Do We Have to Call It ‘Sex Ed?’

I have written about Sex Ed before, both its importance and the fact that I believe we are doing families and students a disservice by calling it that.

Last week the girls’ school held a combined Parent/Student Education night for 7th and 8th graders and their families, led by one of the science teachers and the health/nutrition/fitness teacher.  The idea was to talk to the group as a whole to begin with, then break them up into two groups (Students and Parents) to talk for a bit and formulate a list of questions for the other group, and finally bring them all back together to discuss some of the issues.  Eve was greatly relieved that Bubba was out of town and we were unable to join the discussion at school but I was, frankly, quite disappointed.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t rub my hands together in gleeful anticipation of talking to my daughters about their sexuality, especially given the fact that they both seem patently uncomfortable with the subject.  I was disappointed because, like most things, I believe that the more baby steps we can take, the easier it will get over time.  I am not a proponent of the ‘shock’ therapy that one educator I know engages in (among other tactics, she has the girls shout the word, “penis!” at the top of their lungs repeatedly to desensitize them to it).  I’m not against it, but it simply isn’t my style.

I was very happy to see an email from one of the instructors a few days after the program with an attached document containing both the student-generated and parent-generated lists of questions from that evening.  I forwarded it on to Eve and asked her to pick three questions she wanted to ask me. I would do the same and after dinner we headed out to take a walk.  She wasn’t thrilled.

The list of questions ranged from things like “Do you trust me?” and “What kind of boyfriend do you want me to have?” to the distinctly more squirm-worthy ones such as “How old were you when you first had sex?” and “What is molestation?” and “Does it smell when you ‘do it’?”  Predictably, Eve chose three pretty tame ones.  I let her start, but said we would alternate who asked and who answered.

I tend to give thesis-length answers, but I tried to be as concise as possible so she would remain interested and engaged in the conversation and it was fairly genial.  My first two questions were softballs, but the last one was more pointed.  Of course, when we were within a block of home, the real meat of the discussion came up and we were able to talk about date rape and how to determine if other people are trustworthy in certain situations.  We extended our stroll a bit to accommodate.

As we headed across the deck for the back door, I told her that I’d like us to do this twice a month or so until we’ve exhausted the questions on both lists.

“Mom! Some of those questions….I don’t want to do this all the time! Why do we have to?”

I know she’s embarrassed.  I know she thinks she knows more than she does.  I know she would probably rather get this information from her friends – despite the fact that they don’t know as much as they think they do, either.  But what I’m looking for here is to establish a rapport between us that doesn’t treat her sexuality as uncomfortable or shameful.  I don’t want to know details of her consensual experimentations with boys (when she finally has them, hopefully at a developmentally appropriate time) and I have no intention of sharing intimate details of my sex life with her. We aren’t BFFs. But I do want to make sure that if she ever has a question about whether or not it’s the right time for her to start experimenting or how to obtain reliable birth control or if she needs to tell me something difficult that she isn’t proud of, that she feels comfortable coming to me because we have proven ourselves able to talk about it calmly and with respect for each other.

So many of the questions on those lists had more to do with figuring out your own values and understanding your own boundaries and comfort zones than they did with anything else.  It is precisely for this reason that I think calling the classes “Sex Ed” unnecessarily creates the illusion that the material is all about intercourse and other intimate sex acts.  In my experience, it is so much more about knowing the mechanics of your own body, learning about how hormonal changes affect different aspects of your life, and figuring out how to make good choices that fit within your own personal comfort level.  Imagine if everyone were able to access information about how to take care of themselves in every aspect – physically, emotionally, spiritually – and to practice thinking critically about why certain choices were better or worse than others.  Don’t we want that for all our children? Spouses?  Parents? And just like with any other subject, additional perspectives can only add to understanding which is why it is important to me that my girls are able to discuss the material with me, uncomfortable or not.

…And the Livin’ is Easy

I went walking with a friend (I’ll call her Sunny) today who is feeling at a crossroads.  A year ago, she and her husband decided to simplify their lives a great deal by pulling their kids out of private schools, renting out their lovely home, and moving to a neighborhood where the public schools would serve her children well.

The kids have thrived and are thrilled with their new schools and their new friends and their new community.  It helps that they are within 15 minutes’ drive from most of their old friends, but they don’t seem to miss the old school or their old haunts in the least.

My friend’s husband has since taken a new job which requires him to travel a great deal, but  he enjoys it and their marriage is strong enough to weather the time apart.

For now, Sunny is a stay-at-home mom, running her household, fixing her children healthy meals and available to help with homework.  She has interviewed for a few jobs in her field but nothing has stuck yet, since it is important to her to find one that has enough flexibility for her to remain present for her kids.

