Character Building with Pickles

Rain poured outside. My five year old stood in the kitchen smearing peanut butter on a piece of bread. Lightning flashed and the power went out. The kids looked at me to do something. So I yelled, “COME BACK ON, POWER!!”

Nothing happened. So I shrugged. My eldest shook her head at me, “sorry, mom.”

The lights came back on.

I did a HAHAHAHA dance, “that’s right! Mama has the……”

The lights went back off.

My son looked at his sandwich and pouted. Food is important to him and for a moment it seemed that this sandwich wasn’t going to happen. “Shit.” I declared. I swear in front of my kids. Not all the time, but often enough that they know I am grown up and I can do what I want. Most importantly, I can do things they can’t. I earned that right by surviving my parents and one day they will also earn the right to establish superiority over their kids. It is the cycle of life. Like lions and giraffes and the word “shit’. Anyway, we needed to get this lunch show on the road, because I had to get to work.

I turned to the kitchen shelf and saw the dill pickles Mr. P and I had canned the weekend past. “We are ready for this, guys!” I exclaimed to the kids. “We are PREPARED. We have canned goods! We can handle an outage! You can bring pickles to school!” It was obvious to me, at this point, I am a professional homesteader. I was ready to go off the grid. I imagined my bonnet. As long as I could charge my phone in the car I would be OK. “We don’t need electricity!”

My daughter gave me the ‘da fuq?’ face. “Or, Mom, we can finish making the sandwich.” Well, that was hardly fun. But she was right. So, he smeared on the last of peanut butter and stuck the sandwich in a bag as the lights came on. The children and Mother Nature collaborated to dash my Little House on the Prairie dream.

“It’s POURING out.” I declared as I gathered my car keys. “And I have to get to work.” I eyed the children who were getting their backpacks. “I could take you with me, then drop you off, each at school, then go back…. But…” The frontierswoman inside of me said “NO. They can get wet.” I told the kids to get umbrellas. “Get umbrellas. You can make it to the bus and get wet if you must!” I felt good. I was not going to raise children who were scared of water. Or bugs. Or mud or sweat or hard work or the word ‘no’. That’s right. I. AM. MOTHER. This was good.

I nodded my head, empowered by my parenting decisions. Damn straight. This is what we call “CHARACTER BUILDING.”

I squatted down and looked the kids in the eyes, “I will drop you off at the bus stop, but you are going to wait in the rain for the bus. OK?” I searched their eyes for fear. “This is what we call ‘CHARACTER BUILDING’” My daughter put her hand on my shoulder, “we can walk mom, it’s no big deal.” I turned to her, “No. I could drive you to school. I could. You wouldn’t have to stand in the rain at all. I could even pick you up a donut at Tim Horton’s. But I AM NOT GOING TO. I am going to make you stand in the rain. You will thank me one day.”

I smiled at her and took her hand. She smiled back and said, “OK, Mom, whatever.”

“Grab your umbrella!” I enthusiastically pushed them toward the door. And we exited the house. We exited into a new day, filled with opportunities and lessons. Ready to take what comes our way and roll with it. A day of silver linings to dry our doubts.

A day where the sun was shining down on us as soon as we got in the car. The kids chucked their umbrellas in the back seat.

Thanks, Mother Nature, thanks for the support.

Happy Birthday Donna

I have Parent Privilege.

I am a parent who has never lost a child. I cannot imagine. I cannot look at my children, living and breathing and sitting in front of me; children who argue with me and whine and lay their little heads upon my shoulder, I cannot imagine my life without them.

I cannot imagine losing them.

I huff at waking up early to deliver them to daycare and I fight with them to go to bed. I count down the days to free moments. I scold them for bothering me when I'm writing. I pride myself on their accomplishments and take photos of their faces.

I am privileged.

I cry when I read stories of loss. I type, "I am sorry." I EMPATHIZE, but I do not understand. I am luckily not part of the that club, "The parents who have buried a child club." I have parent privilege. I offer my condolences, I wear ribbons, I do 5Ks, I buy the T-shirts and I shaved my head, but I do not really understand. And I hope I never do.

