My Level of Awareness

Drama, once created, cannot be destroyed, merely transformed into another state of drama.

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Dear Harrypotamus (yes, that is what we called you),

If you are reading this, you are now a big boy, and probably annoyed when I try to kiss your cheeks all over, or smell your hair.  It’s too bad.  It was the highlight of my day, every day.

Even now, as you are a little man of only 19 months, there are so many things to worry about when I cannot be with you.  Are the teachers giving you enough attention?  Do they hug you when you cry?  Do they make sure you have enough vegetables to eat?  Are the other kids picking on you?  Have they found that little biter who keeps leaving marks on your back?  Do you miss your mommy?  Are you lonely?  Are you afraid?

These are the nagging thoughts of my day.

You are likely also annoyed by my overprotectiveness and my tedious desire to know about every aspect of your life.  Try to be patient with your old mom.  It was a major struggle to bring you into this world.  I never thought I would ever have the chance to meet you.  Now that you are here, you are an even more fascinating and wonderful person than I ever imagined you would be.  I miss your company when you are not with me.

Because you are my little miracle, my little angel.  If I had my way, you would never know pain, never know rejection, never know loneliness or fear.  If I could take all the blows of life for you, I would step between you and adversity without a second thought. 

When I say “this hurts me more than it hurts you”? 

Believe it.

Love,

 Mom.

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As the book reviews on this (extended holiday) month’s book have started rolling in, I figured I had better get my butt in gear.  I finished the book three weeks ago, but got caught in that bloated post-holiday “I’d rather sit on the couch and bleh” than blog.

Here is why I love Bill Bryson - if you ever, ever wanted a glimpse of my inner voice, of the way my thinking processes work, read Bryson.  He has that same taste for the absurdity of life, the same feeling of passing through as an observer, almost a voyeur, as I do.  He recognizes how insanely funny the world really is.  Everyday.  And he shares the absolute necessity to believe that it IS insanely funny in order to see beyond what is also poignantly tragic.  Read his African Diary and you will understand completely.

I think the scene in the book that is most illustrative of this is the description of his near-collision on an Outback highway.  The sublime irony of the only two pieces of moving metal for hundreds and hundreds of miles on a direct crash-course is something that makes me teary-eyed with laughter.  I think I would be giggling to the point of impact at the same time I was soiling my trousers.

He also shares my ability to see beauty as a less-than perfect condition.  I love New Orleans almost because of it’s flaws rather than in spite of them.  It is a city that does not feel compelled to ”dress itself up for company”.  Bryson duly notes Australia’s complete, even criminal, failure to deal fairly with its aboriginal population, but it does not keep him from falling in love with the country and its people. 

I am bucking the trend here with Australia.  I want to go.  I love big empty spaces.  And I am the absolute model of the curious traveler.  I want to go places because, well, because they’re there.  I get ONE passage through this life on this earth.  It seems such a waste if I don’t try to see as much of it as possible.  I mean, isn’t that kind of sad?  To die having missed seeing the wonder of this world?  In that, Bryson and I are of one mind.  This book doesn’t really express that mindset as well as A Short History of Nearly Everything, but nevertheless, I was vicariously enjoying his good fortune at having a job that enables him to fulfill that wish.

So, I guess, the bottom line here, is that while this isn’t my favorite Bryson book, it’s like saying milk chocolate isn’t my favorite chocolate.  It’s not as bittersweet, but it’s still damned good.

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First, an observation:

Checkout girls are not accustomed to ringing diapers and reading glasses on the same ticket. 

Then a warning:

No matter if it does sound like killing two birds with one stone, Benefiber and Diet Coke do not mix. 

They. Really. Don’t.

Now a piece of advice:

Never lose your ability to laugh at yourself.  You’re gonna need it.

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I got the shoe gene. 

I don’t know where it came from, but it is the one inherited girlie trait I really have.  I must stay away from any store that has a sign with the words “shoe” and “sale” anywhere in near congruence, or my financial future will come under serious threat from my irresistable compunction to buy shoes. 

