I would say things I swore I would never say to my kids. Realistically, I knew I might let loose with the occasional "Because I said so" or "Because I am your mother" or "I've had it". Here are a few of the things I have said that I never could have imagined...

10. Stop pulling my eye lids!

9. We do not stand on top of tables.

8. You cannot go to school wearing only a belt.

7. Please stop putting your sister in that box.

6. Yes, I'm sure Spider Man has a penis under his suit.

5. Please don't rub your butt on my pillow.

4. If you lick your sister one more time, you are going to your room!

3. Spiders don't go grocery shopping.

2. No pickin', no pokin', no flickin' (boogers, of course)

And, the number one thing I never could have imagined saying...

1. When you are an adult, you can ask someone to touch your ravioli penis.

The Good, The Bad and The Pathogically Messy

As you know, we have been adding on to our house. In March, Paul Pope (Pope Builders) began tearing off our old 3 season porch and building a new, two story, two room addition and half bath. Paul and his crew have been easy to work with, reliable - a joy, really. In honor of Pope Builders, I have written a haiku:

A Haiku for Pope Builders

You come to my house
Build two huge rooms and a bath
Lovely work – no mess

Check out the most recent pic of their fabulous work:

We have never really had a good experience with a contractor. We generally have the Local News Insider Exposé kind of experience. We had our bathroom remodeled in 1999 and, let's just say, we were out of our house for five weeks and the whole bad experience culminated with our bikes being stolen. You may be wondering, "How can a bathroom remodel lead to bike theft?" Yeah, it boggles the mind doesn't it? Anyway, yesterday, we had a guy (not affiliated with Pope Builders) come to spray our living room and dining room ceilings with that textured stuff. I came home yesterday to a complete mess. Most of the furniture and floors were covered in a 1/4 inch of white dust. Plastery gunk had been tracked all the way upstairs and was ground into the carpet runner. The glop was all over the landing and on our beautiful bathroom tile. It was ground into our bath mat. We found plaster in our antique claw foot tub. I'm pretty sure they invented utility sinks in basements for that purpose. I just don't understand the thought process: "Should I mix plaster in this person's clawfoot tub cast in 1913 or should I mix it in the grungy utility sink in the basement? I think I'll go with the nice tub." The man splashed water all over the toilet and bathroom floor. Inexplicably, there was plaster on my hostas in the front yard. He did not bother to clean any of this up. Miguel, at the tender age of 4, walked into the house and said, "What a mess!" Now, if a 4 year old can figure that out, why can't a contractor? We had to go out to dinner, come home to put our dusty children in their beds and spend the rest of our evening cleaning. Luisa called the guy today and informed him that it would be best for all concerned if he did not return. Oh, I didn't mention that he only did one of the two ceilings? Yeah. So, in honor (or dishonor, I suppose) I offer the following haiku:

A Haiku for Mark the Ceiling Sprayer

You spray one ceiling
Mix plaster in my cool tub
Children think you’re dumb

Over Easy

I was on my way to the elevator when I saw a co-worker coming towards me. He smiled broadly and said loudly, "Eighteen eggs this morning!" Turns out, he was not sharing the news of a rather impressive breakfast. No, this was the number of eggs retrieved from his wife's ovaries this morning. Considering I barely know this man and have never had anything resembling a personal conversation with him, I think I would prefer "hello" from here on out.

Waves

It’s strange what can make you wistful. By “you”, of course, I mean “me” but I’m trying to be inclusive here. One moment, you are going 50 miles per hour in the bow of a speedboat, a gaggle of laughing children around you and you can’t help but laugh too because you have never seen anything funnier than children’s cheeks flapping in the wind while they sing Scooby Dooby Doo at the top of their lungs. The next moment, you are crying - not because of the 50 mile per hour wind and bugs in your eyes but because of a big ol’ wave of nostalgia that drags you out of the moment. You remember another boat and other people laughing and as your mind is perusing that other speedboat – the speedboat in a past life – your eyes finally land on the driver of that boat. The driver just happens to be your father and he is smiling and laughing his deep and subtle laugh that rumbles and resonates in your chest. In that moment, you realize that your father is one of the few people in life that made you feel really safe and you start to cry because you are going to lose him very soon. Then, just like that, you hear the children screaming again, screaming because waves are so incredible and because speed and Scooby Doo are so darn funny. You are back in the moment and can laugh again. You wrap your arms around those children and you sing along and the moment is somehow sweeter.

