Tiny Mantras

Andyman

2010-07-19T17:18:00.006-04:00

I've run along the periphery of Columbus music for 16 or 17 years, and sometimes right through its center. I've written about it, talked about it, consumed it, even married and had a child with one of its central stewards.

Let me tell you, it's a world full of dudes. Dudes who play, editorialize about, promote, gloat over or criticize, but ultimately love music. Several of those dudes have only ever referred to me by my initials. Why call someone Tracy when you can call her TZT? I'm okay with that. It makes me feel like an honorary dude.

In this scene, there are jerk dudes, frustrated genius dudes, drunk dudes, well-meaning dudes, lecherous dudes, armchair comedian dudes and awkward dudes. And then there are the kind ones. The ones who are generous of spirit and might play in the realm of dudes, but you quickly discover that they are also good, decent men. They are the ones who don't run away from you when they hear you lost your job or that your grandfather died. They see you out in the city and they walk toward you. They put an arm around you and acknowledge your loss openly, thoughtfully. They say something encouraging or offer a listening ear. The whole thing may last all of five minutes, and you may not see that person again for weeks, even months, but you walk away from a man like that and you just feel happy that you know him. Happy that you walk in the same circles and will surely see him again soon.

The city lost one of those good men this weekend. A man who gave body-crushing hugs and radiated warmth. The news broke last night that Andy "Andyman" Davis - a veteran of local radio - drowned Saturday while on family vacation, and the more that I sit with that fact, the harder I find it to accept.

I've seen a lot of friendships made through music. You find out that someone loves what you love, they relate to what you relate to, and suddenly, you are connected. You may drift apart or even have a falling out, but if that person introduced you to a song or artist that's continued to keep you company, their dearness is never completely lost. Andy is that kind of friend to countless people that he hasn't even met because he's been the face and voice of one of our only local, independent stations for so long.

To me, he was a local media colleague and a social friend - someone I probably saw and shared words with weekly to monthly in my twenties and early thirties at my husband's clubs, Andy's bar or some other show in the Columbus universe.

He had been a dad for a while by the time I became a mom. Once I made that transition, I only saw him once or twice a year, but our casual conversations shifted. When I saw him at Comfest last year, I got one of his bear hugs before he held onto my hand and stood with me, looking at my son the same way I do - like something miraculous and joyful. He pulled out the pictures of his two boys and told me about his third baby coming. I don't remember the words we shared exactly, but that feeling of belonging you get when you relate to another person about music? Change that to two music-bound people talking about being parents and the feeling is amplified by a zillion. I love being a mom. I know he loved being a dad. That's what has my heart caught today.

I've been through a fair bit of grief and loss lately, but please don't feel the need to console me for this one. There are certainly hundreds, likely thousands, who are feeling this loss. Between social media and the airwaves, you can sense our community grieving. My hope is that every one of us who has felt that warmth from Andy, be it first-hand or through the airwaves, can reflect it back to his family — especially his wife Molly and their three sons — and surround them with it for years to come.

You can find information about a memorial fund that's been established for them at the CD101 web site.

Applesauce

2010-07-12T14:47:00.001-04:00

My son and I went to the grocery store today. It had been days.

As we finished up in the self-checkout lane, an older woman behind us didn't wait for us to finish bagging before she threw her groceries onto the conveyor belt. One package of applesauce cups came flying down to us. Then another. And another. And another. We could tell where our groceries ended and hers began because of the growing barricade of applesauce.

"Sorry," she said. But she didn't stop what she was doing so that we could finish bagging. She looked hurried and preoccupied. I flung the rest off our things into bags and got out of her way as quickly as I could. Not that she noticed.

"That was a lot of applesauce," said Declan. "Do you think maybe her husband is very sick? Or maybe he could be dying."

When a person can swallow very little, but still needs medication, applesauce is one way to deliver it.

My stepfather passed away the morning after my birthday. Quietly. Peacefully. In my mother's home, where we are staying. It took three days before hospice came and took the hospital bed. It was six days before we held the the funeral.

Today, I woke up thinking about yesterday's solar eclipse, wondering if it will really change the world as much as astrologers said that it would. Today is the first average weekday since our little world shifted. Our perspective on just about everything has shifted. Including applesauce.

40

2010-07-02T11:46:00.001-04:00

Growing up, I remember the phone ringing at the butt crack of dawn on every one of my birthdays. Once, as a teenager, I grouched a little at my mother as she came in and nudged me out of sleep to answer it.

"You won't have this forever," she warned me, whispering. "You will miss it someday."

Early this morning I woke up, squeezed my eyes shut and listened for the sound on that phone line - the sound of my grandparents, their voices chipper and full of the rural Ohio upbringing that makes every R sound like a sharp turn while the Gs in ings go awol and yous come out as yas. They always wanted to be the first to wish all of their children and grandchildren Happy Birthday. And mom was right. I miss that. I do.

Today my mom sang to me while Declan held my face and waited to tell me, intently, that on Ni Hao Kai-Lan, the children sometimes travel inside of floaty bubbles. My brother called and sister-in-law called sang while their son punctuated each line with an aggressive "CHA CHA CHA!" Thanks to Facebook and Twitter, I've already been flooded with messages and I'm starting this day feeling loved and hopeful.

Two things guaranteed that today would be a quiet celebration. First, the biggest fireworks in the city happen downtown, which would be like asking friends to sit in traffic gridlock if I wanted to, say, meet them for dinner.

And then there's my stepdad, who has passed the point of speaking or eating or doing much in the way of responding to this realm. We've been bracing for the impact of his passing for a couple of years, more intensely in recent months, and round-the-clock for the past several days. I'm well past dreading the idea that he could pass away on my birthday. Instead, if I could take some of the good juju and love I'm receiving for this birthday, I'd pour it into the wish that he finds whatever love he needs within himself in order to let go peacefully.

I've decided to honeymoon with 40, and celebrate it with a crowd of people that I like soon because I want to and I actually think I deserve to. But today, this is how I want to do it. I want to be mindful and prayerful through the day and to pretend that things are brilliantly exploding in celebration of my future and my stepdad's past through the evening. I want to meditate on passages and new beginnings and eat crab legs and be hopeful.