Last month, they decided that this experiment had worked well enough to warrant selling their house and it sold in five days.  They are renting a home in their new neighborhood until June and when I asked her, “What next?” she paused before admitting she didn’t know.  They could move back east, closer to her family and her aging parents, or they could look for a house to buy in their new neighborhood.  I pushed a little more, probing to see what she wanted to do, and she began a verbal pro/con list of all the options.  Then she sat back in her chair and sighed.

“Honestly, Kari, – and the kids and I talk about this all the time – it’s just so easy to be here. The kids are happy at school. They have friends. I don’t have to work, for now, and their dad is happy with his job. The schools are great, the people are great, everything is within walking distance and life is just…easy.”

Her face was a mixture of guilt and embarrassment as she admitted all of this to me.

I smiled and thought about what a lovely, lovely turn of events this is.  Why should life be hard?  Of course, it is sometimes, and for some people more than others, but often I think we make it too hard on ourselves without realizing that we are.  Their conscious decision a year ago was to simplify. And it seems that it worked.  Good for them.  I hope they revel in it. I hope that it feels safe and comforting.  I can’t say that there was ever a time in my childhood that felt “easy,” and I hope she knows what a gift she’s giving to her kids by letting them experience that.  It won’t last forever, but while it’s here, I’ll celebrate it with her.

Equanimity

My word of the day.

Equanimity.

But it didn’t start out that way.  I awoke in the darkness for the fourth day in a row cursing Daylight Savings Time and the way it thrusts me back into a cycle of waking before the sun just when my mood has begun to lift.  I awoke to another day of Bubba in a different state altogether, missing his solid presence next to mine in bed and calculating the hours until the airplane’s wheels touch down in this city with him inside.

And then I got to kiss my girls awake.  Both of them, teenage-years-be-damned.  I got to lean over Lola’s warm, round cheeks that won’t lose their plumpness for another year perhaps and brush my lips across them, murmuring to her that it is time to get up.  I headed upstairs to stumble over books and underwear strewn across Eve’s floor, making my way to a precarious perch on the side of her bed and press my lips firmly on her forehead, oily with hormones and sleep.  I am so blessed.

We all did what we do, packing lunches, gathering homework and water bottles, steaming milk, walking the dog around the block, sliding in to the car for the short ride to school.

As soon as the girls shut the car doors, I flipped on NPR (they can’t stand to listen to it in the morning whereas I consider it breakfast) and heard that a Senate committee has approved an assault weapons ban that will now head to a full vote.  I listened to a story about the rape case in Ohio and another about the scores of individuals perhaps wrongly convicted because of tainted or fabricated evidence in a Massachusetts lab.  And I wondered…

What if we are all doing the things we are supposed to be doing right now?
What if humanity is pushing along at precisely the pace it needs to be?

I don’t mean to say that there isn’t injustice or incredible suffering in the world for so many people.
I don’t mean to imply that I don’t care about all of it.

But when I look around I see so much beauty and love. I truly feel an emergence of a better place, better working conditions for so many, more equality for individuals who have historically been disenfranchised, more awareness of our collective connection to each other.  And we couldn’t have that without all that has gone before.  We can only work at a certain pace to effect change and I believe that there is a building of energy and will like a tide coming in to sweep the beach. And just like a tide, it will retreat and build again and again.

I see people all over working to make their own lives better and to improve the lives of others and I am buoyed.  It is only by accepting the place where we find ourselves that we can hope to move forward.  Alicia wrote on her blog about some of the real challenges she faces in her everyday life with a special needs daughter, and she wrote about it with equanimity.  She wasn’t railing against her daughter or whatever “god” or “fate” set her up to have the unique behaviors she has, she was simply accepting, sitting back and looking at her own life with clear eyes.  I know so many other parents who do that every day – Elizabeth, Carrie, Michelle.  They absolutely have to marshal their strength to fight for things from time to time. They are all amazing advocates for their children and tremendously committed to finding resources and pushing for change and I am in awe of them all.  But they can’t be effective unless they first understand who they are fighting for. And that takes equanimity.  The ability to look at your life for what it is and find the beauty mixed in with the difficulty. The ability to seek the eye of the tornado and sit there while all swirls around you, knowing that it simply can’t be any different than it is right now, but it will most certainly be different over time.

Today I am finding solace and peace in knowing that the world is what it is right now because that’s where it is supposed to be.  Progress comes on the heels of many feet marching together for the long haul, but we can’t walk if we don’t recognize the ground we’re standing on.

Equanimity.