Extreme Makeover

1. Blog Edition

As you can see, I have made some dramatic changes around here. I know I have broken one of the main blogging commandments - Thou shalt not change things too often. Still, I wanted a new look. I plan on sticking with this one for awhile. Let me know what you think. Those of you who lurk here (and you know who you are) - take this as an invitation to actually leave a comment.

2. Government Center Edition

It's day two here on the flooded 14th floor. Here are a few pics of the new look in my work place.












If you think the pictures look great, you should smell the new look.

3. Addition Edition

I came home last night to the most dramatic progress on our addition yet. When they first dug the foundation, I was convinced that the addition was going to be too small. Now, I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the enormity. You can barely even see the old house.

4. Oldest Child Edition

When we picked up Miguel from school yesterday, we received the following note from his teacher:

Dear Mothers,

Miguel will need a good shampoo tonight to remove the shoe polish.

Fondly,

Mrs. Raasch

Should this ever happen* to your child, let me just tell you - that shit doesn't come out. No matter how much shampoo you use. No matter how hard you scrub. It does - not - come - out.

*The word "happen" of course implies that your child was an innocent victim to a drive-by polishing. I can't really say that this "happened" to my son. There was no other party involved in the polishing. No other child did this to him. No other child encouraged him to do this. No, my son decided to polish his head all by himself. You can imagine our pride...

Catastrophe Team

A water main burst on the 14th floor of the Government Center and half of it is flooded. I work on the 14th floor. Let me just say that the carpet here is very old. The maintenance staff no longer regularly vaccum because of budget cuts. We have had a terrible mouse infestation since I started here 9 years ago. Water...mouse urine...dirt - imagine the smell that the giant fans are blowing around in here.

There are men wandering around wearing black t-shirts that read "Catastrophe Team". If I could get one of those shirts, this would all be worthwhile.

Mothers' Day

At 1 a.m. Miguel yells for me from his bedroom. He relays the details of a horrible nightmare in which he built something and someone knocked it down. I assure him that he was dreaming, that neither building nor knocking has occurred. Zeca also wakes up but she is crying, standing up in her crib rattling the bars. We can only assume she has had a terrible dream in which someone built something and she knocked it down. She is wracked with guilt and Luisa gives her a pacifier and a back rub.

At 5:45 a.m., Miguel wakes up and begins yelling for us. I go in to tell him that it is too early and that he needs to go back to sleep. He tells me that it is Mother’s Day and he wants to make coffee for us…got up early to make coffee for us…needs to make coffee for us right now. By 6:15 a.m., we are all downstairs and I am supervising the making of my Mother’s Day coffee. By 6:30 a.m., I am cleaning up the mess made during the making of the Mother’s Day coffee. At 7 a.m., Luisa and I are preparing breakfast for the children. By 7:30 a.m., we are cleaning up the breakfast dishes. We each grab a Luna Bar and try to have coffee. We sit down to read the paper but there are many demands for attention which detract from the reading of the newspaper. I manage to look through a few ads and Luisa manages a couple of editorials. Zeca is removing all of the books from the bookshelf. Miguel is playing prairie dog on the couch which involves throwing all of the cushions on the floor. By 8 a.m., toys are strewn all over the entire downstairs. Interestingly, neither child is actually playing with any toys. It is raining outside and we are all bored.

The hours between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. are a blur of Luisa nagging Miguel, me nagging Luisa, Zeca crying because she is not allowed to destroy various objects in the house and Miguel occasionally yelling at us that we are the meanest mothers in the world and will not be getting Mother’s Day cards next year. I begin to grit my teeth and glower. I consider locking myself in the bathroom but decide Luisa would rather deal with moody me than be left alone with the children. We decide to go to Ikea to get a dresser for Zeca and to drop Miguel off at the ball pit where he can climb and jump.

We drop Miguel off at the Ikea ball pit, plop Zeca in a cart and proceed into the store. Ikea is virtually empty and I imagine all of the other mothers having their Mother’s Day brunches or breakfast in bed or receiving numerous bouquets of flowers or gorging on chocolates in their beds. Zeca cries because she doesn’t want to sit in the cart. I explain to her calmly that she must remain in the cart. She continues to cry. I give her cranberries and she stops crying. We select a dresser and return to the ball pit to pick up Miguel. It’s lunch time and we have no food at home for lunch. Cranberries do not an entree make and there is nothing else in the diaper bag. We decide to eat at the Ikea cafeteria. We find a table among the elderly mothers that seem to have come to Ikea just for the Swedish Meatballs. We sit down to enjoy our Festival of Carbs, though “enjoy” is generous. As we leave Ikea, Miguel asks when we are going to do something fun.