Earlier this week, Dec gave me the best possible birthday gift I could have asked for. He's been reading individual words for a long time, but worried over trying to read a book by himself and often refused to try. I gently reminded him on Monday night that I still learn a lot of new words, and that lots of things that he thinks are easy, like astronomy, are things that many people would consider hard.

He slept on it, and the next morning, started reading some of the Bob Books at the breakfast table as though he'd been doing it all his life. And as silly as those short, confidence-building books are, it's one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard.

My stepdad's life has been filled with books and I know that he would be so proud of this. So Declan read "Fun in the Sun," to his Grandfafa before bed that same day, and I talked out loud about how many books were in the house, how avid a reader his Grandfafa had been. My stepdad tried very hard to say something in response, so I know that he heard and received this gift as well.

So far, 40 is birth and death and new language and hope and memory and a pain in the pit of my stomach. It's Buddhist mantras wrapped in silver around my thumb as I dive through this zero, sheathed by reminders of our impermanence. It's a call to live well and let things happen, make things happen, to live by the serenity prayer and be more open, more loving.

This song came up on my iPod on my way to my son's camp this morning, and it strummed every nerve in my body: Calling All Angels.

Listen, be well, have a beautiful weekend and if you're into prayer, say one for my stepdad, ok?

Let's change the subject to breasts

2010-06-30T11:35:00.004-04:00

I know I’ve been quiet since my brain dump a few weeks ago. Our “only way out is through” era continues with plenty of days that feel semi-normal, in spite of the fact that things remain anything but. Thank you to everyone who has reached out to me here, in private email, on Facebook, in phone calls and in person. It made my tummy ache to hit “publish” on that post, but the compassion I’ve received since doing so has been overwhelming. I have some half-posts written that I’ll finish and publish soon. In the meantime, I’d like to change the subject for a moment because I really do need to talk about breasts.

Nearly 20 years ago, someone or other (via some lawsuit or other) realized that Columbus didn’t have any law on the books that outlawed the baring of female breasts in public. Women decided to start exercising that right at our long-standing, volunteer-run Community Festival (Comfest). I worked at a local alternative weekly at the time, and while I don’t remember all of the legal details, I do remember the small media melee, including a whirlwind of bad boob puns and fairly silly editorials on the matter. The spirit of the thing was clear – women of all shapes and sizes (and sometimes ages) would partake in the ritual, promoting positive body-consciousness in a sort of homegrown, goofy and easily misconstrued way.

Flash forward to today: Naked, painted boobs have become a tradition at Comfest, as well as the city’s massive Pride Festival (which sometimes share a weekend). It’s a central feature of the fest’s many eccentricities. There are still plenty of women doing it for body-positive reasons, but the phenomena has started to turn the corner into something kind of creepy. The vibe has become less of a bold feminist statement for the “party with a purpose,” more of a cruising spot for the producers of “hippie girls gone wild.”

It’s not the women who have changed so much as the festivalgoers. For the first time this year, I saw more joke t-shirts on men that said things like “I love boobies,” and more guys cruising the street fair, hollering commentary towards bare-chested women (and the women that they felt should remove their clothing) than I saw actual bare, painted breasts.

When I went to Comfest as a teenager, it was probably less than a tenth of the size it is now. And it was the place where I met and connected with my first local, radical feminist elders, who loved the fact that a newly minted driver would come to their urban homes on a Friday night to discuss reproductive rights, body image and pay inequity. Comfest brought me into the political counterculture of a city which, by most other appearances, looked about as mainstream as you could get.

So it’s kind of breaking my heart that this year, if you happen to be a teenage girl visiting Comfest, it has become a place where you’re more likely to be confronted by men who are comfortable yelling “show me your tits,” even as they feign political progressiveness than feel the presence of interesting political women.

I also imagined the festival as a place where my son would see some of the better male role models in the city – men who are activists, who happen to care about the world and volunteer to improve it. Maybe even a few men that had a better grasp of what it means to respect women. I don’t have a problem with my kid seeing bare breasts, but I do have a problem with him seeing women treated them like beauty pageant contestants or live snapshots in a street version of Hot or Not. I imagined him seeing women positively celebrating their bodies without a constant stream of commentary from drunken creeps.

Just so I’m not whining here, let me provide a suggestion or two for next year. Let’s change the nature of Comfest’s dialogue about breasts. Make the festival’s slogan one that educates the public about the benefits of breastfeeding.

Then take it one step further by designating one part of the park as a family friendly space (not the playgrounds, which sit in the crosshairs of three stages and are a sensory nightmare). Make it smoke-free. Put a cooling tent for nursing moms there with moderately comfortable chairs and changing tables. And preferably, drop it on the North end of the park to disrupt the place that everyone now refers to as “derelict teenager hill.”

I have no idea whether or not earlier closing times curbed the elements that the organizers wanted to see curbed. But I do know that Comfest’s social justice currency doesn’t only lie in its financial ability to give grants – it also lies in the power of the event itself. It has the power to be hospitable to more than drunks and people whose perception of “hippie” seems to be entirely about fashion (or anti-fashion) and the use of substances instead of the values that brought the event into existence.

This inverted life

2010-06-08T09:13:00.005-04:00

I wish I felt comfortable writing my way through this time.

I’d like to tell you about the fact that my son and I have been living at my mother’s since February because I needed to separate from my husband. I needed things to change. It was excruciating for a while and it is still not easy. We’re at a crossroads. We take things day by day. Sometimes I've only taken them moment by moment. We still plan on doing another radio show together. We are still family, connected by this amazing person we created — this person that I wouldn't want to deprive of his father’s love or the ability to know who and where he comes from. One way or another, a new life will be built. I just have no idea what that life will look like.

I’d like to tell you about the remarkable meetings and support groups I’ve found for the families of addicts and alcoholics. About the evenings when I find myself in a room with people I never imagined knowing, let alone being vulnerable with, and how they humble and lift me. How this 78-year-old woman heard me state the facts of my life, asked to hug me, and, once I agreed, whispered “that is one heavy load you are carrying.” She closed her eyes and pressed her hand over my heart with a prayer. Her warmth thawed my many years of cynicism about Al-Anon meetings. She helped me to hear what I needed to hear, to take what I needed, as they are so fond of saying, and leave the rest.

