We say grace every night before dinner in our house. Kid B and Kid A argue about who gets to lead, and usually end up saying it in unison. It’s the same grace I said as a child, though A has added a closing “peace” to it, a brushing of hands before the breaking of bread that I really, really love. We say our prayers before bedtime, and it’s standard, too. “Now I lay me down to sleep,” though there is no mention of dying before waking. We ask God to bless our family, immediate and extended, and at the end there’s a place for special intentions.
I like praying. There is a comfort to it. I love praying the Rosary, precisely because of how meditative it is, how cleansing. But I would be lying if I didn’t say that the act of praying, at least in some of its iterations, makes me very uncomfortable.
When we were in limbo with Kid C, waiting those two weeks between the Newborn Screen flag and the sweat test, I prayed a lot. A lot. I prayed for strength, and clarity. For faith, and trust. I prayed that no matter what the outcome was, that I could be the mother that my son would need, my sons, the partner my husband would need. I couldn’t pray for his test to come back negative.
I went around in circles about that last bit with a few friends who are ordained. I believe in asking for it all, one of them said. Lay out your intentions, put them out there for the universe to hear. I get that, I appreciate it. But as I agonized, those long days and longer nights, when the dark makes everything so much scarier, I still couldn’t get there. I couldn’t ask for something because I couldn’t get my head around a God that, for lack of a better word, micromanages in that way.
See, I have cried tears of joy with friends who have come through illness and strife and emerged on the other side healthy and joy. I have cried tears of sorrow with others who have lost partners or children. They are all, to a person, good and decent people and rather than pray to a God that favors one over the other, I choose to pray to a God who listens, and sits, and waits with me, with them. This God is that little flicker of light that breaks up the darkness. A God that is as much the question itself as the answer.
It’s a really personal thing, prayer, what you put into it, what you get out of it, even in community. Is it okay to ask for things, to be specific? Is it a sign of lesser favor, if those prayers go unanswered or is it just that we lack the perspective to see that they do? And now I am rambling, searching for some way to tie this up neatly but I’m not sure you can. Do you pray? What do you pray for?
9/25/12
9/17/12
what would joe biden do?
Last week Friday, Kid A and I were lucky enough to get the chance to head to my alma mater to hear Dr. Jill Biden speak at a Twin Cities campaign stop. It was mostly college kids, a smattering of other supporters, and my kiddo, the youngest in the room by more than a decade, if I had to guess.
We got a couple of curious glances from folks, which wasn’t unexpected. He’s only six, and much of what she spoke of went over his head. But he’s a smart kid, curious and sensitive, and he understands a lot more than people give him credit for. On the drive from his school we talked about education and why it was so important, how much it costs and how President Obama and Vice President Biden were working to make sure that learning continued to be accessible. He gets that. We talked about healthcare, and how thanks to the president his baby brother’s preexisting condition won’t keep him from getting the care he needs. A understood that, too.
It’s not entirely new to him. He helped me campaign in 2008. In 2010, during the Wisconsin gubernatorial election, I actually got a phone call from the elementary school because in his earnestness to remind his classmates and anyone who might listen (the school was a polling place), he encouraged them, when unsure, to ask themselves, “What would Joe Biden do?” I thought it was hilarious, the school was less amused.
It comes as no surprise, then, to know that we are big fans of the Obamas, big fans of the Bidens. I am a big fan of including your kids early in the political process, no matter what side of the aisle you sit on. We took the entire family to Madison to protest in January of last year, after Governor Walker decided that his executive authority was a bulldozer by which he intended to flatten the state we loved. The kids come voting with us.
We talk about politics, and current events. He’s six, and his brothers are three and six months and have less capacity for awareness, obviously, but they learn by watching. What is important to us makes a difference for them.
See, it was how I was raised. One of my earliest memories is doorknocking for then-Wisconsin Governor Tony Earl in his (failed) reelection campaign. We talked about the news at the dinner table every night. I was encouraged to care about what was happening in my city, in my state, my country. The world. When there was an election, we went down to the National Guard Armory. They still had big machines back then, and I can remember pulling with all my might on the big lever that drew the curtain closed, watching my parents flick switches and being truly excited that someday it would be my turn. In second grade we formed a peace club, my best friend and I. We wrote letters to President Reagan calling for nuclear disarmament. I didn’t think it was unusual or exceptional at the time. Honestly, I still don’t.
Is there such a thing as too young? I don’t think so. Because in raising me, my parents raised a child who was engaged in the political process almost from the time I could talk. I understood why it mattered. I appreciated the power of the vote, and the importance of being an informed voter. And thirty-two years after knocking on doors down our street on Jacobson Avenue in Madison, I can’t think of a single general election I’ve missed, and I can count primaries on one hand.