James Holmes Trial, Part 2

Shooter to be Drugged for Interview

That was the headline in yesterday’s NPR feed that jerked my eyes back up, even as my fingers continued scrolling down.

In their attempt to decide how James Holmes, the man who shot moviegoers in Aurora, Colorado at the movie premiere of The Dark Knight Rises, ought to be tried, it seems prosecutors are getting impatient.  While his defense team tries to figure out whether or not he should plead insanity, the prosecutors allege that they have “waited long enough.”  The judge decreed that, should Holmes choose to plead not guilty by reason of insanity, he may well be forced to undergo an interview to determine his fitness to stand trial under the influence of “medically appropriate” drugs administered by the court.

Civil rights notwithstanding (I suspect the ACLU would have something to say about this course of action), what exactly is it that they are hoping to accomplish?  Does anyone really believe that James Holmes could have entered a public place armed to the teeth with weapons and start shooting if he were “sane?”  Does anyone do that?

He may have preplanned the assault (indeed, he had to in order to collect the weapons and ammunition and obtain the gas mask and bullet proof vest he wore during the attack).  But does that mean he was sane when he did it?  He may have thought about ways to exit the theater without getting caught, but does that necessarily mean he was in his “right mind?”  I know that there is a narrow legal definition of insanity that we use in our court system and I realize that it hinges on premeditation and whether or not the actor fully comprehended the consequences of their actions. I know that, legally, someone has to know the difference between Right and Wrong. But aren’t we missing the point here?

Say Holmes is given a “truth serum” for his interview (something like sodium pentothol or sodium amytal which are designed to lower inhibitions and elicit more honest answers).  If his mind is capable of confusing a violent act such as the one he committed with something that will ultimately make anyone’s life better, is him telling the “truth” about it going to clear things up?  Or is it likely that what will emerge is simply a magnified version of Holmes himself, presumably muddled and angry?

And while the employees of the legal system run around trying to determine competence and legal definitions of insanity in some effort to dispense “justice,” what is really happening?  The victims of the shooting are mourning – some of them mourning the loss of loved ones and others mourning the loss of their own physical health.  Many are struggling to come to terms with the trauma they experienced and working to build lives where they feel safe and secure again.  They are desperate to find ways to pay for the expensive medical care and rehabilitation they received as a result of Holmes’ attack, and whether or not he is found guilty, whether he is considered insane or not makes not one bit of tangible difference.

What if our limited resources were utilized to help everyone in this case in ways that will actually make their lives better?  I can’t know what it will take to help any one of them in their own lives, but I bet they do.  Working to come to terms with what has happened to them as well as finding ways to facilitate their physical and, in some cases, financial recovery would seem a much more humane, more just purpose than a prolonged series of trial motions and interviews and legal wrangling.

As I wrote in this post on restorative justice, I do believe that Holmes (and anyone who commits a crime) needs to be held accountable for his actions, experience consequences accordant with his acts.  At this point, though, I question whether that is even possible.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to acknowledge his suffering (I don’t care that I haven’t met him or read accounts of his ‘mental state,’ anyone who and mows down their fellow human beings with assault weapons is suffering) and work with him to increase his mental functioning? Not simply so that he can be tried, but so that he can have some shot at truly understanding his crime?  Wouldn’t it be more satisfying to know that he could comprehend the effects of his shooting rampage and begin to atone for it? Wouldn’t it be more humane to give him a chance to spend his life doing something productive instead of leaving him trapped in a tormented brain and a prison cell for the rest of his life?  And wouldn’t it be more humane and productive for us to direct some of those resources that might go into a trial toward the victims’ rebuilding of their own lives?  Restorative justice.  Restoration. Putting things back as best we can.

I don’t see how the continued debate over whether Holmes was “sane” or not is helping anyone to move forward or heal from the horrific events of last July.  We can dissect this man’s likely thoughts or motives or brain patterns for months to come and still not achieve anything that resembles healing for this community.  By the time a trial is concluded, if it can be, we will have only succeeded in keeping that wound open and raw for longer than it deserved to be.  Our focus must be on assessing the needs of the entire community and addressing them, Holmes included.

When it’s a Waste of Time (and Energy) to Comment

I have been on a bit of an activist rampage lately in my own head.  Last week, Eve’s social studies teacher assigned them the 14-page “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” written by Martin Luther King, Jr. and she encouraged parents to read it as well so they could discuss it with their children.  Despite the fact that I figured the chances of Eve wanting to hang out and have a philosophical discussion with me about her homework were about 1/infinity, I printed out all 14 pages and sat down with a highlighter.

