Tomorrow is Another Day

Amen.
Let's just say anything I wrote yesterday has been thrown out with today's bathwater. Lucky the baby didn't go out there, too.
Hope December brings good tidings and good listening....
ARGH!

Virginia Slim

Well, today was one of those days where Diego is lucky he is so damn cute. Public meltdowns are my least favorite flavor of melts. This was the kind where everyone smiles at me, sympathetically, and there are comments like "I remember those days," or "I don't miss that age," or my favorite, "He's hiding over there, mom."

Yes. After dragging a kicking, screaming, flailing, hair pulling, face scratching, slapping child upside down and over my shoulder out of the bookstore, he actually flipped out of my arms as I was trying to put him down on his feet (it should be noted he was also screaming, "want to walk by yourself" so I was trying to be accommodating) thrust himself backward with such force that the brick sidewalk probably cracked, if not the back of his head. Of course, the folks walking into the entrance, greeted by this lovely holiday sight, were clucking their teeth at me as if to scold me for being completely unable to control my child. If I say I wasn't concerned about his head at that moment will I come off as a terrible mother? Outwardly I did react with sympathy though my insides were seething with a sort of embarrassed rage. I had to hold the kid down between my legs as I fumbled for the car keys, because he tried to dart out into a busy parking lot when I was searching (why is there so much crap that feels like keys at the bottom of my bag on days like this) and then I had to intercept him when he tried to open the car door and hop out while I was getting in the front seat. I got a leg cramp trying to buckle him in the carseat. I didn't get angry. I didn't yell. I might have lectured a wee bit on that ride home, between his shrieking directives to turn the car around and go back to the store, but I did not let it get personal. I tried to breathe calmly and to sympathize with how he was feeling. I might have not felt something close to composure, or even compassion, but I did manage to fake it well. You see, back in the store I had made the mistake of bribing him (with chocolate milk) if his behavior was good, which it turned out not to be. So when I told him there would be no chocolate milk, he just went ballistic.

However, there was a moment of truth in the car. I said to him, "You know, you shouldn't behave nicely to get a treat. You should do it because it feels good in your --" I paused here, for effect, and then, before I could go on, Diego chocked back a sob in the backseat and spoke clearly. He said, "Your heart."

I felt like those women in the old Virginia Slims ads, remember? "You've come a long way, baby."

We're Not There Yet...

So today I went with Diego to one of our favorite haunts, the library. As much as I enjoy spending time in the children's section, I sometimes wish I could wander over to the adult stacks and pick a book for myself, one that can't be read in five minutes, one that doesn't rhyme...
We spent the requisite hour and forty minutes in the Ingrid Boyer Room, a wonderful fantasia built to make children adore books for life, replete with treehouses, a secret window (a relic from the original building, uncovered in the renovation and expansion of the library a few years back, really cool) and more toys, puppets and art supplies than any child could exhaust in a day's visit. After picking out and reading several stories, solving an array of puzzles, and even giving in to renting a few DVDs, I wondered aloud if we could chance a visit to the adult area, where I knew the exact location of several craft books I wanted to borrow in anticipation of the coming holiday season. A friendly (and probably childless) librarian said, "I think he's ready. He can handle it, mom!" So after a brief discussion of appropriate "adult section" behavior and a bribe or two, we were off, hand in hand, to the quiet part of the building.
I should have known that this was a mistake. Within the first step into the frigid, adult region, Diego piped up, "It's not noisy in here!" I took him firmly by the arm and quickly scanned the numbers posted on the stacks, found our row, and led him to the very end. There, the windows line the wall and make a sort of perfect seat for curling up with a book--or marching down the entire wall, complete with the animated step of a soldier. Yikes...I grabbed a few of his books and tried to quietly tempt him back toward our row. He literally sneered at me, I think, as if to say, "Yeah, right" and then proudly started jumping up and down, shouting "I like to move it move it, you like to move it move it, they like to move it move it, we like to--MOVE IT!"

Needless to say, we won't be trying that again.