On March 30th, 2013, my family shaved our heads in honor of Donna. We raised money, like good privileged parents, for the St. Baldrick's Foundation and pediatric cancer research. People praised our courage. But all we did was go bald. As my hair grew back I became more and more acutely aware of my privilege. Hair grows back, but children who died of cancer do not come back. My family was not brave; we never even saw a battle. We hopefully never will.

I do not want to be a warrior or a survivor or a part of any clubs. I just want to continue being lucky.

So what was the point? What IS the point of honoring Donna? What does mourning a child I never was able to meet do, besides stroke a philanthropist's ego? What is the take away of a day that changed me forever?

Simple facts:
1. In the U.S., childhood cancer kills more children than any other disease.
2. Worldwide, every 3 minutes a child is diagnosed with cancer.
3. 1 out of 5 of those children will die.
4. Nearly all children who survive childhood cancer will suffer life long health consequences from treatment.
5. Out of all the funding in the US, for pediatric cancer, only 4% goes to all the types of childhood cancer combined.
 6. Our $2,000 to St. Baldrick's, in Donna's name, was part of the $22 million that provided 63 grants this summer for research into pediatric cancer.


Those are simple facts that I carry with me like a sword. They have changed the way I parent. They have changed the way I look at other parents. Those facts are a reality that gives me the HONOR of representing a person who I was never able to meet and a mother whose path would probably have never crossed mine, had it not been for her tremendous loss. A mother whose pain I cannot understand, but will forever hold deep within my soul.

For I am privileged, but I have been touched.

July 20, 2013 is Donna's would have/should have been 8th birthday. I will be wearing her favorite color. I will be thanking her for four years of beauty and strength, which are now, despite her physical absence, changing the world.

If a Birthday Happens and No One Is There To Blow Out The Candles Do You Still Celebrate?

St. Baldrick's Foundation
Mary Tyler Mom
Donna's Good Things

Put Your Money WEAR Your Mouth Is

Mike Jeffries: The face of popularity, beauty and coolness. Or something.

Lately there has been a ton of internet chatter regarding the remarks by Abercrombie CEO, Mike Jeffries.  Basically, he is an asshole, a proud asshole and it bothers people. Frankly, I was unaware that Abercrombie and Fitch was a brand hell bent on excluding the ugly. I never shopped there because I thought the clothes were boring.

Not the point.

In response, angry people are writing long letters to the CEO. They blindly seek out his heartstrings, “I was never popular…”, “My family could never afford…,” “As an overweight woman….,” and I keep thinking, ‘The guy is a proud asshole. He doesn’t care.’.

He is glad. It proves what he is doing works. He has managed to build an entire brand while excluding you, if you are the unpopular, poor, fat kid. It worked. He is probably celebrating with each letter from within his evil clothing laboratory. He is probably sitting there, eating chocolate in front of poor children dressed like Charlie Bucket and pushing fat kids. Every time someone writes a letter telling him how they have found self worth, regardless of their weight, self proclaimed assholes like Mike Jeffries grow a little bit stronger.

So, I proclaim we actually do something. By we, I mean the old (over 25) and fat (if you can pinch something you are in). Are you in? Here is MY open letter to Mike Jeffries.

Dear Mr. Abercrombie and Fitch,

I’m not actually a fan of your brand. I think it’s boring. In fact, until all this recent media (good job, dude), I thought the store name was A{M}bercrombie and Fitch. Obviously people are pissed over your recent comments regarding your branding decisions. They were pretty heartless, man. I’m old and way too fat for your clothes now (if I didn’t find them monotonous), so I know you don’t care what I have to say. You don’t want me wearing them any more than I want to. This isn’t what this is about.

I may not be welcome in your stores. But my child is. See, the old fat people you pissed off? They are the wallets for the popular kids. Oh snap. I will not wear your clothing, thanks to your exclusive branding. You have made sure of that. But, now, neither will my four children.