By the time I was done reading, I had three pages of notes and I felt like the top of my head was afire.  I could nearly hear the synapses in my brain shooting across from one cell to the next, making connections between what King was writing about and so many other unjust laws that exist today.  Regardless of Eve’s decision to talk with me about it or not, I vowed to put my thoughts into a coherent essay soon and try to submit it for publication somewhere.

Fresh from the revelations of this amazing piece of writing by MLK, Jr. I went to the premiere of the documentary Girl Rising with a friend.  Eve and Lola are going to see it next week with their classmates and I was curious to see whether it would prove relevant to them.  I was impressed.  The film tells the stories of nine girls around the world who face incredible difficulties accessing education but persevere and manage to find a way to make it happen.  Woven between the narratives of their lives are astonishing statistics about the way education impacts the lives of women and girls (and thus, the entire human race and perhaps the planet) and I walked out of that theater on fire again, wanting to find a way to keep the momentum of this amazing story going.

This morning after dropping the girls at school, I sat and meditated the best I could with all the noise inside my own brain, forced myself to take the dog on a long walk to compose a writing plan for the day, and finally sat down to start working.

The first thing I did was check my Facebook feed which is, unsurprisingly, filled with information from organizations like Everyday Feminism, The International Planned Parenthood Foundation, A Mighty Girl, etc.  Miss Representation had a link to an article in Time Magazine where Sheryl Sandberg was defending Melissa Mayer’s new maternity leave policies and the discontinuation of telecommuting at Yahoo.  The quote they shared was this,

“The more women stick up for one another, the better. Sadly this doesn’t always happen. And it seems to happen even less when women voice a position that involves a gender related issue. The attacks on Marissa for her maternity leave plans came almost entirely from other women. This has certainly been my experience too. Everyone loves a fight–and they really love a cat fight.” Sheryl Sandberg

I clicked through the link to the story, read it, and went back to read the comments on the Facebook page.  After the third comment, I realized I could feel subtle changes in my body – quickening pulse, tightening muscles in my shoulders and hands, shallower breaths – and I moved my hands to the keyboard of my laptop in preparation for response.

And then I sat back.  I took a deep breath and wondered how it would feel to simply be an observer in this case.  I wondered what would happen if I made a conscious choice not to add my comments to a dialogue with people I didn’t know.  Having commented on issues similar to this in this way before, I know that what I end up with is unsatisfying.  Rarely does anyone respond directly to my opinion (and if they do, I only know because I take the time to go back and check the FB page every once in a while), and I have no way of knowing how many people have actually read my comment.  I know that when I see a polarizing conversation on Facebook that has hundreds (or even dozens) of comments, I tend to skim through a few and then get bored unless the commenters are people I know personally.  I have already made up my mind on most of the issues and it does me no good to read what everyone else thinks, especially if it is only inflaming my need to respond.

This one time I experimented with reading each and every comment, noting the opinions of the responders and taking a moment to think about them all.  Without the intent to add my own two cents.  It was strangely freeing.  It was a much-needed reminder that I don’t have to react to every conversation that occurs around me, even if it is within the context of something that I truly care about.  My voice was not likely to make a damn bit of difference and to get sucked in to that issue would only have taken time away from other things I find more compelling and important.  It is so easy to think that just because I can comment easily, I ought to, that this is somehow a test of wills and adding my voice might tip the balance.  When I sat back and thought about what it would look like for me to type up a comment and hit enter, it felt more like throwing a pebble into a black hole than adding a brick to a much-needed wall.  I wonder how much time I have devoted to engaging in social media wars of words that are ultimately inconsequential. I suspect a lot.  Perhaps I can turn my attention to communities with whom I can have actual conversations that exchange ideas and may lead to something real as opposed to driving traffic to a particular site or filling some web advertiser’s pocket.

Why I Choose to Parent my Teen Conspicuously

Forain – The Tightrope Walker

Monday morning I went for a walk with two friends who are mothers.  As it often does, talk fairly quickly turned to our teenage daughters and the triumphs and challenges we are facing right now.  We took turns talking about and listening to each others’ unique perspectives and it felt good to be in the company of others whose values are similar and who may have fresh ideas for looking at sticky situations.

I was struck by how incredibly important parents are to children as they go through the early teen years.   Despite the fact that Eve is more interested in spending hours alone in her room (well, not digitally ‘alone,’) and she maintains that she has her own ideas about everything and my opinions aren’t always welcome, I know she is still looking to Bubba and me for a baseline.  She is in the throes of determining her own personality, her own values, and finding her unique path for the near future, and I have to respect that, but her frame of reference is us.  I can see her picking and choosing which pieces of me to absorb or eschew, shrinking away into her own space and crafting her world view from the bits and pieces she has decided are important.  She is watching the way that Bubba and I move through the world, how we react to lack of control, how we prioritize, how we act in community with others (or not).  We are the starting point from which she jumps and our role is so important in giving her something to either emulate or discard, something to react to.