We return home and put Zeca down for her nap. Miguel goes to his room for “quiet time” which consists of him yelling “Happy Mother’s Day” to Luisa from his bedroom window while she mows the lawn. He gets louder and louder so that she can hear him over the mower. While Luisa mows the lawn, I pick up all of the toys and take out the trash. I also make the grocery list. When Luisa finishes the lawn, she comes inside and I take Miguel to do the grocery shopping. While we are shopping, Luisa does the bills.

We return from shopping and Luisa puts the groceries away while I call my mother to wish her happy Mother’s Day. She says nothing about the card I sent, nor the Visa gift card I got for her. I finally ask her if she received them. She says that she did and that she doesn’t even know how to use the Visa gift card. There is a five minute discussion of how to use the card that concludes with her saying “humph” rather than anything resembling a thank you. I am fuming and call my sister to complain. My sister is very sweet to me. While I luxuriate in my sister’s kindness, the children wander around the house leaving a wake of toys in their path. I get off the phone and begin making lasagna for dinner. We decide to invite our friends (Raquel, Susan and their daughter Luca) over for dinner because they just returned from Ohio and probably don’t have food at their house. They say they will be over right after they unpack. Miguel spends the next 45 minutes asking us when they are going to get there.

They arrive and we have a lovely dinner and a bottle of wine. Miguel plays with Luca and Zeca performs all of her most adorable tricks. We have snippets of adult conversation…the first of such snippets all day. At 7:30 p.m., Luisa puts Zeca to bed and Miguel and Luca play quietly in his room. We have actual adult conversation. My jaw unclenches…could be the wine, could be the conversation. Around 8 p.m. the “clean up the mess in the bedroom” negotiations begin. I go up to check it out and am horrified to see that nearly every inch of Miguel’s floor is covered in books, toys and clothing. I tell the children to clean it up. They come down at 8: 15 p.m. and say that it is clean. I don’t believe them but I am tired and don’t care anymore. Our friends leave and I take Miguel up to bed. I walk into his room and it is immaculate. He is beaming and says, “See, I told you I would do something nice for you today”. I want to cry. We snuggle into his bed and he tells me in a fake French accent…”Zee keeds, zey like to eat zee boogers”. I respond in the same accent, “Zat eeze gross”. We laugh. He rubs my cheek and says he loves me. I hold his small hand and tell him that I love him too. He drifts off to sleep. The house is finally quiet. I go back downstairs where Luisa is doing the dishes. I pick up all the toys and make the coffee for the next day. We prepare tomorrow’s lunches. We sit down at 9 p.m.

Just another day for these mothers…

ADDENDUM:

Luisa called to suggest that, perhaps, my account of the day was the tiniest bit harsh. I didn't mean to describe a day that would drive people to drink or to give the impression that we are bitter, unhappy people. I was simply struck with the difference between the Mother's Day that is marketed by Hallmark and an actual day in the life of a mother with small children. So, I offer the following disclaimer:

Vikki and Luisa are happy, well-adjusted women raising two wonderful children. They love their children (and each other) dearly and would not change their lives for anything.

There, I've disclaimed. Besides, how I could I not love these little people...

Overheard in the Government Center Elevator

Woman (to man): You are retiring soon, right?

Man: Yes, August of 2007

My subconscious: It is hot in here and someone has been smoking.

Woman: You don’t have it down to the days?

Man: 449 days

My subconscious: Why do so many middle aged men working for Hennepin County wear Hawaiian print shirts?

Woman: And have you settled on a place to retire?

Man: Yes, we have decided on Bismarck.

My subconscious: Hmmm…there must be another Bismarck. Maybe there is a Bismarck in Germany…

Woman: Do you have family in North Dakota?

My subconscious: Man – Be gentle when you mock her for thinking that you would move to North Dakota.

Man: No, it’s #28 on Kiplinger’s list of great places to live.

My subconscious: Retiring to North Dakota?!? Please, if there is a god, don’t let me work at the county so long as to believe life would be better in Bismarck.

A Fast One

Remember how I was complaining about my boring workday and how the most exciting thing I did was wrestle with an industrial size stapler? Well, I'm yearning for that simpler time...

We are incredibly busy at work. If you sell Cuisinarts on commission, busy is great news. If you are a social worker who investigates abuse, not so much. We are investigating record numbers of abuse/neglect/exploitation cases right now which does not say much about the current state of the world.

