Soup and nothing

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Out of the blue this afternoon, my ten-year-old said, "I'm so excited!" I asked him why. He looked confused, like until I asked the question, he had no idea he'd said anything at all. Then he shrugged and smiled. "I don't know why I said that. But I am. I don't know. I'm just excited."

And tonight my seven-year-old said, "I'm so excited for the next time I eat lunch at home!" Again, I asked why. "Because you said I could have Italian Wedding Soup."

So on behalf of my children who get excited over soup and nothing, here's a list of 20 things that excite me:

1. a great Indian restaurant
2. a new editing client
3. figuring out exactly what I need my characters to do next
4. a request for a full
5. crawling into my bed at the end of the day
6. getting enthusiastic feedback from my crit partner
7. a new pair of jeans that fit just right
8. "This Old House" sung by the Brian Setzer Orchestra
9. watching a movie at home with my husband
10. my four-year-old telling me--for no reason at all--I'm the best mom in the world
11. hanging out with my mom and siblings
12. learning something new
13. the first day the temperature hits 50 after a long winter
14. feeling needed
15. having a teenager tell me I look younger than I am
16. circus peanuts
17. Monday mornings
18. being three fourths of the way through a book I can't put down
19. incense
20. knowing my children get excited over soup and nothing

Where's the rest of your house?

The mother of one of Emma's friends told me recently that her daughter had another girl over from school who, after playing at their home for a while, asked, "Where's the rest of your house?" This woman who told me the story has a very nice home that this little girl apparently found, uh, lacking.

Last weekend, Ron and I took Emma to get her ears pierced. This was completely her idea; I did no nudging whatsoever. She could hardly sleep for days because she was so excited. Not exaggerating here. The earrings were in, paid for, a bottle of antiseptic something or other in a pink bag, and Emma wanted to know how long before she could put in new earrings, and then how long before she could wear dangling earrings . . . and then how long before she could wear my dangling earrings.

Ron bought a new camera for himself for Christmas. It has a full-frame sensor (yeah, I have no idea what that means, and please don't bother explaining it to me) and is better than his "old" one. But with this fancy schmancy new camera came the need for new lenses. Two new lenses. So since Christmas, he's sold four old ones. He says he's content now, done shopping, ready to take photos and stop cruising through Craigslist looking for the rest of the house.

I'm sure all of this is as simple as the Rolling Stones song, right?(That's without the girly-action refrain, of course.) Satisfaction with what we have and where we are is just. so. hard. The grass is always greener. Those two birds in the bush look pretty dang tempting, but the one in my hand should suffice. Oh, and that dog has a bigger bone than I do, but if I go for it--crap--I lost the one I had.

Here's the thing though. Wanting more doesn't have to leave us unhappy with what we have. I've been paying a lot of attention to this little quirk in Emma lately. She's the happiest of my kids. I mean, she's just the definition of joyful. She wakes up happy, goes to bed happy, and skips, runs, and bounces in virtually every moment in between. But I say "virtually," because she does have her little fits, her share of why can't-I and but-mommy's and stomp-stomp-stomp-this-is-me-stomping-away-so-there. She gets over "it" though--whatever "it" may be at the time. And, sure, she wants to wear dangling earrings as soon as possible, and she wants to wear the shoes TODAY that are two sizes too big for her, and she always wants it to be tomorrow because tomorrow always holds something exciting.

But--and this is a big "but" that makes the difference between a child's joy and an adult's anxiety--she's also thrilled to pieces to be right here, right now.

I like writing. I love it, in fact. And I would love to have an agent call me tomorrow (because tomorrow always holds something exciting, right?) and say, "So, hey, I'm thinking we could work together." But--and this is a big "but" that makes the difference between me finding joy in what I do and me biting my nails until they bleed--I'm very happy to be right here, right now . . . writing, editing, wifing (don't bother correcting me), and mothering. Life is good.

Knock on wood--Brazilian cherry, please. And then you can show me the rest of your house.

Chaperoning

I chaperoned a party at my son's junior high Friday night, and since the 300 or so kids who showed up were--from what I could tell--really tame, I had a lot of time (3 hours) to simply observe and think.

I've been doing a lot of research on teen abuse recently. By teen abuse, I mean teen-on-teen abuse. I mean boyfriends manipulating, controlling, belittling, and physically hurting their girlfriends. The statistics are terrifying. A survey taken in 2006 indicates the following facts among others:

1. 1 in 3 girls who have been in a serious relationship say they've been concerned about being physically hurt by their partner.
2. 1 in 5 teens who have been in a serious relationship report being hit, slapped, or pushed by a partner.
3. More than 1 in 4 teenage girls in a relationship report enduring repeated verbal abuse.
4. 24% of 14- to 17-year-olds know at least one student who has been the victim of dating violence, yet 81% of parents either believe teen dating violence is not an issue or admit they don't know if it is an issue.