One of my girlfriends was lamenting the fact that her teenager has such a negative view of her own life.  “She has clothes, food, a roof over her head. She doesn’t have parents who scream at each other all the time or kick her out of the house. How hard could her life be?”  We all laughed in that way you laugh when you know you’re all sitting in the same stew pot together.

We kicked around the notion that, in order to differentiate themselves and individuate (their most important developmental ‘job’ right now as teenagers), they have to craft some kind of backstory that justifies defiance, a pushing away. They have to have something to push off of in order to propel themselves out into the world with less fear and trepidation.  It is so much easier to push off when you’re angry or defiant than it is when you’re reluctant to leave.

There is such a strong temptation to take that “backstory” personally.  I have found myself more than once, mouth open, words tumbling out to justify or defend or belittle the “hardships” Eve has built up in her mind.  If she is listening, all I am doing is giving her ammunition in those moments.  When I’m feeling particularly disparaged by her, it is incredibly tempting to check out and let her spend hours alone in her room texting her friends, not invite her to play a game with the family or walk the dog with me or sit and do her homework in the kitchen while I make dinner.  
And then I remember what it was like to be a teenager who didn’t have parents that were available.  I remember feeling adrift much of the time, as though I was making choices about who I would be in a vacuum and ultimately, wondering why it even mattered.  It is hard to deny or embrace something that isn’t actually there.  In the moments when one of my parents was around, even if I felt they were being perfectly horrible, at least it gave me something to decide NOT to be, some solid ground on which to put my feet as I leapt in the opposite direction.
Even though I suspect Eve would say in a very brave voice that she doesn’t “need” us as much anymore, I think that the things for which we are necessary are simply different than they were in the past.  I am entirely convinced that our presence as role models in her life, however quiet and unobtrusive it may be at times, is incredibly vital to her sense of who she is now and who she may become over time.  I don’t expect or even want her to emulate either of us to the exclusion of her own burgeoning personality, but consistent availability to her, emotionally and physically, may just be the thing she needs in order to feel safe about trying on new personalities.  It may be both the bedrock and the safety net she needs to set her compass by.  

Until

One of the saddest words I think I ever learned is “until.”

Last week I sat on an airplane, one row behind a father and his two sons, ages 5 and 4, and listened to their excited chatter. Neither of the boys had ever been on a plane before and they couldn’t wait for this lumbering giant to reach the end of the runway and whisper up and off the ground.  Both of them squealed in tandem at the slight lift under the plane’s wheels and the younger one hollered, “We’re flying!” as his dad shushed him and looked around apologetically to everyone else on board.

Across the aisle from me was a young couple with a nine-month old. The baby’s mother sat down, handed the little girl to her father and pulled out a giant container of disinfecting wipes. She apologized to the stranger (Bubba) sitting next to her as she swiped down every surface within reach of the baby – the armrests, seat belt buckles, backs of the seat in front of her, everyone’s trays (inside and out), the wall and window next to them.  I smiled and closed my eyes, imagining the days filled with splashing in the pool, digging in the sand, slathering sunscreen on over and over and trying to keep her hat on.  I remembered those days of fighting for naps in a hotel room and falling in to bed at night, the TV too low for us to even hear it lest we wake our kids up, too tired for sex, the bathtub full of grit and wet swimsuits.

I was always waiting “until”
            my kids were old enough to modulate their own voices for the comfort of others around them
            they could bathe themselves and fall asleep without rocking or pleading
            the girls could entertain themselves on an airplane

Listening to those squeals of joy I realized how much “until” kept me from the now, stunted the joy of today, gave me hope for “until” but didn’t let me revel in the moment.

“Until” is never satisfied, never still, never accepting or grateful or full of equanimity.

I can so clearly remember the myriad times I thought to myself, “I can’t wait until…” as I looked at other families longingly.  I know I didn’t speed up time, but I do know that I missed fully appreciating some of the moments of exploration and the dawning of new understandings as they happened for my girls because I was focused on getting past this stage (whatever it was).

Maybe after today I can hear myself thinking those words and stop.  Maybe I can breathe instead and look around – take stock of where I am and how grateful I am to be here. Now.

Shedding Her Skin

Lola is comfortable in her own skin. Emotionally. By that, I mean to say that she is quirky, irreverent, and more than a little bit unique and she is perfectly okay with that. She has no desire to change the core of her personality to better fit anyone else’s idea of how she ought to dress or what she should find funny and she generally celebrates the ways in which she sees the world differently from most people.