I’d like to tell you what it’s like to live with a stepfather who is dying and has Lewy Body Disease, which combines the debilitating physical symptoms of Parkinsons with dementia. About the things I can’t see that are apparently here, like cars that keep pulling into the house, dead dogs lying around, men moving freezers, people with scissors and family members that have long since passed. How, before he stopped being able to walk a few weeks ago, he showed up in my room one morning because he couldn’t find my mother. He thought he had to hold his breath for as long as she wasn’t in the room with him. As I watch my mother try to manage each day, I see just how brutal the business of caretaking can be.

I’d like to tell you what a house feels like after hospice swoops in, about the book they gave my mother that details what to look for in the last weeks, days, hours and moments before a person dies. About how strange and refreshing it is to experience health care that probes a family about its mental, physical and spiritual well-being and looks for ways to help. About being the bearer of bad news to my stepdad’s biological sons with each clear and dramatic decline, especially the brother who has been my close friend since I was 19 and has a baby on the way this summer. About how generous the heart of my stepdad’s paid caretaker is as he shows up every morning and evening (on the days he’s not working) to carry him from the hospital bed to a recliner in the family room and back.

I’d like to tell you how vulnerable my son was before all of this. How frighteningly perceptive and unfairly aware he is of the world around him, of cells and stardust and disease and disaster. Or how often I feel like I’m on a razor-thin line, some days thinking that this experience, this period, could be a profound opportunity for him to understand more about life, relationships and death, other days terrified that all of this will screw him up, scar or emotionally maim him because it’s all so, so much for someone who is freshly five to carry.

I’d like to tell you about my uncle who passed away this past Sunday after his years-long battle with cancer. And I do mean battle. He fought for every moment he had on this earth, and didn’t fail to live each one that he could. During one early remission, he traveled to Africa and nearly got himself killed by leaving the tent when hippopotamuses were around. I would know so much less about what a strong, loving family man looks like if I hadn’t known him. I would know less about what a self-actualized, truly indefatigable person looks like. I also wouldn’t know how hostile to humans and dangerous a hippo can be. While I’m not planning a safari, that seems like an important thing to know.

So I'm telling you.

It’s been months now that I’ve felt like a person walking around with an oozing, emotional gunshot wound on her chest, visible only to those who know me or know what’s been going on because even as I avoid writing about it here, I say these things out loud when I'm out a lot. I have to. Friends — especially so many beautiful, generous, supportive moms — cautiously ask me about how things are going, and I keep disappointing them with clammy, sad facts, because I’ve become lousy at sugar-coating things. I had started to feel like I’d suffocate if I didn’t say what felt true today out loud, so I do it, and almost always immediately feel lighter because there are so many people who can understand or relate to some piece of what's going on here, no matter how small. They honor me by listening and offering help and I feel totally selfish each time they do because I am so overloaded with my own stuff right now I don’t listen the way I usually do. I usually pride myself on my ability to listen.

Life feels inverted. I cry the most when good things happen. Each offer of help is a salve. Each small solution that I see hospice offer my mother chokes me up. Joyful moments make me so, so grateful. Each expression of love and friendship, each person who has said “you are doing better than you know” to me, each person who looks at me like I’m hemorrhaging but knows she isn’t a surgeon and offers some small kindness to me anyway has been a gift this year.

I’m turning 40 in three weeks and I don’t remember a more difficult or uncertain time. I also don’t remember feeling more blessed or more open-hearted. On bad days, I feel very alone, but on the good ones, I am less alone than ever. I am more grateful than ever.

A couple of Sundays ago my stepbrother put my little, strangely nonfunctional family unit on the guest list for his big music festival. The three of us saw Michael Franti and Spearhead, who we've loved for a long time. The band brought little kids onto the stage for the encore, “Say Hey,” and my son danced, jumped, pranced, twirled, sang and ran next to Franti, apparently without an iota of fear or apprehension in his body. He told me looked for me but couldn’t find me in the crowd, where I was smiling so hard that my face should have cracked open.

When he came down from the stage, he asked, “could you hear my little tiny voice up there? I was singing as loud as I could so you would hear me.” And while I couldn’t literally hear him, I could hear him, and see him, and feel him up there, so fully himself, there to enjoy more than perform, so full of energy and faith and confidence that he is, in fact, loved. That he was certain his mother was out there somewhere, listening for his voice made me feel like a pretty good mom.

The next morning, I woke up with him clinging to me the way he has every morning since we've been in this place — like a life preserver. He snuggled up to my ear and sang the song, punctuating each line with a hug around the neck: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

A note to my boy, who is five today

2010-05-19T11:17:00.005-04:00

Dear Declan,

You are five today. That is a little bit of a relief because I can't remember the last time you met someone new who would have guessed that you were only four. Between your tall physique and your extensive vocabulary, I've had more than one person look at me like I must not remember the actual day that you were born.

There is no doubt that you are growing up quickly. And that I can barely remember the time before you were able to talk to me, when you were a babbling bundle of roly-poliness with ticklish, chubby folds on your legs.

These days I'm reading A Wrinkle in Time while you pick words you recognize off the page and ask me to tell you when I reach them. You work out math problems on your fingers. You close yourself in the storage ottoman and tell me you're headed through a black hole, out a white hole and into some other part of the universe. You mix up magic fairy dust in a little tin and whisper wishes into it. You love dogs and babies. You laugh hysterically at mispronounced words and plastic dinosaurs that bite. And no matter how much you rationalize that they can't hurt you, you seriously cannot stand bugs.

I'm grateful to Stephen Hawking because he reasoned that the imperfection of the universe is what made us possible. Now, when you make mistakes, I have a higher authority than your mother to invoke, which helps to keep you from being too hard on yourself. Sometimes this works for me too. Beautiful things can come of mistakes, now we know what to look for when we mess up. "Perfection is not possible," is your new mantra. I made this point to you once. You've made it back to me at least a dozen times since, probably because I've really needed to hear it.

You're also growing up in ways I wish you didn't have to. Your preschool experience has taught you, and re-taught me the value of going through our feelings instead of around them, so maybe we're at least better prepared for several of the challenges that are right before us.