And one of the most disturbing ones...

5. 80% of girls who have been physically abused in their intimate relationship continue to date their abuser.

Is your stomach churning? Moms, do you think your daughters aren't at risk? Do you think you have a good enough relationship with them that they would talk with you, ask you for help, never get into this kind of situation in the first place? Because if you do, there's a really good chance you're wrong. My mother was.

I've been fortunate enough to have been able to keep in touch with my best friend from sixth grade. Her name is Lisa. She was my biggest cheerleader growing up, and I adored her. I still do. I was the outspoken one; she was the quiet one. I was the one who made enemies easily and often intentionally; she was the one who told me when I was right and when I went too far. She, to this day, describes me as strong. I was strong when I was 11. I was strong when I was 18. And when I hit 19? I forgot who I was. I forgot for three years. Actually, I forgot for even longer, because it took longer than three years to respect myself again.

Lisa would never have thought I would subject myself to what I did. My mother wouldn't have thought it. My father wouldn't have thought it. No one who knew me would have. It sneaked up on me, and I wasn't prepared.

But my daughter will be prepared--or she'll be as prepared as I can possibly make her. And my sons will be prepared as well to know what is and is not acceptable behavior. They are growing up as the sons of a man who treats his wife with respect and love and concern, even when arguing with her. They'll know emotions are what they need to control, and not the person they supposedly love.

And all of this preparation starts not at 18 when a child leaves home, but from a young age.

This is what I was thinking about while watching the girls dance on Friday night to "power" songs--to songs about standing up for yourself, about realizing you don't really know what love is at 15, about being bold and courageous and feisty. And I worried about the disconnect between them shouting and laughing, and them possibly being one of those statistics above.

I finished reading a book the other night--a popular young adult novel. Love Interest #1 shoves the main character around, and her best friend responds with, "He was drunk. He wasn't himself." Even if the author didn't mean it, even if as a reader I'm supposed to dismiss the best friend as an idiot, why couldn't the friend instead have said, "He what?! End it, babe. It's over"? The answer is that the story wouldn't have turned out like it did. Love Interest #2 wouldn't have had to rescue her. Do I blame the author for perpetuating this notion that girls have to be saved by a boy? No. But I do wish more authors would have the girl save herself! Have her jump up and down with her friends to a loud, booming song at a dance. Have her feel empowered and important and beautiful. Then have her tell the boyfriend to go to hell when he criticizes what she wore or tells her she needs to lose weight or, God forbid, lays a hand on her.

When I was in sixth grade, my seventh-grade boyfriend told me he loved me. My response? I hung up on him. He called back and asked why I did that. I said, "Because I'm 11 and you're 12. We don't know what love is! Don't ever say that to me again!"

So here's to more girls recognizing what love is--and what it isn't. And here's to us teaching them.

The lies we believe...

While we're on the topic...

I was listening to a story on NPR this morning about James Arthur Ray, the motivational speaker now charged with manslaughter for the deaths of three of his ... followers. Is that too strong a word? Perhaps retreat participants? These people and the others at the "Spiritual Warrior" event had paid $9k for the honor of having this man starve them for three days and then stick them in a sweat lodge: three dead and 18 hospitalized. That's at least 21 people. Add it up and that's at least $189k--for a *weekend* of "you can do it," "overcome your physical weaknesses," "come on, you wimp, deal with the heat and starvation and you'll be a stronger person for it."

A lawyer for one of the survivors said his client was particularly upset because Lee is claiming it was an accident no one could have foreseen. The lawyer said something along the lines of (and sounded upset while speaking), "Lee had a message of personal responsibility--for accepting the blame for your mistakes. And now here he is blaming the sweat lodge manufacturers!"

I have nothing but respect for the people who died and sympathy for the family members. Where my frustration over this story lies is in what it says about our society--that we feel the need to pay someone upwards of $9k so they can motivate us.

While listening to this story, I thought about a woman I know (or used to) who is a motivational speaker. She's a good woman, a good wife, a good mother. But when her first book came out, I was, frankly, more than a little put off by how she exaggerated her qualifications. I won't go into detail, but suffice it to say I knew that what others would interpret from her bio wasn't what the bio was really saying. It was like hearing, "Four out of five dentists prefer sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum," and you think, "Oh. They just endorsed Trident." When really, they just prefer you not go for Bubblicious.