Thanksgiving as a Jewish Holiday

Tonight my Uncle, as brilliant and nutty as only he can be, informed our family (who at best, can remember the prayers for the wine and the bread, and are token High Holiday Jews) that Thanksgiving is actually a take-off on Hannukah. Of course, I was like, no way. You must be thinking of Sukkot, which is a harvest holiday. No, this was also false. Shavout is actually the true harvest holiday and Sukkot actually stems from some other misfortunate time in the Jewish history of persecution when our ancestors didn't have time to build houses, on the lam, so just created lean-to shacks in which to live while they fled some other terror. At this point my head began to whirl as everything I ever learned in Hebrew School (between flooding the toilets in the girls bathroom by stuffing paper towels in them til they stopped up, and doing other small acts of vandalism and terror of my own brand as the faithful rebel I was) spun around in my mixed up mind and spilled out between my ears. I sputtered some nonesense and of course, as any good 21st century civilian would, ran to the safety net of Google to fact check this gibberish.
Well, as it turned out, in a funny way we're both right.
I quote: "In their original form, Hannukah and Purim, like the American holiday of Thanksgiving, are celebrations of thanks and honor to God for His intervention and blessings. The way some Americans celebrate Thanksgiving is far removed from the original intenet, but that does not alter the real meaning and significance of the day."
Now, another internet source had this to say about the correlation between Sukkot and Thanksgiving. "The Pilgrims were deeply religious people. When they were trying to find a way to express their thanks for their survival and for the harvest, they looked to the Bible for an appropriate way of celebrating and found Sukkot....The Sukkot explanation of Thanksgiving fits better with the meticulous research of Mayflower historian Caleb Johnson, who believes that the original Thanksgiving was a harvest festival (as is Sukkot) that it was observed in October (as Sukkot usually is) and the the Pilgrims would not have celebrated a holiday that was not in the Bible."
So here's to whatever holiday inspired the now completely obscene ritual that is Thanksgiving, far removed from any of these intentions. We eat until we feel sick, then we clear the table for dessert. What a lovely American way to express our thanks for the wonders of life!

What is Normal?

These past few weeks, more than usual, I've been challenged to dig for the answer to the title question. After a shaky parent conference with my son's two, well-intentioned teachers I've been looking at my son through a new lens--not the rosy tinted parent-prescription that I've gazed at him through the last few years, but with the clinical eyes of a stranger at worst, an educator at best. My son is not abnormal--whatever that means--nor is he, being the product of two very, decidedly not normal parents, at all what Highland Park folks constitute as "normal". The little red flags waving at these dear folks are flapping because the breeze has been blowing this child from place to place like a dandelion seed aloft on a gulf hurricane.

Take a look at this child's upbringing to date. Two non-conforming souls thrown together as a result of a few encounters of the physical kind bring a child into the world, amid their own host of problems, obstacles, and a very tenuous link to one another. Despite many dear friends and relations voicing their opinions about this, we pushed ahead in a foolhardy way, which is the hallmark of my lifetime, and I think the same goes for the other half of this equation. We've been served well by following our crazy guts, the two of us, whether or not we have had similar results or paths that meshed well...which they didn't. Yet each of us brought our signature stubbornness and our endearing, if unwise optimism. As time went on and things fell apart, as divined by all of our loved ones and bystanders, I took the helm of this ship and steered a hazardous course back to where it all began: home. That word conjures up something so precious to all who hear or see it. Just the thought of a place where you're comfortable, can be yourself, maybe a log fire crackling, maybe the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen (brownies in my case), friends and family surrounding you.
Pipe dream #473...
A few weeks into this return to the fold, I was hard pressed to find suitable childcare for Diego. Why? He didn't fit into the "normal" mold of the kids who were raised here in the 'burbs. He didn't want to sit and do art projects, gather around for group times, or eat his lunch. He certainly didn't want to lay down for a nap. His exhausted caregivers would exchange a silent, but thunderously clear look of triumph when I would arrive to collect my little charge.
Of course--this is a child who spent 9 months in the belly of a person who was stressed, frightened and pretty much alone. This is a child who came into a world where the expectation was that he behave in a way that would allow me, the consummate pipe dreamer, to bring the child with me to whatever work I could find. After a few disastrous attempts at interviews with the little papoose, I found "the farm", where I was smart enough by this stage in the game to leave the bambino behind for the initial encounter, and again for my second, fateful interview where I first met the man who would become our biggest defender and protector over the course of the next two years. Sweet soul, this unsuspecting creek-eyed man certainly couldn't predict what was about to unfold as I continued, one hand on a baby, the other in the dirt, to eke out a living and a life at Pennypack Farm. A very special person in his own right, I'll avoid going off on a tangent about this fellow that has become so dear to us both. Suffice it to say, we're both achingly grateful to his enduring presence in our lives.
Again, is this a normal way to do things in this day, age and country? My romantic ideas of working in the fields like some rural South American princess with my baby slung across my back were a far cry from leading children in farm-based educational activities, attending meetings, visiting schools, and orchestrating volunteer days for families. Not to mention the harvesting itself, which was never easy with a child strapped to me, picking up on every nuance of stress and fear that vibrated through my body for two years as I persisted on this path of narrow focus. Determined not to do what is normal, like sleep-training, cry-it-out, or day care, I forged ahead blindly, without a lot of knowledge about what to do but mostly the desires of not doing what everyone else does. Without complaining or defending the other party in this, I can only fault myself for being at best, unrealistic. And anything but "normal".