She is occasionally terrifically uncomfortable in her own skin physically.  She struggles with sensory perceptions in ways that I can’t possibly understand but have learned to recognize. She hates the volume of sound in a movie theater. She is overwhelmed by the lights and sounds and smells and people offering her samples at Costco. She is very particular about the kinds of clothing she is willing to wear and can be a little obsessive about making things “even.”

Over the years she has taught herself ways to accommodate and/or avoid the things that drive her batty and in many cases she has challenged herself to endure some very uncomfortable situations in an effort to desensitize herself.  She has come a very long way in learning to tolerate things that were once unthinkable but a few sticking points remain.

She is terribly susceptible to motion sickness (but in one shining example of her courage and willingness to not let it diminish her experiences, she went on a three-day sailing trip with her class early in the school year and had a fabulous time despite some bouts with nausea).

She also struggles with transitions.  I have written about this before, especially with respect to the transition out of the school year and into the summer and vice versa.  We generally have a few days of teeth-grinding frustration before she can settle in to the new phase she has entered and it generally takes me by surprise despite the fact that it happens every year.

And so I ought to have considered that when Bubba and I decided to spring a surprise vacation on the girls for their mid-winter break.  We planned the week in Hawaii with glee, whispering and snickering together about the major secret we were keeping.  We orchestrated everything without them getting suspicious – arranging for the dog to be boarded and someone to housesit for us and yet another friend to hamster-sit – and the night before we were to leave we told them to pack their bags. We were heading to one of their favorite places for nine days and they had better dig out shorts and tanks and swimsuits.

They were ecstatic and so were we. We had managed to pull of an enormous coup!  What fun.

And it has been, but by Day 3, Lola was a little on edge. She had spent two full days jettisoning herself between the ocean and the pool, lying in the sunshine reading and going for walks on the beach with Eve. Bubba and I were enjoying our newfound freedom now that the girls were responsible enough to go off together for a few hours at a time and we were soaking up every lazy moment.

As is their ritual, Bubba and Eve woke before sunrise and headed out for a beach walk together.  Lola and I lazily made our way into our swimsuits and promised to join them shortly.  And that’s when it hit. First, Lola complained that her hair wouldn’t stay down and she was clearly agitated.  I rolled my eyes, dropped the beach bag and wet a washcloth thoroughly to plaster it down.

“As soon as it dries it’s going to stick up all over again!” she yelled.  I shushed her, worried that she had just woken up the neighbors.  She stomped her foot.

Then the strings on her bikini bottom made an “uncomfortable lump” underneath her shorts and she tugged and fussed and picked at it as enormous tears formed in her eyes.  I shifted from one foot to the next, shushing her again so she wouldn’t bug the neighbors.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE NEIGHBORS!” she shouted and I found myself at a crossroads.  Mentally cataloguing the morning’s catastrophes, from itchy, sandy flip flops to hair disasters to sunburned shoulders to this, I realized what this was.  My friend Michelle’s words appeared in my head:

Where there is (bad) behavior, there is pain.


Oh, yeah. This had all the earmarks of a classic SPD meltdown.  Each of these petty things would normally not phase her. She wasn’t trying to be difficult. She was hurting.

I put down my bag again and joined her on the bed where she was face down, sobbing with spine-shaking gulps.

“I think that this might be what it looks like to be uncomfortable in your own skin. Do you think so?”  I kissed her on the top of her head.  She nodded emphatically.

“I-i-i don’t know what to dooooo,” she wailed pathetically and my heart broke open a little.  For the moment, I could completely forget about whether Eve and Bubba were getting impatient with us. I had to help her.

“I’m sorry we sprung this trip on you and I know you want to enjoy it.  I think that you are growing up a lot right now and maybe you’re a little too big to be in this skin anymore.  You think?”

I asked her whether she wanted to picture herself as a snail who had outgrown its shell or a snake who needed to shed its old skin.  She chose snail.  And I had her close her eyes and breathe deeply three times.

“Picture yourself as a snail.  Your shell can be any color you want and when you look next to you, you see a different, bigger shell.  Take a minute to create that bigger shell in your mind’s eye. What colors does it have? What is its shape? Is it smooth or spiky? Long and lean or tall and round?  Don’t tell me. Just picture it in your mind.  Now take a moment to feel what it feels like to be in your current, small shell.  It’s a little too tight and restrictive, isn’t it?  I want you to take a deep breath in and when you let that breath all the way out, your old shell is just going to pop right off your back and roll to the side.  When it does, I want you to look at it and silently thank it for protecting you all this time.  Be grateful for all it was for you and let it know that it was important, but that you don’t need it anymore.  Now, before you turn your attention to the new shell, I want you to focus on how great it feels to be out of the old one.  It’s a little scary because you’re pretty vulnerable, but you’re safe for now.  Just take some deep, deep breaths and stretch your self out into this new, open space with each exhale.  When you’re ready, slip into your new beautiful shell and feel the cool, smooth inside that was made just for you.  Take a moment to wiggle around in it and orient yourself.  Feel how it’s not too heavy for your back and it feels expansive and comfortable.  When you are ready, thank the new shell for being there and open your eyes.”