They are thin (well, except the linebacker one, but he’s a boy and I think you said that is OK). They are popular. And we have money.

My daughter had stacks, STACKS I tell you, of Abercrombie and Fitch clothes. But not anymore. What to do with them was a bit of a problem. I hated to just throw them away, but then again, I hated to see them re-worn. So, before we donated them, we drew a big line through the logo. With black sharpie. They are forever marked “the poor people A & F.”

I am now asking this commitment from the world of blogger parents. “Don’t buy A & F for your kids. Keep this clothing out of the hands of our thin and popular youth. Soon, there will be nobody left. You, the parents, hold the wallet.”

It will be interesting. Because I know you don’t care about seeing me in your clothing.... but I am far more powerful than what I wear.

Sincerely,
Jeanna Kaye

Independent thinker and dresser since 1978

Listening To An Invisible Child

I yelled at my 5 year old son to get dressed, as I brushed my teeth. Mornings are always like this; scream, scream, go, go, hug and kiss. I went into his room and looked at his outfit: a t-shirt, 2 camouflaged sweatshirts and camo pants. "It's supposed to be in the 70's, you don't need 2 sweatshirts, take all that off!" I added a "hurry up" for good measure, swallowed my anxiety meds and went to establish an ETE (estimated time to exit) on my daughter.

My son slithered down the stairs and I examined his outfit, he had traded in the camo sweatshirts for a camo fleece zip up. "Fine, but take it off if you get hot. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE SHOES ON YET?" He giggled, "I'm invisible." My daughter stood in front of him. "Camouflage doesn't make you invisible, it makes you blend into your surroundings," she corrected him. "Why is no one listening to me?" I screamed, clapping my hands like a drill sergeant "car, car, car...."

Once outside, my self-dressed child ran up to a tree and held very still. He smiled. "I'm invisible." My daughter mumbled, "blending." I stopped for a moment and looked at him. He did blend pretty well, so I took a picture. "Let's see what you look like in front of a tree with rougher bark." He ran from tree to tree and I snapped some shots. "Let me see them!" He gleefully asked, "can we show them to my teacher?" "Sure." I replied, losing interest, "get in the car, I'm late for work."

The entire ride to school he discussed camouflage. We pulled up and I got out to walk him to the front door. His little warm hand clung tightly to mine. "You have to come in and show my teacher the picture." I looked at him, "I'm late for work. Later. I'll come in when I pick you up."

"No, mom, now."

I looked at him and back at my daughter waiting in the car. "Honey, I have to go, you have a good day. My phone is in the car. I'll show her later." I hoped he would forget about this by then. He held my hand tight. "No." I looked around at the bigger kids mulling around in front of the school, was he scared to go in alone? "Fine." I told him. I went back to the car and grabbed my phone and walked into the school with him. We walked through the office. "Can I show her?" I asked. He told me she was not the one. In the hall a women said hi to him. She, too, was not the one.

We turned the corner and two teachers stood in a classroom talking. My son lit up, "there she is!" I was about to ask which teacher when one woman came walking toward us. She looked at my son and exclaimed, "WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS Z?" She looked around confused. "He is just a floating head?! What happened to Z?" My son stood as still as a rock and giggled. "I hear his laugh, but I can't see him!!" She grew closer and closer. Z unzipped his fleece, showing her his T-shirt beneath. "There you are!" She smiled, "you survived the meteor crash! Great camo Z!" I remembered I had pictures to show her and I fumbled for my phone, "I'll take a copy of that," she nodded at me.

"So, Z are we gonna go thrift shopping?" She asked him. He laughed and yelled "Hey Vacklemore, you wanna go thrift shopping? What? Wha wha wha what? (like the song Thift Shop)" The two of them started doing the robot. She threw back her head and laughed to the teacher next to her, "Oh, I just love him!"