Hospice workers, with all their loving care, have just descended on our family. And as much as I don't want you to be burdened, as much as I want to protect you from feeling that you have the obligation to help, that obligation lives in you. You like to push your Grandfafa's dining tray in so he can reach his food. You pick up things that he drops. You ask him what he needs when he calls out for help and you help him adjust his chair. Most of all, you do what a lot of us have more trouble doing around him - you laugh, you talk to him about all the science dancing around your brain. You impress him with ballet jumps and happy energy and provide him with little glimmers of pride and joy. You snuggle with his wife, my mom, your Giga. You are one of the best caretakers I know.

A few days ago you asked me not to put you in any summer camps for a while. What you want, you told me, is for us to have our own adventures, to do projects, to be together. You know you're starting Kindergarten this fall, and they say a summer filled with shared experiences is the best preparation for this transition. I'm hopeful it will prepare me too, because I'm pretty sure you're going to soar in school. I'll be the one who is a wreck, having less of you in my day.

I wrote this thing after you were born. And every day you give me new answers to the question I asked that day in Delphi. I have been privileged to have a lot of amazing teachers in my life, and you are one of the greatest. I am so proud to be your mom.

I love you as brightly as a quasar, as infinitely as the stars in all of the galaxies in the heavens and as powerfully as a hypernova.

Happy birthday.

xoxo,

Mommy

I'm Thinking of Joining This Caravan

2010-05-17T10:45:00.004-04:00

Have you seen this wandering tribe? Since they are a caravan, I assume they are wandering and not still standing on this golf course lined with rainbow flags, but I'm not sure. Who wouldn't follow a love-preaching guy with this protective jewelry and waistline anywhere that he asked you to go?

Like so many things from the 1980s, this is something I never knew I wanted to remember. The song and the video are awesome in completely different ways — it's like an archeological dig that's turned up sweatbands, day-glo fingerless gloves and the cartoonish international archetypes that early music videos embraced so shamelessly.

I'm hopeful that the Isleys have set the crowd straight by now, because the shoulder-padded huddled masses' sense of rhythm is atrocious. If I find them, I'm bringing a set of klavés.

P.S. I'm your brother.

P.S.S. Watch the whole thing. It out-mesmerizes the Trolololo dude.

Where am I?

2010-04-30T12:29:00.003-04:00

I haven't been blogging much lately. Deadlines, gorgeous sunny days and life have all gotten in the way.

You can find me here today, however, talking moms & Twitter.

All of my Ohio Moms Blog posts are available here.

Plant an alveolus for Earth Day

2010-04-16T08:03:00.011-04:00

We visited with some fine local women and children yesterday after recovering from the news that we didn't hit the lottery for any of the urban magnet kindergartens that we were hoping to. We're waitlisted everywhere, and only certain to get into the one that I'm most lukewarm about and Declan is a little afraid of.

I'm feeling oddly okay about it because I have other hopes in reserve. And I know that my kid is the kind of learner that any good teacher dreams of teaching. I don't expect that there will be many years ahead of us that won't require us to find him a number of challenges beyond school walls.

We went to a science-y library program yesterday too, where the kids learned a few things about trees. After getting over a bout of complete and total shyness, Declan told the librarians that "trees are the lungs of the earth." A fact gleaned— not from school or any eco-moralizing on my part — but from his kids' yoga video.

When we got in the car, he seemed puzzled.

"How was that science?" he asked me, though he liked it. It was earth science, I told him.

"Huh," he said, thoughtfully. "I thought that all science had to be really cool or really gross."

"You don't think photosynthesis is cool?"

"Oh yeah, I guess it is."

Seriously, you lousy schools, it's your loss.

If only there were grants out there that parents could apply for to spend a year taking a kid like mine to the Met, CERN, a bunch of Smithsonian museums, every NASA site that's open to the public and a few natural wonders.

That would be the education my son deserves.

Team WhyMommy Virtual Science Fair

2010-04-07T05:30:00.004-04:00

Known to the blogging world as WhyMommy, Susan Niebur is an astrophysicist, a mother to two young boys, an advocate for cancer education and research, and a survivor. Since 2007, she's graciously, frankly and bravely let us into her life through her blog, Toddler Planet. She's let her readers walk with her as she's battled Inflammatory Breast Cancer and dealt with its physical and emotional fallout, all the while advocating for women in planetary science.

She's had a recurrence, and is slated to have surgery today. So, to let her know that we're all thinking about her - thinking of the whole of who she is, not just this tenacious disease she keeps kicking — Stimeyland is holding a virtual science fair. People have been making an effort to do something science related (with kids or on their own) and posting about it today in Susan's honor.

If you read Tiny Mantras at all regularly, you might guess that I don't go through a day without doing something science-related. And you'd be right.

So far this week, I've overseen the assembly of an anatomy floor puzzle and helped my son navigate CERNland — a kids' site designed to explain particle physics and illuminate what the Large Hadron Collider is doing. We've snapped together models of the Ares Launch Vehicles that NASA is developing to take people back to the moon, and eventually to Mars. We've read Millions to Measure.

I thought I would compile a list of a few of my favorite posts about raising a science-inclined child and the things we've done to keep up with him, focusing particularly on Susan's passion (also Declan's) — space:

I gave birth to the whole universe — This is the way we tell a bedtime story.

Beginnings of a solar system magnum opus - This is the way we write a song.

Sometimes, science makes us anxious. It makes us dream. We sleep in the rings of Saturn.

Every placemat, book and ball in our house has been part of the solar system at one point or another.

Space changed the way I look at art.

Halloween costumes — My son has actually been getting smaller every year. First he was space, then the solar system and last year he was Jupiter.

I once had to convince my son he was on Triton (Neptune's moon) to get him to take a bath.

There is really nothing cuter than a 2-year-old talking about space or going through Hubble Space Telescope images or interpreting the world through space or warning you about impending doom.

Spaced out at NASA's Plum Brook Station — This is a huge NASA site in Ohio that's rarely open to the public, but they had an open house in 2008 and we went. We also like hanging out in Space Shuttle tires in Wapakoneta.

Here are some kids' space books we love. Here is one Carnival of Space. And another.

Be well, Susan. Kick this cancer to the Kuiper Belt.