We live in a country where our voter turnout percentages are damn near shameful. We have an electorate that is frequently mocked by late night television programming because they can’t identify their vice president in a lineup. We need to be doing more with our kids, not less. My parents didn’t indoctrinate me into a specific ideology, although we share many political beliefs. But they did teach me that as part of my birthright as an American citizen I had certain responsibilities that generations have fought and died to protect, and I take that very seriously. I take passing on that knowledge to my own boys very seriously.
So find a cause that matters. Volunteer with your kids. Talk about what happens on their 18th birthday, and why they don’t have to wait to get involved until they can cast a ballot. Get them excited now, before conventional wisdom and popular culture tells them it’s only cool to be indifferent.
On the ride home, A was vibrating with excitement. He talked about our visit to Washington, DC, about Dr. Biden and her husband, who we think is the coolest, pretty much, and about how important the election is. He is six, but he gets it. We can’t be afraid to talk to our kids about politics, because they’re next in line for that torch, right? What happens in November affects him, and even if he can’t change the outcome, he still gets a voice. A life lesson for him, an important reminder for a pretty proud mama, too.
We got a couple of curious glances from folks, which wasn’t unexpected. He’s only six, and much of what she spoke of went over his head. But he’s a smart kid, curious and sensitive, and he understands a lot more than people give him credit for. On the drive from his school we talked about education and why it was so important, how much it costs and how President Obama and Vice President Biden were working to make sure that learning continued to be accessible. He gets that. We talked about healthcare, and how thanks to the president his baby brother’s preexisting condition won’t keep him from getting the care he needs. A understood that, too.
It’s not entirely new to him. He helped me campaign in 2008. In 2010, during the Wisconsin gubernatorial election, I actually got a phone call from the elementary school because in his earnestness to remind his classmates and anyone who might listen (the school was a polling place), he encouraged them, when unsure, to ask themselves, “What would Joe Biden do?” I thought it was hilarious, the school was less amused.
It comes as no surprise, then, to know that we are big fans of the Obamas, big fans of the Bidens. I am a big fan of including your kids early in the political process, no matter what side of the aisle you sit on. We took the entire family to Madison to protest in January of last year, after Governor Walker decided that his executive authority was a bulldozer by which he intended to flatten the state we loved. The kids come voting with us.
We talk about politics, and current events. He’s six, and his brothers are three and six months and have less capacity for awareness, obviously, but they learn by watching. What is important to us makes a difference for them.
See, it was how I was raised. One of my earliest memories is doorknocking for then-Wisconsin Governor Tony Earl in his (failed) reelection campaign. We talked about the news at the dinner table every night. I was encouraged to care about what was happening in my city, in my state, my country. The world. When there was an election, we went down to the National Guard Armory. They still had big machines back then, and I can remember pulling with all my might on the big lever that drew the curtain closed, watching my parents flick switches and being truly excited that someday it would be my turn. In second grade we formed a peace club, my best friend and I. We wrote letters to President Reagan calling for nuclear disarmament. I didn’t think it was unusual or exceptional at the time. Honestly, I still don’t.
Is there such a thing as too young? I don’t think so. Because in raising me, my parents raised a child who was engaged in the political process almost from the time I could talk. I understood why it mattered. I appreciated the power of the vote, and the importance of being an informed voter. And thirty-two years after knocking on doors down our street on Jacobson Avenue in Madison, I can’t think of a single general election I’ve missed, and I can count primaries on one hand.
We live in a country where our voter turnout percentages are damn near shameful. We have an electorate that is frequently mocked by late night television programming because they can’t identify their vice president in a lineup. We need to be doing more with our kids, not less. My parents didn’t indoctrinate me into a specific ideology, although we share many political beliefs. But they did teach me that as part of my birthright as an American citizen I had certain responsibilities that generations have fought and died to protect, and I take that very seriously. I take passing on that knowledge to my own boys very seriously.
So find a cause that matters. Volunteer with your kids. Talk about what happens on their 18th birthday, and why they don’t have to wait to get involved until they can cast a ballot. Get them excited now, before conventional wisdom and popular culture tells them it’s only cool to be indifferent.
On the ride home, A was vibrating with excitement. He talked about our visit to Washington, DC, about Dr. Biden and her husband, who we think is the coolest, pretty much, and about how important the election is. He is six, but he gets it. We can’t be afraid to talk to our kids about politics, because they’re next in line for that torch, right? What happens in November affects him, and even if he can’t change the outcome, he still gets a voice. A life lesson for him, an important reminder for a pretty proud mama, too.