I have 20 cases to close and about 20 more to open. I hate it when work gets in the way of blogging.

So, I just wanted to post some exciting pictures to keep you all updated on the construction progress at my house. I was looking in through what will be the windows and actually pictured art on the walls. I am way past the angst of the fork in the road and am downright thrilled.

911

Luisa and I are in the kitchen preparing dinner. Zeca is hanging on to my pant leg, begging for food. We hear beeping from the living room, the sounds of the buttons on the cordless phone. I enter the living room and find Miguel sitting on the couch with the phone in his hand.

Me: Miguel, what are you doing?

Miguel: I'm going to call 911.

Me: If you call 911 and the police come to the house and there is no emergency, you will get into a lot of trouble.

Miguel: When the police come to arrest you, do they already know which jail they are going to take you to?

Me: Honey, the police don't usually take kids to jail.

Miguel: So, they would probably just take me to juvy?


Who is this kid hanging out with?

Too Much

I haven’t slept well in days. Zeca and I both have bad colds, Miguel seems to have lost the ability to cover himself at night and, on Saturday night, I had those 7 tiny pomegranate martinis and 2 beers. That said, I don’t have high hopes for wit and coherence here. Lower your expectations right now.

Saturday night was the Lake Country School auction. I’ve gone to this event for years and always have a fabulous time. I mill about bidding on the silent auction items. I stop by the Marketplace and buy some Lake Country apparel and paraphernalia. I chat, joke and laugh with people I barely know (which is no easy task for an introvert). I feel all bubbly and happy and a part of something bigger than myself. I even start to feel like I am just like everyone else there, like we all have so much in common. Then, the live auction begins.

The big ticket item at the auction this year was a trip for six to a private home in Telluride, Colorado. The trip included travel by private jet, gourmet meals (including one provided by a top chef), private ski lessons, skiing or other outdoor activities and massages. The estimated value of the trip was $14,500 and it was donated by a family at the school. The bidding began at around $3,000 (I can’t remember exactly because of the aforementioned martinis). My friends and I stood in awe as the people around us kept raising their hands and the bidding…$5,000, $10,000, $15,000 – sold for $17,000. Then, five minutes later the family that donated the trip decided to offer another to the second highest bidder, the guy who bid $16,500. In moments, the school had raised $33,500. I could never offer such a trip (let alone, two) nor could I ever afford to bid on such a trip. It is fun to be around that kind of money but it also made me a bit sick to my stomach. Granted, it could have been the pomegranate martinis and all the free pork but I really think it was the wealth.

On the outside, I am a middle class, educated professional but, inside, I am working class just like my parents. My mother grew up poor – didn’t have an indoor bathroom poor, lost everything in a flood poor, three to a bed poor. She graduated from high school and became a typesetter for a printing company. My father owned a small bar in our working class neighborhood. As a kid, I remember a generalized feeling of stress around issues of work, insurance and money but my basic needs were always met. I remember being told that I could not have certain things because we did not have the money for them but those were extra things, not needed things. I never knew that my parents could barely make ends meet. I didn’t know that my mother hocked her jewelry one year to buy me Christmas presents. I didn’t know that she had to work overtime to pay for my guitar lessons. Even though my parents shielded me from some of the hard truths, somehow, that working class experience still shaped the person I have become. Even though I probably make more than my parents made combined, I worry more about money than just about anything else. I worry that we don’t have enough money, that we won’t have enough tomorrow, that we can’t do the things we need to do for our children. Sometimes, for an added twist (and because I am so good at this), I worry that we have too much, that we do too much for our children, that they are spoiled and will grow up feeling entitled. I alternate between an overwhelming sense of privilege and associated guilt and a desperate sense that tomorrow is the day when everything will fall to pieces and I will have to make my children’s clothes out of paper bags and duct tape.

So, it’s surreal for me to stand next to a person who can bid $17,000 for a vacation, seemingly without much thought. I have to force myself to focus on the school. I can’t allow my mind to wander or my working and middle class sensibilities begin to plot an uprising. It’s just too much…too much money, too much comfort, too much ease – just too much. I have to remind myself that the money is for this very special school. I have to think about the values of Lake Country and that those values have nothing to do with wealth and privilege. I have to think about the school’s focus on independent thought and community service. I have to think about my son’s love of his school and I have to reflect on all that it has given him. Then, I can applaud the winning bidders. I can laugh and drink and play Twister – my middle class self all tangled up with the rich.