I walked down the hallway and my eyes welled up with tears. All night he had planned that. This morning he woke up wanting to be in camo. I kept yelling at him to change his clothes. He spoke and I ignored. He spoke and his sister corrected. He needed to show her, because she saw him. Even when he was invisible. He had probably heard her exclaim, "I love THAT kid." Him. HE was listening. I rushed him through his day like I rush him through his life. "Why aren't you listening, Z?" Why wasn't I? He tried to tell me. And I told him to hurry up. But he stood his ground. He had to fight to wear his outfit and fight to get me into the school. He had to fight and repeat himself because I wasn't listening. I almost missed the moment. I almost never knew the impact this woman had on my son.

The moment our children are born we tune into their every noise. We lay awake at night listening for a peep. We learn their cries and know when they are hungry, bored or hurt. We listen intently as the learn to speak, "Did she say ball? Was that mama?" And excitedly we beg them to communicate with us. We implore them to use their words and say "bye bye." Then, just as they master the language we all speak, we, parents, stop paying attention. We shush them and rush them. By about age 9 or 10 they learn we do not listen so they stop communicating. By 11 or 12 we are lucky if they don't speak a whole new language. We wonder why our children don't listen, but never stop to teach them how. We talk at them as they interrupt our phone calls, dish-washing, TV watching and Facebook browsing. The years of childhood blend quickly into our timelines, like camouflage against a tree. We plan to sit with them, but after work, after dinner, after bathtime, in the morning, tomorrow, this weekend... hours become invisible and children become adults. We need to stop and pay attention. And not just when we get a chance or when it's convenient for us.  As my son said, clinging to my hand, "No. NOW."

Dear 16 Year Old Me

I posted the question on Facebook:

If you could speak to your 16 year old self, what would you say?

And I answered:

"You are exactly who you are supposed to be. Stay the course. Don't change a thing. Unless you decide to. Embrace possibility. You can't fuck it up if you hold hope in your hand. Never let go of the power of truth. You, my dear, rock."

I was a mess at 16 years old. It is the year I got pregnant by a guy who would become a heroin user. I had an abortion. I dropped out of school. I ran away and lived in the basement of a drug house, until the police found me and made me go home. To my mother's house where I hadn't lived in three years. I moved from my father's house where I had complete and utter freedom, a father who let me go so that his latest wife could move in. A father who gave up on me, for his own disgustingly selfish needs. I ran away again. I hated so much.

At 16, I made a lot of bad decisions.
And I HURT. Immensely.


I COULD tell 16 year old me to not get pregnant and not do drugs and not shave my head into a defiant mohawk in attempt to tell the world to fuck off. But, I imagine some adult, at some point, already told me that. I want to tell the young me that it doesn't matter. We ALL make mistakes, but they do not DEFINE us. Unless we let them.
 
Stay the course.

Perhaps it comes from a person who has swallowed a bottle of pills and prayed to not throw them up before they took effect. A girl who has sat inside a dry bathtub and ran razor blades across her tiny, white wrists.

Stay the course.
This will not define you.

I told my husband last night that I feel closer to the girl I was then, than I ever have. Not because of the life I am living, but because of who I am on the inside. I was passionate. I was determined. I based my actions on a compass magnetized by independent thinking rather than following the path of society's norms. I was curious. I was open. I was alive. And I am, again.

Surely, my independent thinking was brand new. Surely, I made a thousand mistakes. But I stayed the course. The end result was bliss. I am happy. And I am happy being uniquely ME.


What is a teenager?
A teenager is US, before.
A teenager is our children, in the future.

Teenagers are people, caught in a moment of time. A small moment. They are listening. And learning. They just don't want to become.... as dead inside as they see some adults. And they do not have to.

Remembering
You running soft through the night
You were bigger and brighter and wider than snow
And screamed at the make-believe
Screamed at the sky
And you finally found all your courage
To let it all go

Remembering
You fallen into my arms
Crying for the death of your heart
You were stone white
So delicate
Lost in the cold
You were always so lost in the dark

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you.
~The Cure