This rubber band

2010-03-29T10:31:00.009-04:00

Ten-ish years ago, one of my best childhood friends and her husband split up. Being engaged, rounding 30 and kidless, I can't say I at all understood how difficult her decision to venture forward on her own with two young daughters really was. But I did what I knew to do as a long-time friend — I simply spent a lot of time with her. We regaled her daughters with stories about the things we did when we were girls: the songs we liked to sing until 2 am, the way we seemed to be perpetually rearranging each other's bedrooms, our gullibility in thinking that we could be "discovered" by a Hollywood agent on the way to buy milk for her mom in suburban Ohio.

And we laughed like crazy. We laughed with her girls the way we did when we were girls together. I accompanied them on mundane trips to the drug store. They liked to brush and braid my hair when we talked. Like their mom, I began to count the girls among my best friends.

"You should have a baby, Tracy," her older daughter - six or seven-ish at the time –told me while thumbing through stickers at a craft store. "So we can be friends with her and play with her."

Soon enough, I told her, reminding her that a baby is a long way from a kid. That a baby could also be a boy. A baby would be okay, she told me. Maybe not a boy, but... well, she could babysit him. Maybe.

Her younger daughter was four or five-ish in that time. I liked to read Shel Silverstein poems to her at bedtime. A born comedian, she was already delivering jokes punctuated with "I'll be here all week" and cracking me up with nonsequitur statements like "I'm weak without light" when I had a mouthful of food. I told her mom that she needed to investigate whether there was any such thing as a kids' comedy camp in the Catskill Mountains.

I realized in that time what perfection childhood can be. How deserving every kid is of an appreciative audience now and then, how happy and privileged I felt to be in the front row of their lives, how fun it is to make sense of the world through play. They taught me that there's something about the way of seeing things when you're around five that's utterly spectacular well before I had my own almost five-year-old.

Their mom was in the hospital with us when my son was born, and the girls both held him in the first days of his life. They are teenagers now. And as their social lives grow, I don't always see them when I see their mom, but when I do, I see that they both have the patience for and joy in play with Declan that their mother had with them.

We spent the whole day together about a week ago, doing the same kinds of simple, everyday things we did a decade ago. Declan was talking about the sizes of different breeds of puppies at lunchtime, so we all went and looked at some. We did household errands, made infinitely more interesting because we were all doing them together. The girls asked my son for hugs and tickled him and their mom bought him a $3 ball.

Before we left, we sat on the floor of their house, playing "Hot Potato," but no one was really ever out. Declan held onto the ball every round, hitting my still deadpan comedy-inclined teenage friend with it at the last minute while laughing hysterically.

Lately, I've been testing the elasticity of many of the friendships I've collected in this life and finding that they can snap back into shape more easily than I realized. A week ago I had a day that, on paper, may look pretty unspectacular. But it was a great day.

BlogHer bound & some housekeeping

2010-03-16T11:03:00.001-04:00

I've mentioned it on Twitter and Facebook, but for anyone who reads my feed and is headed for BlogHer in NYC this year (thanks to a BlogHership), I'll be there! I'm looking forward to putting some of the words I've been reading for years together with actual faces. I am pretty easily overwhelmed by crowds, though, despite being married to a man with 10,000 friends.

A couple of weeks ago, Dawn and I were talking about creating a space where camera-shy introverts could convene (not sure if she's coming yet, though). If you want company hiding out from the throngs, or just to connect, please let me know.

Blogging has been slow for me lately. I've been going through a course of physical therapy for computer-use-related pains, trying to keep up with work and dealing with some personal upheaval that I'm not at all prepared to discuss publicly. I've also written a few stray posts over at the Ohio Moms Blog and an interview with John Flansburgh of They Might Be Giants. (If life allows, I hope to write up a review of that show sometime too.)

My wisdom for the day: Mind ya neck, slappy!

Human worlds and Hello Kitties

2010-03-10T10:42:00.002-05:00

One of Declan's best friends at preschool is an extremely sweet little girl (I'll call her Nora). The intensity of her smiles and happy bounces make it seem like she's about to explode into a big, shimmering firework of pure joy when she tells me how much she likes my son.

She made him a gigantic valentine, replete with a big blue glass gemstone and a poem that she dictated to her mom about him. According to him, she wants to sit next to him every day at lunch. And he likes that. On the playground, they pretend they are Jack and Annie from the Magic Treehouse and go on adventures together.

The other day, her mom told me that Nora has been worried because when they grow up, Declan will no longer "live on the human world." Declan's affinity for space is known by pretty much anybody who knows him. She's going to miss him a lot when he's off on his galactic adventures, but she and another boy from their class will plan elaborate "welcome back to Earth" parties whenever he comes home for a visit.

Earlier this year, Dec started asking for Hello Kitty things. First he asked for band-aids, then stuffed Hello Kitties. He has one dressed in a lamb costume and another in a panda costume. They go most places with us, especially to his school. He feeds them at mealtimes. He puts them in the cupholders of his car booster to keep them safe. He tells me what they are thinking. He sleeps with them.

It's been hard for me to figure what makes him so attached to them. Until I asked him one day in the car.

"I told you, it's because all of the girls in my class love Hello Kitty so much," he told me.

He loves the ladies, my boy. He wants to stay in their good graces. He's a four-year-old that's begun to unravel the mysteries of social currency with so little self-consciousness.

This little wish

2010-03-01T11:05:00.005-05:00

He's been considering wishes for a few months now, toying with fairy dust and never missing a fountain.

Since this year began, he's had a new one. And he repeats it every time there is an opportunity for a wish to be made:

"I wish that everything that we need to have happen would happen for us."

Godspeed, my boy. And I wish for all of your wishes to come true.

The perfect heart

2010-02-16T10:29:00.011-05:00

The other night, Declan decided he wanted to make one big special valentine for his father. I pulled out a sheet of paper, folded it and drew half of a heart for him. It was art paper, so cutting it was tough. He switched scissors a couple of times. He got frustrated. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and finished it. He spread it open on the table and looked at it proudly.

He wrote his dad's full name on the big heart. He filled the space around it with rocket stickers and gems and glitter. Then he tried to draw a heart. It was sweet and soft and curvy, like dough that swells beyond the edges your cookie cutter promised when it bakes.