I lost over 100 pairs of shoes and boots in Katrina.

And they are among some of the top things that I miss.

My books.  My grandmother’s hope chest.  My pastel portrait of me at four years old.  And my shoes.

After losing so much in Katrina, I decided to try, against all odds, to resist the rampant accumulation of consumer goods that preceded the catastrophe.  If I didn’t view the whole incident as a material lesson (pardon the pun), in how we should not over-consume, then there was no lesson at all, and nothing in life makes any sense.  And that, in my world, is unacceptable.

But the shoes.  Man.  That’s been hard. 

I have taken to cloaking my shoe-buying compulsion in maternal rectitude.  My son only has TWO pairs of shoes that fit him  Two.  Is that enough, I ask you, for an active child?  Of COURSE not.  Harry needs shoes.

So, I broke down and spent way, way too much money buying things that my son will wear for, well, maybe six months.

These:

And these:

 Are on their way to my son.  Because Harry needs shoes. 

I need professional help.

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My best friend just got out of the hospital today.  And because I know Amy-Renee likes to read about herself in blogs, and I know this will make her happy, I am going to tell you a little about her.

The vast majority of folks that see us together scratch their heads in wonder that we have gotten along so well for this long.  Sometimes, I scratch my head myself.  I am sure she does too; I am not the easiest person to get along with.

We are, at a glance, at extreme ends of the spectrum of human existance.

Where I am serious, she is silly.  I crave deep roots.  She is the perennial gypsy.  I hate driving.  She is never happier than with the wind in her hair and the road before her.  I travel.  She wanders.  My style is classic,  she is le modèle du jour.  She is the most materialistic buddhist I know.   Where I am shades of green and blue, she is ”in-your-face pink” - a girlie girl, with attitude.  I am a tomboy.  She is boy-crazy. 

I live my life in the abstract.  She is a force of Nature. 

The things we share far outweigh the differences in our temperament.  And they are the things that matter.  We share a code of life that celebrates the loyalty of friendship, the willingness to answer the call in the night, to hear tears without judgement, even when we don’t understand.  And when it is really, really necessary, to deliver tough love with gentleness.

We share the fierce love of mothers for our sons.  We share a love of the warm kitchen and a beautiful spring day.  We share a joy for the simple act of waking up each day and living life.  We share the knowledge that our time on earth is short, and we must make each moment count.  We can laugh at each other, and at ourselves.

And, man, can we laugh.

She drives me crazy.  And damn, if I don’t love her for it.

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Okay, still too serious.

When whoopee won’t work, there is only one logical follow-up:

 Chocolate.

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It’s time to make some whoopee!

(This whoopee brought to you courtesy of the Amazing Harrypotamus and his incredible self-inflating whoopee machine.  All rights reserved.)

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But I was always the one that had to learn the hard way.

I wrote this post on my Myspace blog (ouch, there, had to admit it again) last May.  It was the ONLY post I ever made private, friends only, because I knew at the time that it was nothing more than a hurt rant:

I cannot for the absolute LIFE of me figure out when it got so difficult to pick up the phone. 

We had some friendships suffer over the last year.  Not because there was a disagreement between us.  Not because we did anything aggregious to each other or because we committed unpardonable sins.

But because nobody had the balls to pick up the phone and call and ASK us what actually happened, or why we did some things that we did.  We had to find out through the grapevine and through innuendo that they were upset.

On a further downhill slide, they took the word of somebody who barely knows us at all, who heard it from someone who wasn’t involved in ANYTHING we supposedly did or said.  If you hear something from a person actually party to the incident - well, fine.  I am cool with it.  At least you are hearing one side and we know there are two sides to every story.  We would appreciate it if you would hear ours, but at least you have a primary source.  We had devil’s tails painted on us before anyone thought for a single second that their messenger just might have an ulterior motive.