Fast forward to the present, is it any wonder that my child is not coming in as "normal" in the barometer of these North Shore suburbs that brought us such enduring classics as "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" , "The Breakfast Club", and "Pretty in Pink"? He spent the first two years of his life strapped to the chest of a self-described crazy person who worked at a farm. At any moment in time this one-and-a half year old could be found hoisting himself over the chicken fence, popping out of rows of cabbages, and climbing stacks of construction materials with rusty nails threatening his bare feet. Diego had the fields and forest as his classroom, a front-mounted bike seat as his preferred mode of transit, and the two zaniest parents a divine comedy could think up. Reflecting on the multi-faceted net of the world today, I had to laugh aloud at the idea of the cosmos, creating itself in every form imaginable, somehow feeling the need to include us, meaning my funny little family, in this vast mysterious web of life. Each day we are lucky enough to awaken anew, taking in the unfolding graces of spirit, whether we are aware of it's glory or immune to it. I am learning to flow within the ripples of life and just accept each moment as it envelopes us in the stream that flows to the ocean of life. Grateful to be here, uninterested in normalcy, I think we'll do fine. After all, this is all we can ever hope to have. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a dream.

Wonder of Wonders

How amazing to look up at two stars, in a blue bowl of twilight, and feel closer than ever to their light. The stark winter branches point between the dark and light, in the hour just after the sun sinks down beyond the horizon. Breathing into the crisp evening, full of life, stepping with awareness, love and hope. Watching two birds in a hurry for warmer climes, lofty as a whispered prayer sent up on an earnest breath.
How amazing to be a part of this vast mystery. To be awake enough to recognize it as a miracle. Could I ask for anything else? People, places and things are all illusory. What remains is that nothing ever stays the same. But for all my yearning, for my hopes and dreams, my desires and my life's drama that is played under that cosmic basin of blue, I can smile at the stars and know that they are constellations of my own true light. Our light. We share this big blue marble and it's more than enough to feast my eyes upon each blessing as it unfolds. Thanks to all that share it with me. Glad we're in it together.
Love,
Stacy

Dear Mr. La Cosse,

I'm not sure how often this might happen to you, but I am one of your former students and felt compelled to get in touch with you. Walking in the park today, I found myself resting on the bench dedicated to you in the area behind Deer Creek Courts with my three year old son. Last week was Ravinia School's Fun Fair, which we attended, and I was amazed at how returning to my old elementary school brought back so many memories. However, I have never forgotten you in all these years, and my recollection of the time I shared with you is clear and vivid. You were not only my favorite teacher there, but probably anywhere until I went to college and met people who weren't quite so Highland Park-y...and had a chance to get to know myself better. You may remember dressing up as Julia Child for Halloween? I was in your class that year. Do you still gather the children around for magical tales of Paddington Bear?
I am now living back in Highland Park after many adventures that have culminated in my working as a Montessori teaching assistant. I have always remembered you so fondly--school was pretty tough for me and there were few bright spots in my education--you were most certainly one! Something about your manner recognized each child. You never singled me out, in fact, I remember feeling faintly ego-less in your presence. As if each one of us were equal, no one kid stood out and became your pet. Unlike most of my academic career, I don't recall vying for attention in your class. I just felt a part of things. Even when I didn't join in, your gentle chiding never riled my insides or caused a white hot embarrassment, shame, or fear to heat my blood. I never felt the helpless fury I felt before and after in my long struggle with academia, when I was a part of your third grade community.
Seems like a lot of us in education were dissatisfied students ourselves...trying to make a difference in the life of a child. You did this for me, as I am sure you continue to do so. I'm heartened to learn that you still teach third grade at Braeside Elementary. I remember you used to catch me reading under my desk at math time, totally in my own world. Remember shouting, "Earth to La Mell? We're in the math corner!" I still haunt the library and never go anywhere without at least a book or two in my bag.
Now with my own child, I spend a lot of time reading stories aloud, but we haven't made it to Paddington Bear yet. I can imagine how much my son, who loves animals, will enjoy the adventures of the little bear from Lima.
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to let you know, since I don't think I did on the last day I saw you, (which was the last day of third grade when I had to come early to complete my multiplication tables so I could move up to fourth grade the following fall) that I haven't stopped reading under my desk. No, not really. What I want to say is, thank you for being my favorite teacher of all time.

In sincere appreciation,

Stacy La Mell

You or Me?