He hated it. He hit it with his fist.

I loved it. I thought it was so precious and perfectly four, perfectly him.

He covered it with a dog sticker and tried again. He didn't like the new heart either, so he covered it with another dog sticker, ran into the living room and threw himself into the couch cushions.

I tried to reason with him that I knew his daddy would love it, that I could see it was a heart and that there were lots of kinds of hearts. He was frustrated. He told me no. It needed to be perfect. It needed to look "right."

At his school, they often ask him about his feelings and put them in a note. I started writing one to him. He watched my hand and circled me.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm writing you a note to tell you how I feel," I told him.

"What does it say?"

"Dear Declan,

Every time you write, it does not need to be perfect. Whatever you write is something I love because it is perfectly Declan. I love you. I want you to be kind to yourself.

Love,
Mommy"

He looked at me calmly, unmoved.

"Let me have that for a minute," he said.

I handed him the notebook and he carried it into another room, grabbing a marker on his way. I heard it flop onto the floor. I heard the sound of the pen on the paper. He came right back and handed me the notebook, a big pink X over my entire note.

"I didn't like it so I put an X on it," he explained. "Because I want everything to look right."

I fought back feeling hurt by his x-mark and wrote what he said down on the note. I told him that I understand that feeling. I do.

I understand that feeling so well.

Then he went and got another piece of paper and asked me to make a heart that he could look at while he drew another. I made a small one and handed him the marker, reminding him of the advice his teacher gave us about trying to hold a pencil steady: "Pinch it."

He took the notebook behind our piano and brought a new heart back to me. It was puffy too. Puffy and curvy and beautiful and, to my eye, not terribly different than the ones he had rejected.

"This one looks right," he said. "See?"

Tyger, tyger, burning bright

2010-02-05T10:56:00.007-05:00

My blogging has been lighter than usual because a couple of weeks ago, I saw my doctor and she told me that my right shoulder is so much lower than my left, she would have thought that I had a severe curvature of the spine. My typing has been slow, my sleep has been poor and and my breaks have been many. Unless today's snow dump somehow derails it, I'm going in for an evaluation with a physical therapist early this afternoon.

The last couple of months have been a revolving door of reminders about mortality and health. We've been second-hand witnesses to the passings of three people, one far too young, the other two simply too young to die. I've interviewed young people who know too much about things like homicide and psychological abuse (for projects I am working on). I felt helpless as I stared at images of the fields of bodies in Haiti, keeping the television mostly silent because my boy already spends too many bedtime hours resisting sleep, trying to solve the puzzle of death.

In a little over a week, the Year of the Tiger begins, and it feels far more like a ritual time of reflection and reassessment than January 1st this year. I'm making lists, trying to finish projects and clearing away clutter. I'm ready to do whatever it takes to bring my physical, personal and professional carriage back into alignment. I want to be on the tiger's side.

And I would be oh so grateful to see her clear our collective house of fire, thieves and ghosts.

I hate art scavenger hunts

2010-01-25T11:08:00.018-05:00

We had an hour or two to visit an art museum in another city the other day. No sooner had we hung up our coats than one of the volunteers asked my son, "would you like to do a scavenger hunt in the museum today? If you finish it, you get a prize!"

Being four and generally highly motivated by reward systems, he looked at me eagerly for permission to say yes. I gave it to him. If I deprived him of that kind of offer, I might as well have kissed my chances at a fun museum visit goodbye. (This scavenger hunt basically asked you to find particular pieces of art in the different galleries, then answer a question about each one.)

For the first several rooms, I tried to balance the tasks of the scavenger hunt with more meaningful conversations about the art and history we were looking at. Every now and then, I could get him to stop and ponder something like how a particular piece of art was made, how it might be used, the story it might be telling or what it even was. But as we pushed on, the tasks of the scavenger hunt became more and more pressing, pulling us away from other things we might have been able to talk about.

We saw another dad looking completely beleaguered as his 9-year-old son ignored his requests to talk about any of the 18th-century European paintings he wanted to share with him. The kid was just too far into the throes of his primal push to finish his scavenger hunt and earn his prize.

As far as I'm concerned, scavenger hunts are the equivalent of worksheet learning in the classroom. They don't invite any real depth of understanding, and do not create a particularly meaningful relationship with their subject. They are more cheap marketing gimmick, something that seems to be designed for children to pass time while parents are supposed to either help, or meditate on paintings in solitude or something. In this case, they actually seemed to be depriving more than one family of an organic museum experience.

On Sunday, a friend of mine and I took our kids to the local museum, which is under construction, so all that is open is an illuminated Dale Chihuly exhibit and a couple of rooms with highlights from its permanent collection. We led our four-year-olds through and asked them what they thought the abstract glass forms were.

"That looks like an upside-down turkey!" my son said about a glumpy shape slumped over in a forest of spears.

"That's like a shoe, all opened up," said his friend about a floppy, shell-like piece.

We ventured past the people watching a movie smack in the middle of the gallery, which seemed like an unnecessary obstacle with this inherent message: "shut up and don't talk about the art." We squirmed out of that room. My friend's daughter peeked around the corner, and then ran back to grab my son's hand and pull him in, howling - "come look! It's SPACE!"

Their imaginations and curiosity ruled the rest of the visit. A chandelier was an erupting volcano from another planet. A sphere was a "giant Jupiter that's all dead." In the permanent collection galleries, my friend, who grew up in Holland, had her daughter jumping up and down with excitement over her obvious connection to Dutch paintings. We all sat on the floor in front of a George Segal sculpture and talked about what plaster is and how you might go about making a person out of one.

Of course, there was a room with the dreaded reward-based scavenger hunts, which just seem to be everywhere kids may show up now, but thankfully, no one bypassed us and offered them to ours. When my friend's daughter asked what all the kids with clipboards were doing and if she could do it, her mother dismissed it with a smooth "you have to be able to read to do that." We sidestepped the issue and took in the grandeur and mystery of a ride back downstairs in the giant elevator instead.

Granted, I'm the daughter of an art educator, so I was raised with a particular love and appreciation for art. But I didn't find that love via lectures or gimmicky games. I was simply given the room to respond to and be inquisitive about it - to use my brain to make of it what I may before getting down to the facts of who made it and what they thought it meant or why it might be historically or culturally relevant.