9/12/12
the last time
I just now understand that in anticipating my son’s “firsts,” I’ve forgotten to appreciate what he’s left behind. The firsts are monumental, celebrated and captured on film. I reveled in Little Dude’s first steps, jotted down his first words and am prepared to save lost teeth. There isn’t a first I haven’t recorded in some way. I’ve paid less attention to his “lasts.” I’ve ignored the finality that comes with moving from one stage to another.
My boys are spaced far enough apart - 6, 3, and 6 months, that I have a greater appreciation for this, I think, or maybe just a greater understanding of how quickly they go from one phase to the next. Each of my own little dudes is different, though, and while Bean always wandered into our room early in the mornings to be pulled in under the blankets and snuggled, Bruiser stays in his bed until one of us comes to scoop him up, more often than not. I don’t know which kind Big Red will be, but I know that I cherish every moment I get patted on the face or told how pretty I am or find them clambering over each other to see who can snuggle closer on the couch.
Big Red is our last, our baby. That was always the plan, though had we been in an economic position to leave it up to chance or God or whatever you believe, I think after we found out I was a carrier for CF he would have been anyway. He is growing so incredibly fast it takes my breath away. And what hit me hardest, at three months and again at six, was packing up the clothes that were too small, folding them carefully and tucking them into bags to be donated. Just clothes, but some of them Bean wore, some of them were Bruiser’s, a few belonged to both and the realization that I wasn’t storing them away for a future brother was far more painful than I could have anticipated. I cried, and I’m not a crier. I grieved for what will never be again.
It goes so fast. We all say it, and yes, it’s cliche, but that makes it no less true. We hold on to what we can, for as long as we can, gripping those memories to us white-knuckled tight.
My boys are spaced far enough apart - 6, 3, and 6 months, that I have a greater appreciation for this, I think, or maybe just a greater understanding of how quickly they go from one phase to the next. Each of my own little dudes is different, though, and while Bean always wandered into our room early in the mornings to be pulled in under the blankets and snuggled, Bruiser stays in his bed until one of us comes to scoop him up, more often than not. I don’t know which kind Big Red will be, but I know that I cherish every moment I get patted on the face or told how pretty I am or find them clambering over each other to see who can snuggle closer on the couch.
Big Red is our last, our baby. That was always the plan, though had we been in an economic position to leave it up to chance or God or whatever you believe, I think after we found out I was a carrier for CF he would have been anyway. He is growing so incredibly fast it takes my breath away. And what hit me hardest, at three months and again at six, was packing up the clothes that were too small, folding them carefully and tucking them into bags to be donated. Just clothes, but some of them Bean wore, some of them were Bruiser’s, a few belonged to both and the realization that I wasn’t storing them away for a future brother was far more painful than I could have anticipated. I cried, and I’m not a crier. I grieved for what will never be again.
It goes so fast. We all say it, and yes, it’s cliche, but that makes it no less true. We hold on to what we can, for as long as we can, gripping those memories to us white-knuckled tight.
9/11/12
69,379,200 breaths
Trying to remember you
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand. Somewhere
people are waiting.
They have drunk nothing for days.
- Stephen Dobyn
69,379,200 breaths. And the horrible, beautiful miracle of life is that it goes on, with every rise and fall of the chest.
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand. Somewhere
people are waiting.
They have drunk nothing for days.
- Stephen Dobyn
69,379,200 breaths. And the horrible, beautiful miracle of life is that it goes on, with every rise and fall of the chest.
it was a good day
It started here.
Big Red’s 6-month checkup with his team at Children’s. We were anxious to see if the Tobi had done its job, after the Cipro hadn’t, if the flora in his throat had gone its merry way to Hell. The good news, the great news, is that his throat cultures came back looking great. His lungs look awesome, he’s growing and we couldn’t ask for better. Those names up there, those are our heroes. They have made the scary so much less so, and as fond as I am of our doc I am not at all disappointed that if our luck holds Big Red won’t need to be seen again until January.
We're pretty happy about that.
Big Red’s 6-month checkup with his team at Children’s. We were anxious to see if the Tobi had done its job, after the Cipro hadn’t, if the flora in his throat had gone its merry way to Hell. The good news, the great news, is that his throat cultures came back looking great. His lungs look awesome, he’s growing and we couldn’t ask for better. Those names up there, those are our heroes. They have made the scary so much less so, and as fond as I am of our doc I am not at all disappointed that if our luck holds Big Red won’t need to be seen again until January.We're pretty happy about that.
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