Lola sat up slowly and looked at me with a grin.  “Thanks, Mom. I just needed to stretch my spirit.”

She got up, pulled a loose skirt over her bikini bottoms, slipped her feet into her flip flops and held out her hand.

Times like that are an important reminder for me that it is so much more vital to take the time and address how we feel when we’re feeling it than to try and shove those uncomfortable emotions out of sight.  It took maybe three minutes to interrupt her obvious physical discomfort and turn it around and it was more than worth it.  Maybe next time she’ll be able to do it herself. Maybe I’ll have to help a few more times before she’s got it down.  I’m just grateful to have been given the gift of being her mom for now because I’m learning just as much as she is about what it takes to be sensitive in the world.

One Billion Rising (and One Writing)

If you haven’t heard about One Billion Rising yet, here is the blurb from their website that gives you a little information about what they have planned for today.

Today, on the planet, a billion women – one of every three women on the planet – will be raped or beaten in her lifetime. That’s ONE BILLION mothers, daughters, sisters, partners, and friends violated. V-Day REFUSES to stand by as more than a billion women experience violence.


On February 14th, 2013, V-Day’s 15th Anniversary, we are inviting one billion women and those who love them to walk out, DANCE, RISE UP, AND DEMAND an end to this violence. One Billion Rising is a promise that we will rise up with women and men worldwide to say, “Enough! The violence ends now.”


 There are flash mobs and dance groups all over the planet joining the event to raise awareness and add their voices (and dance moves) to the growing group of people calling for an end to violence against women and girls. 


I am inspired and happy to know that, in my lifetime, the volume has been turned up. There is some heat under this skillet and the energy is fairly popping.  There are petitions being circulated to support the reauthorization of the Violence Against Women Act in Congress. There are media outlets committed to highlighting horrific acts of violence against women as well as consistently investigating and reporting on issues such as wage disparity and discrimination against women with regard to their access to health care.  


But mostly I am encouraged by the young girls I see every day.  


I am not naive enough to believe that flash mobs and petitions will serve to change the deeply rooted, firmly held beliefs of many (men and women) that women and girls are less than. Weaker of mind and body. Deserving of fewer opportunities. There are cultures, countries, and entire religious communities that embrace the notion that women and girls are rightfully subservient to men and their desires.  


Last night I witnessed, yet again, a phenomenon that pours a bucket of ice water over that idea.  Lola’s fifth grade class spent two hours presenting scientific data and original art work to a room full of family and community members.  These ten-year old girls have spent countless hours exploring the natural habitat of fresh water and marine animals in our region. They have sailed the Puget Sound taking water samples and analyzing the data, stood in the pouring rain in their rubber boots to see salmon spawning and engaged in research that culminated in the preparation of Power Point presentations that were clear, concise, engaging and humorous.  


One group of girls was charged with learning about and presenting information on the Phylum Porifera, a group of organisms most of us know as sea sponges.  These creatures have no limbs, eyes, mouths or nostrils. They have no nerves to speak of and cannot move from one place to another.  And yet, these three girls dove headfirst in to exploring how they eat and reproduce, what their body structure is composed of, how they are affected by changes in their habitat and why they are important enough that we should care about them.  This is no SpongeBob Squarepants with all his attendant quirky personality. These are, by all rights, pretty invisible and boring creatures. And yet these girls talked about them with enthusiasm and knowledge.  Their portion of the evening was just as interesting as the talk on octopi and crabs.  Each of the girls knew enough about their respective phyla to stand and answer questions from the audience with poise and confidence.  


These girls are turning the tide.  They are encouraged to take up the mantle of learning and sharing their knowledge and they do it with gusto. They work in pairs and small groups to accomplish work that is challenging and frustrating and find reward in a job well done. 


Each group of girls made a mosaic of cut glass that represented one of the species in the phylum they were charged with.  There were multiple steps to the creations of these art projects and they took weeks to complete.  And yet, when asked if it was difficult to work together, they agreed that there were some creative differences along the way, but the conversation was then re-directed to the outcome. The pride they all had in their ability to work through challenges like that and create something they all had a stake in.  