If you want a child to love art, don't make him or her whisper about it in a gallery or do some glorified word search to earn some 3-cent superball or a sticker. I also had a total blast on Sunday... and it was the interpretations and questions of our two four-year-olds that made it so much fun for all of us, pure and simple.

At a time when there are endless books out there espousing the value of "creative" people to the richness of our lives - even our economy - why are museums, of all places, bent on such ordinary engagement with kids, who are by nature some of the most innately creative people in the world?

Creative maladjustment

2010-01-18T09:34:00.004-05:00

I hope to remain creatively maladjusted until it's no longer necessary.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

Passings

2010-01-15T14:51:00.007-05:00

As we drove home from school today, Declan told me that he knew nanodiamonds could keep our dog Arrow from dying. Now, Arrow is barely six years old and pretty robust, so I'm not sure why this was on his mind (other than the fact that a National Geographic special about spatial relationships in the universe schooled him on the nanodiamonds stuff) but he was insistent. I told him that nothing could keep Arrow, or anyone, from dying sooner or later, but that Arrow seemed very healthy and happy to me right now. He was angry with me and pretended to sleep for a while. I let it be until the next question comes.

I've only watched the news after Declan is asleep or when he is elsewhere this week. It takes my breath away to watch the devastation, the human suffering, the chaos happening in Haiti. At this death-sensitive age, I can't imagine him being able to process much about this, so I haven't figured out what to tell him. Meanwhile, I feel helpless and grateful for every little thing I have here - fresh air, clean water, a roof, a car, family, schools for my son, food, music, books, love, jokes.

This afternoon, the father of one of his schoolmates passed away after a short battle with cancer. The boy Declan shared a class with last year was the older of two and their third child is due in less than a month. The preschool's community and friends of the family have rallied to do everything from laundry to childcare to grocery shopping to help them during this tragic time, but this is just heartbreaking news. I wish him peace.

This is a loving and kind family. The mother is a young and passionate wife and parent. I can't fathom the stress of being self-employed, almost nine months pregnant, parenting two young children and losing your spouse. So if you're listening, and you're feeling generous, you could help them out a little bit financially to help ease some of their material stress as they begin to grieve and await this new birth.

Take care. Breathe. Hug your loved ones tight.

Interview at Mama Joules' place

2010-01-05T13:29:00.003-05:00

If you are looking for ideas about how to engage children with science, Mama Joules has got resources and fresh ideas about everything from physics to geology to gardening. I plan to make her site a regular destination.

She and I exchanged emails through the crazy holiday time, and she's published an interview with me about keeping up with a child whose scientific interests are greater than those of his/her parents. It was a lovely opportunity for me to reflect on the parts of motherhood I expected the least - those that have required me to become an amateur astronomer.

I also think it's super cool to be among the ranks of her interview subjects, which also include the President of the National Tarantula Society and a beekeper.

Check out Meet Jupiter's Mother. That's the first part, here is the second.

I'll update this post and Twitter (@TinyMantras) when part two is published.

New

2010-01-04T10:23:00.005-05:00

I wish I could say that I came into this year, this decade, with rosy optimism and a warm blanket. I tried. I did yoga. I took a hot shower and sang along with Irma Thomas to expand my cold-ravaged lungs. I took a cinematic ride through the universe with my boy and remembered our teeny-tininess, but when midnight came I was just agitated, unsettled, unreasonably angry.

But it's the first Monday of the year, and even though my son and I argued on the way to school in the car today, even though my chest is still sore, I don't feel rested and the cold outside is far too bitter, I feel strangely unburdened and optimistic. I want to clean up and put things in order. I want to make appointments and to-do lists. I want to roast vegetables and cut fruit and find a place to run inside. I want to listen to depressing music until I feel light again.

I hope your first Monday is pleasantly complicated, that your sinuses are clear and that ushering in this new decade feels like watching the sun rise.

Happy new year.

Mean girl, reconsidered

2009-12-18T11:39:00.004-05:00

She was my mean girl in high school.

I dreaded going to school. I dreaded the classes we had together.

I was sure it was her that scrawled the word "bitch" on my locker or my notebook that one day in French class, that she convinced one of her friends to do it. I remember the whispers, the loud mocking laughs paired with sharp glances my direction. There was a boy we had in common. And I had just switched back to public from private school, which automatically branded me elitist.

She and I made dramatic gestures to turn ourselves into friends in front of teachers and counselors, or at least make ourselves into non-enemies, but they didn't seem to last. There was weirdness, and fundamental mistrust. She, like so many things about high school, made me restless and anxious to leave. So I did. I made my junior year into my junior/senior year so I could be far from proms and football games and mean girls and graffiti before I turned 17.

The other day, Facebook sent me some message that one guy or another wanted me to confirm that we were classmates on some application or other. I clicked there and looked around and suddenly there she was, the same big eyes, the same perfect makeup, the same smooth hair.

For some reason her profile is public, so naturally, I look. I wonder who she has become, if I could learn something that would make her more or less horrible in my memory, if we share anything. She is single, I see. There are a lot of pictures of her alone or with pets. There she is at our reunion, which I'd never dream of attending, photographed with a couple of other women that I hope to never see again. And then there are pictures of her with family. Of her radiant and pregnant. Of her pained and in labor.

And then one of her with severely bloodshot eyes, her face smeared with tears. She is holding a tiny, swaddled, lifeless baby. She looks throttled by grief. Or shock. Or something I can barely begin to know how to understand.

"Don't be sad," the caption of the picture says. "We loved her very much." There are no comments or condolences, no words of encouragement beneath it. Just those words. Her own.

I feel it in the pit of my stomach - how brave this is, putting that experience of motherhood, that grief, right out there where high school bitches can run into it haphazardly. It answers questions. It keeps out the riff-raff. It shares something horrible and intimate and defining.

I wonder if I was a mean girl, too. If we were mean to each other. Did I steal her boyfriend? Not according to him, but he was a teenage boy, and I was in that private school at the time, so maybe I don't know. Did she know how cruel her actions felt? Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. Did I do anything cruel? I don't remember. I might not have had the social currency that she did, but I know I was hurting in that environment, so probably.