Last week, I heard about a study that claims most people who work in advertising don't watch commercials, which implies that most advertisers don't believe in their product. That is, if I really truly had faith in Latest Product That Will Change Your Life and put my heart and soul into the campaign to get others to buy it, cuddle it, use it, love it, then I would want to know what other products out there are worth considering, because surely everyone else feels as strongly about their endorsement as I feel about mine.

Here's the thing: I think you're a great person. I really do. I think you deserve to be loved and to be treated well. I think you should allow yourself the same forgiveness you grant others. I think you should stop putting yourself down. I think you should take care of yourself. I think most motivational speakers and authors really do say the right things--but I also think that for some of them, the "need" to make $189k in one long weekend starts to outweigh the need to take personal responsibility for their life and, more importantly here, for yours.

After a hellish 3-year relationship in college, I came home with one great realization: We're incredibly good at fooling ourselves. And if we can do that to ourselves, why is it a surprise when others can do it to us?

"Know Thyself." Begin there.

Lies we tell

My 10-year-old came home from school yesterday. "Mom! Amy [name changed] said her family is probably going to adopt a kid from Haiti." Now, I've been following the story of the Haitian orphans, and I know, at this point, a couple of things: (1) If you hadn't started the adoption process before the earthquake, you're out of luck for the moment. (2) People who are adopting need to have fulfilled certain criteria, one of which I know this particular family does not meet. That's not me judging them; it's just how the law works at the moment.

I told Owen, "You might want to hold off on believing everything Amy tells you."

Also yesterday, my 7-year-old, Emma, told me the list of presents her friend has told her she has gotten Emma for her birthday, which isn't until May. This same friend told Emma last year that she'd gotten her an American Girl doll. I had to explain to Emma several times before her party that, in fact, this friend had not gotten her a doll because they are very expensive.

I was laughing about all of this on the way to taking my kids to school this morning--this need children have to bring the attention back to them, to make you like them, love them, admire them. Simon, who will be thirteen in a few days, just shook his head. "Mom, it's not all kids. It's girls."

So I've been thinking about that since dropping him off, and it's kind of bothering me now. I have three sons, and I have to admit that I've never had to tell them, "No, Samuel isn't telling you the truth," or "Honey, try not to believe everything Andrew tells you." I'm not saying boys don't lie. Come on: I'm not that naive. But they do, in my experience, lie about different things.

They lie to get out of, stay out of, and altogether avoid trouble. But do they lie so their friends will say, "Yes, you're my favorite?" Do they lie so the other kids at school will say, "That's the one I was telling you about! Isn't that so cool?"

At what point do little girls think they have to be someone other than who they are to be accepted and, better yet, loved? Is it when they sit on the bathroom counter and watch their moms putting on makeup? Is it when their mom has had a near breakdown at home, yelling about the mess she has to clean up, only to put on her sweet voice when she answers the phone in the midst of the chaos? Is it when they hear her complaining about how much she hates the next-door neighbor, only to watch her smile and wave at her in the morning?

Or does it have nothing to do with their mothers? Is it watching commercials for face cream? Or being rewarded with a sticker at preschool? Or is it the fairy tales they read, the happily ever after of being loved because you weren't just good, but Good? Will these girls grow up to be women who are afraid to ever be themselves, either because they've forgotten who they are or because they're sure that without the perfectly lipsticked, pasted-on smile, no one would notice them?

I'd like to think I'm real. I'd like to think that the person people see when I step outside my door is the same person I was just two seconds earlier. More importantly, I'd like to think that the person my daughter sees when I step inside the house is the same one she saw on the doorstep.

Life isn't always rosy and picture perfect, even with the face cream. That's what she needs to know. And she needs to know that I'm okay with the fact that not everyone is going to like me. And she needs to know that not everyone is going to like her either. And that's more than okay: It's the truth. And the other great truth is that the right people will love her, and she'll always have friends, always have at least one good reason to laugh, and always be loved.

"I grew up kissing books and bread."

That quote is by Salman Rushdie. And I also love this one:

"I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library." --Jorge Luis Borges

I literally grew up in a bookstore. I say it all the time, but it's true. From the time I was ten until I was fourteen, we lived in the basement of my family's bookstore--not in the creepy "under the stairs" kind of way, but in the "it was a full-fledged, four-bedroom apartment" kind of way. And at the time, I never loved it as much as I should have.