A cute, endearing habit of Diego's could also be a bit of a problem. His using the pronouns incorrectly, as it turns out, could be less of a cute thing and more of a sign of something that's not happening developmentally. After my parent conference, where his teachers expressed concern, we've been drilling it into our little guy that he is not you but I. It's not your pants but my pants. He's right here singing, Me myself and I. Sigh.
Who ever knew it would be like this? Something as silly as pronoun reversal could be a red flag for something sinister and serious, not just a cute little way of expressing himself. Coupled with his obsessive lining up of his animal figurines, his seeming indifference toward other children, and his repetitive statements, these could be the harbingers of something on the spectrum...the dreaded spectrum that seems to be arching over so many of the kids in our times. Or it could just be something he'll grow out of, like diapers, crawling, and babble.
I'm a bit of a mess reflecting on all this. Although we're not going to label him or get him evaluated yet, he's now on a very close watch and it's kinda getting to me. Trying to explain pronouns is a little tricky--I am starting to feel as overwhelmed as a three year old, muddling through the nuances of our language for the first time. I always thought this little thing would fix itself, the way he started walking all by himself. It was nothing I did--one day he just went from crawling to walking. The next day, running.
I am getting myself so tongue twisted with this. It's like, each time I call Diego "you" I think I am setting him back. So I am trying to cut "you" out. So instead of "Do you want your breakfast?" I'm saying things like, "Wanna eat breakfast?" This is getting insane. I'm watching every word I say. Then, each time he says something like "You want your gummy bears." I shoot back, "I want my gummy bears." Pointing to my chest, I'll say, "I" and he'll point to his and say "I" again. But is this more of the dreaded repetition or is it sinking in? I suppose I'll have to find out through the next few months.
After talking to several pediatricians, and watching him closely (like a hawk, let's be frank) I'm slowly coming out of my panic and into a place where, though I can't say I'm 100% fine with things, I feel better that people outside his school find his behavior totally normal for his age. Two doctors have confirmed what my friends and family already told me: this kid is not in any way displaying behaviors to be alarmed about. Let's hope one day we'll look back on this wistfully, remembering how cute it was to hear Diego say, "Mama to pick you up?" or "You want to hug." Until then, I'll be the "I" nazi and continue to drill the proper pronoun usage into my adorable, perfect, and amazing little boy...whatever he turns out to be. Because no matter what, he is Diego. I love him for who he is, and I accept him as he is. One of a kind. And a part of me.

Haiku Fool

Child loves to annoy
I think I'm going crazy
Looking for lost toys

Second City No More

Well, Chicago can finally shed the Second City syndrome. Tonight, our humble city, Hog Butcher to the World, can rest it's Big Shoulders on Barack Obama, the 44th President Elect of the United States. I can't say much--I just shed a tear for the greatest election I have ever participated in in my short history here on earth. We WON!!!!!! I am, for the first time in a long time, proud to be an American. Watching the people in Grant Park tonight, watching our new President address the crowd of close to a million folks who came out to see this victory, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of being a part of a country I can once again be excited about living in. As my dad said, "It took Illinois to do it."

I love that our next President can speak without stammering, looking at a piece of paper, or making up words. I am so proud that we have a smart, honest man elected in a true democratic process. I am so relieved that our country is still able to summon up the great ideals that made us great in the first place. With grit, optimism, and hope, we can be the nation we think we are. I said to my parents through my tears, "This is the first President I ever believed in. This is what I've been waiting for my whole life to see up on that podium. This guy is honest--he's not a bullshitter. He's not your typical politician. He's real. He's smart." And, as those who know me already know, I think he's pretty handsome...but I am more than happy to leave him to Michelle, our new First Lady. She's no dummy, either. Together, with those kids, they represent the greatest beacon of hope to shine in the last eight years from Washington.

I love that the newscasters broke the news by saying, "There will be young children in the White House again for the first time since JFK." Sort of makes my heart sing to think of the kiddos running through those hallowed halls of history. I think of the damage our young Diego could do in that place...let's hope the Obama children have a little less of the farm-freedom that gives our chicken boy his pluck! Barack did mention they earned a puppy that will be accompanying them to the White House...I suppose if the kids don't trash Casablanca, the dog probably will. I guess there's hope for some hell-raising after all.

I am truly moved and amazed--each time I see an American flag waving in the wind, I honestly feel that it's finally flapping for me, at last.

Oh, I am so happy. I wish I could be among the revelers down in the city tonight. "Chicago fished from it's depths a text: Independent as a hog on ice." ---Carl Sandburg

Second City? You sure done good tonight.

Oprah? Well, she's from Chi-town, too. And this was the only picture I could steal from the internet without crashing my computer.