Now, my share of the blame is this - after hearing that this person or that person is “upset at me”, I am not likely to go seeking them out, either.  Why? Because I feel it further legitimizes the “grapevine” mentality.  I WILL go directly to somebody if I am pissed at them.  Anyone who knows me knows that I do not pussy-foot around being righteously pissed.  I will NOT go if somebody tells me that somebody told them that such-and-such was upset at me.  First, I am not sure I have a solid basis to assume any upset has indeed occurred.  Second, it promotes the idea that instead of having the courage to confront somebody, you can just tell somebody else you are mad at them and let it wind its way through the system.  Then you don’t have to take responsibility for it.  Plausible deniability is the coinage of petty politics.

At this point, the damage is done.  They have chosen somebody else’s word over our friendship.  They have made the value judgement for me, the friendship is already broken and I have no interest in ressurrecting it.  

The saddest commentary about this whole affair, is at the stupid, ridiculous base of the matter is a difference of opinion.  Like I said, not a sin, not a hurt, nobody screwed anybody’s wife, nobody slashed their tires, stole from their wallet or slapped their kid - we just disagreed.  About a game.  And I am not even sure they disagreed with what we did, but what they THOUGHT we did.  What’s even worse, is that some of these folks were SPECIFICALLY asked for their opinion and would not give it. And then were UPSET with the outcome.

Bottom line is - got a beef?  Pick up the phone.  Want to give your opinion?  Pick up the phone.  Got a better idea?  Pick up the phone. Otherwise, I’ve got no use for you.

And, for those of you who DID take the time to call, or catch us at an event, and get the straight skinny and work things out (and this came from some very unexpected quarters).  THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.  My appraisal of some of my colleagues and their honesty and decency has risen considerably - even though we still don’t always agree.  So, perhaps there is just a balance of respect in the universe - you win some, and you lose some.

Today, I still know it was a hurt rant. 

But I publish it here, unedited, for all eyes to see because sometimes it is necessary to illustrate that those faults we find in others, we are often guilty of ourselves.  I only hope anyone reading this today will have the insight and bravery to look at their own actions and ask themselves if those faults they have criticized most in others are those that they fear most in themselves.  Are we guilty of the same sins which we condemn in others?  Is self-righteousness rooted in hypocrisy?

Are we capable of the painful self-examination necessary to know the difference?

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Some of you more observant readers may have noticed the “Small Change” button that has appeared on my sidebar.  This is a project and challenge that was started by Beth, over at “So the Fish Said” and “Diary of a Playgroup Dropout”.  If you don’t read her, you must, must, must add her to your blogroll.  Her honest, self-effacing humor cracks me up.  And if Mia Bean isn’t one of the cutest little things on the internet, I don’t know what is.  I am already trying to figure out how to hook her up with Harry when he reaches any age where he can decently date.

I was stunned to hear the term “mommyblogger” used as a derisive.  Honestly, I would have to say that some of the best writing on the web is done by those so-called “mommy-bloggers”.  We (since apparently Bloglines has placed me in the mommyblogging category) may have started our blogs to have an outlet to pour maternal angst, but if you pigeonhole these women and write them off as brag-book writers, you are missing out on some of the most intelligent commentators out there. 

And some of the most humane.  

I think being a mother forces you to adopt a certain optimism about the future of mankind out of self-defense.  Nobody wants to think they are raising their children to send forth into the Apocalypse.  Having become a mother deep into middle age, I will admit to poo-pooing this assertion by the mothers that went before me, but I was unprepared for how motherhood leaves you completely raw to the pain and injustice of the world, like somehow the exponential increase in love a child brings into your life has to be balanced by an equal increase in heartbreak. 

I have long since lost the youthful fantasy that I can change the world.  But, like Candide, I can make my little corner of it just a little better. I will let Beth explain what the Small Change challenge is in her own words.  She does it a lot better than I ever could.

And I am off to make the world a better place, one child at a time.  I’ll tell you about it when I am done.

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