My parents sold used books as well as new, and one afternoon a customer came in looking for red books. Titles? Didn't matter. She just needed books that were red because they matched the interior design of the room in her house thy were intended to decorate. At the time, the idea of books as decoration was completely foreign--and just wrong--to me. You read books; you don't prop them up on a shelf in order to bring out the burgundy in your carpet. It seemed almost blasphemous to me.

My sons' room has bothered me since we moved in more than a year ago, and I haven't been able to put my finger on the problem. Did it lack color? Depth? Was it imbalanced? Did I need to Feng Shui it (as if I know how)? Then a couple of weeks ago, it finally hit me: the room didn't have a bookshelf. It had books--in baskets under the desk and in a basket by the dresser. But when you walked into the room, you didn't see those books. So I put a shelf in, filled it, put a few picture frames on top, and ta-dah... I'm happy. Would an interior designer approve of the layout? Definitely not. But I approve because the room now feels right; it feels like part of our home. I used books to decorate--but they're books the kids read. The titles matter; the colors don't.

When we were looking for houses, we would find ones that were big enough for our family, that had enough yard space, and that were in a good school district. But we kept running into the same problem: no room for our piano and no room for our books. One of the real-estate agents with whom we worked kept saying, "Oh, but you could put a shelf here. Or here. Or in the dining room; I've seen shelves in dining rooms and they're so stylish." She was talking "a" shelf--as in a ledge. We were talking shelving units--as in the ones that fit 150 or so books each. Multiple shelving units.

I don't understand people who don't read anything more than the newspaper or the occasional Time magazine. I'm not a snob about this. I'm not saying it shows a lack of intelligence. But where does your imagination come out to play? Aren't you curious about history or sociology or anthropology? And how can you feel at home without at least a few rows of books in every room of your house?

Had I not grown up surrounded by the smell of cracked leather bindings and pages so musty they reminded me of the decaying trees and then earth they might otherwise have been, perhaps I wouldn't need books as much as I do. Perhaps it would be a window filled with plants or a great stereo system or a large dining room table for family gatherings.

So I wonder: What physical representation of your own psyche demands a place in your home?

Empathy

My 10-year-old, Owen, asked me the other night at dinner what the difference is between empathy and sympathy. It's not a question I ever really pondered until after college, but it's one I've thought about a lot over the past several years.

I edited a brief paper today on debt in impoverished nations. I came across a fact from a book by ethicist Peter Singer that, frankly, depressed me. Or perhaps "scared" is the better word here:

Three months after 9/11, $353 million was raised for the families of the officers and firefighters who died in Manhattan that day. The amount came to about $880,000 per family. Around this time, UNICEF published a report stating that roughly 30,000 children die every day around the world from preventable causes. But UNICEF, of course, saw no rise in donations during this same period.

Now, I don't at all mean to imply the $353 million should have been sent to UNICEF instead. But I do wonder why we are more profoundly affected by tragedy close to home than to tragedy thousands of miles away. And is it geographical distance that makes the difference? Or is it our complete inability to truly feel for someone who doesn't share our ethnicity or our socio-economic status or our religion?

I watched the movie "Life Is Beautiful" when I was about eight-months pregnant with Owen. I cried so hard at the end that I had to cover my mouth because I was afraid of the sobs choking my throat. I'm a crier under the best of circumstances, but add a few hormones to the mix, and I'm a wreck. But my reaction was about more than hormones. Ron asked me as we left the theater why it affected me so profoundly: "Is it because you imagine yourself in that father's shoes?" I said no. I felt sad for that father and that son. But as I thought more about it--and even now I reflect back on how extreme my response to the film was--I was lying to myself. The movie broke my heart precisely because I was imagining the heartache of saying goodbye to my child, and imagining my child growing up without me but with a surety of my love for him.

NPR recently aired an interview with a man who has studied Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel extensively. He said Heschel believed all the world's problems could be solved if we could simply feel what others are feeling. This, I explained to Owen over dinner, is what empathy is. Heschel said, "A religious man is a person who holds God and man in one thought at one time, at all times, who suffers harm done to others, whose greatest passion is compassion, whose greatest strength is love and defiance of despair."

Heschel didn't qualify that statement with "who suffers harm done to others who are like us."

Is it really that hard to feel for someone not like us? Do we have to imagine that child starving could be our child starving in order to care? It scares me that the answer, whether we want to admit it or not, is too often "yes."

I don't want my own empathy to be weakly derived from the effort of trying to imagine how I would feel in "their" position. I want it to be derived from understanding how it feels for them to be in their position. That kind of empathy is what can propel us to action. Anything less is what leaves us in barely controlled sobbing in a movie theater.