I don't live with mean girl scars on the surface of my life the way they do in the movies. There are moments when they suddenly swell and pulse, but I don't long to show up at reunions with high hair and fashion gear, claiming that I invented the Post-it note. High school wasn't always a social joy, but I've had lots of social joy since then.

I wish she could remain my two-dimensional high school mean girl. I could go on with my reunion-less life, letting her be one of the caricatures from my teenage years that I haven't seen since. I wish that grief-smacked expression never had to cross her face. I wish I could look at her Facebook photos and see her daughter alive, twirling in the sunlight. I'd buy her big, stinky red permanent markers and offer up my locker, my car or my teenaged forehead for 100 bitch stamps to change things for her if I could.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

Ohio Moms blog

2009-12-17T09:20:00.003-05:00

It's new, still in soft launch phase. You can read a fresh post by me over there today.

Cookie lookers

2009-12-15T08:20:00.003-05:00

When I was a teenage girl in the 1980s, teachers, local news producers and general do-gooders were keen on showing my kind what a woman entrepreneur looked like. I remember at least two times when I was pulled into an assembly hall of some sort where someone brought Cheryl Krueger before us. I remember her feathery blond hair and red blazer with power-lady shoulder pads as she would grip the podium with one hand, big index cards in the other and tell us what it was like to be the woman who turned her grandma's cookie recipes into wildly expanding financial success.

One of my dearest high school friends had a part-time job at a Cheryl's Cookies the summer that my brother and I had a car accident and his hand was badly injured. He was waylaid on our couch for weeks. She stopped by nearly every night with new video rentals and however many cookies destined for the garbage bin that she could rescue. She was one of the champions of my universe that summer, and the cookies added to that comfort.

Cheryl sold the company this year, so it was interesting to be invited to an event last week to see what this Columbus institution looks like under new management. Witnessing mountains of cookie dough move along conveyor belts and frosting machines splurting out buttercream elicited oohs and aahs and squeals of "how Willy Wonka!" And it was. There are clearly nice people working there who care about cookies and frosting and how things taste. They taught us how to do some cookie decorating, which I have never done before in my life, so that was actually kind of fun, as it was just to be among some of my fellow bloggers.

Thankfully, the lunch they served us was healthy and light, because we all went home with more wrapped cookies and brownies as well as more cookies and brownies with frosting for decorating than we could possibly eat. When I got home, my son and I squirted a bunch of frosting on the ones they gave us for decorating, then sent them off to be enjoyed at an AA meeting. My friend Rachel won a year's supply.

I've usually gone to such events as a reporter, so I'm well acquainted with many of the ways that companies vie for attention. The position of a blogger - especially a mother who blogs - is decidedly different. I've never been to BlogHer and experienced the notorious swag insanity, so this was new for me. There's an air about this kind of event that makes you feel like Tuffy Ryan's mom in "The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio" or a contestant on the before-my-time TV show Queen for a Day... like this is another strange chapter in American history when corporations and moms are at the roller skating party together again, trying to figure out who should be asking who to hold hands on the moonlight skate.

I gave birth to the whole universe

2009-11-30T18:18:00.000-05:00

I decided to make up a bedtime story last night, choose-your-own adventure style.

Me: "Once upon a time, there was a boy named... Antonio or Declan?"

Declan: "Declan!"

Me: "This boy Declan grew up to become a... paleontologist or astronaut? Which should he be?"

Declan: "A paleontologist goes around looking for dinosaur bones and putting them back together to make, like, T-Rex."

Me: "True. So is that what you'd like to be? Or an astronaut?"

Declan: "I don't want to be those. I want to be something I want to be."

Me: "Like what?"

Declan: "Space."

Me: "Space? Like... all of space? The universe?"

Declan: "Yes. Space."

Me: "Uh... okay... Once upon a time there was a little boy named Declan who was actually all of space. He was as big as everything and expanded a lot while stars and galaxies and planets formed inside of him. He watched the Earth as it started to form, and people started to evolve..."

Declan: "I couldn't do that. Everybody knows that space doesn't have eyes. It can't watch anything. It just is. It's everywhere."

Me: "Uh... okay. One day he yawned, and 14 stars and 732 planets were sucked into his mouth."

Declan: "No. Only a black hole could do that."

Me: "Well if you were all of space and you yawned, wouldn't that be like a really big black hole?"

Declan: "Maybe. But space doesn't have a mouth. It doesn't have any kind of face."

Me: "Well what would you do if you were space, then?"

Declan: "Nothing. Just be."

Me: "Okay. Where would those stars and planets go if you yawned? What would space's stomach be like?"

Declan: "Maybe nowhere. Maybe another dimension. They would be spaghettified. We just don't know where they would go."

Me: "Okay. So maybe they would go into space's stomach! So... Declan, who was all of space was just hanging out, just being everywhere and expanding while the stars formed..."

Declan: "And the stars made people."

Me: "Okay. The stars made people on Earth..."

Declan: "Now say that mommy and daddy and Declan were born on Earth."

Me: "Mommy and daddy, who lived on Earth, decided to have a baby, and Declan, who was actually all of space...? Was born?"

Declan: "That's right."

Me: "Okay, so, mommy and daddy had a baby who was actually all of space, but they didn't know that, and he tried to tell them all about the universe."

Declan: "Babies can't talk."

Me: "No, but he tried. He said "ooo" and "da" and "thpppphhh" but they didn't start to understand until he learned to say words."

Declan: "Then he taught you about the universe. That's what you say. You didn't know about it until I was born. You didn't even know that after Pluto there was Eris and Ceres until I watched shows and told you."

Me: "And read books. That's true. So... Declan came along and learned to talk and started to teach everybody about space and the universe."

Declan: Nods.

Me: "And then a giant sea lion — bigger than anything, bigger than all of space — that was made out of happiness came along and swallowed the enormous Declan and everything in the universe, including everyone on Earth, became very peaceful and happy because it was very cozy in the sea lion's stomach."

Declan: "No!" (Laughing)

Me: "Why not? Sometimes scientists talk about our universe actually being a small part of something even bigger."

Declan: "Okay."

Me: "Phew. The end."