It is occasions like this that encourage me more than anything else I see going on.  It is nights like that where I am reminded that investing time and energy in young women and girls to develop their own innate talents and ideas will reap benefits beyond measure. They will not simply dance in defiance. They will refuse to be subjugated because they know that they deserve to be treated with respect and dignity. They will have been steeped in possibility and opportunity and grace and it will not occur to them that they are any less than anyone else.  While I appreciate the importance of events such as One Billion Rising, I am made most hopeful by these girls who are cultivating open minds and open hearts and who will rise to one day become the leaders of the world.  

Author Interview: Carrie Wilson Link

When it first came out, I wrote about my friend Carrie’s book “Wil of God.”  I have since had the distinct pleasure of devouring this lovely, luminous story of Carrie’s parenting journey and wanted to follow up with her in more depth about writing and her life as Wil’s mom.

The official description of the book on Amazon reads:

“Structured around the Four Noble Truths, WIL OF GOD takes you on the spiritual journey of a mother who has one idea for her life, and is handed the exact opposite. Wil comes into the world crying and doesn’t stop for eighteen months, forcing her to abandon her plans for the perfect life. She must embrace the one she is handed: The mother of a boy with relentless needs, and his perfect, endless ability to love.”


 Here goes:


When and why
did you start writing? 
I started playing
around with writing, sort of pre-blog stuff, eight years ago. I took my first
memoir writing class seven years ago, and started my blog at that time.
Why publish
it?
I felt compelled to
write this story and share it. While writing it, my prayer was always that it
would fall into the hands of those that needed to read it – for whatever
reasons. I assumed it would fall into the hands of special needs moms, mostly,
but you know what they say about assuming!
That being said,
there are probably 1000 pages “on the cutting room floor.” A lot of what I
wrote I just needed to write, but
didn’t need to publish.
 Does Wil know
what the book is about? How does he feel?
Wil knows all about
the book and is proud of it. He calls it “our” book. He asked his Grandma
recently, “Did you read our book?” He’s helped me deliver it places and in a
few cases, people have wanted him to sign it for them. That tickles him. By the
same token, he’s pretty nonplussed by the whole thing. One day my friend said,
“Your mom is writing a book about you, Wil, and it’s going to be published
soon!” His response was, “Well, I’ve got news, too! Wednesday is a Thursday
schedule, and Thursday is a Wednesday schedule!”
What was the
hardest part of writing this book? Any major revelations in the process?
The hardest part of
writing it was making myself write it. I fought with myself throughout. I was
full of doubt but knew I had to persist. Some parts of it wrote themselves,
other parts I just had to force myself through. It was brutal going through old
journals to get the facts, especially those early years. It triggered many a
PTSD episode!
What triggers
or reminds you to tap into your intuition?
Oh, good question!
Sometimes I literally am just gifted with a downloaded “piece” or “scene.” I
know I have to go to the keyboard immediately and just let it out. I LOVE when
that happens, and those places in the book remain my favorite. They never were
edited, they remain first draft. I guess to answer your question, history
reminds me to tap into my intuition, I’ve always been rewarded by doing so.
Has the
acknowledgment of Wil’s gifts prompted you to see other people differently? Did
it allow you to see your daughter’s gifts more clearly? Did it change your
perspective on the talented and gifted kids you used to teach?
Absolutely! I see
everyone and every thing differently! I am so grateful I’m not as judgmental as
I used to be, and much more patient. It has allowed me to see my daughter’s
gifts more clearly, and now that she’s in college and almost nineteen, I see
her gifts not just as a girl, but as the woman she’s becoming. I see her wisdom
and depth that she may have always had, but which has certainly grown as a
result of being Wil’s sister.
At first I thought
it terribly ironic that I ever taught Talented and Gifted. Now, I see that it
was great training ground for advocating for kids that are beyond the norm –
whatever that is. Having taught TAG and now all my years in special ed, I’ve
thrown out definitions and uses for “intelligence.” We all have gifts, we all
have talents. Period.
What’s next
for you?

No idea! I can’t
wait to find out, though, and am surprised and pleased that I’m feeling okay
about not knowing, and excited to see! I am letting it be “organic.” I don’t
want to push anything nor force anything, but am open to all the signs and
nudges from beyond!
and now some
fun questions from James Lipton’s “Inside the Actor’s Studio:”
What is your
favorite word? Love.
What is your
least favorite word? The R-word.
What is your
favorite sound? The sound of
silence.
What is your
least favorite sound? This
god-awful throaty, guttural, humming sound Wil makes when he’s un-medicated.

Thanks so much, Carrie!  

“Wil of God” is available on Amazon in paperback and electronic versions. Click through to get your copy today!