American Sophist in Canada

I really should not be let out of the house unattended. Part of the issue is that I so rarely interact with people who do not intimately know and love me that I forget – while basking in their love and understanding of my undeniably quirky way of looking at life – that the things I say, the things I laugh at, the things I just think and allow to tumble out of my mouth with no filter to sift out the odder and nonsensical meanings – those things may just not be socially acceptable.

It is as if I am Jaberwocky, come to life.

A meaning unto myself, ascribed characteristics and qualities that I do not define – but absorb, per the viewer.

Here are a few of the latest samples:

“Old Yeller? He had rabies! Of course they had to shoot him!”

“Will you be paying for a single pet cremation? I didn't. It was like an extra 300 bucks. I was 24. 300 bucks was a lot of drinking – so I think I have most of my own pet, but it's possible that other pets are mixed in there too.”

“My cat – the one whose ashes I have in my closet...Yeah, he looks down at me and laughs everyday when he sees the devil spawn I produced.”

I have rendered my new colleagues speechless. And perhaps offended. And often a bit horrified.

Oh, and attempted jokes about my Computer's “Slave name” of “dawn's computer” versus DF32G72 bring NO laughs in Canada. Especially when paired with an explanation of the whole rejection of “last names” as a part of the Black Muslim experience. Really kills the joke.

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A few months have passed and while my new colleagues seem to be tolerating me a bit better, I still have the uniquely Un-Canadian ability to step over the line of propriety. They are a wholly polite people.

When being teased about being American, an episode of Rick Mercer was discussed. For non-Canadians, Rick Mercer is the Northern equivalent of Jon Stewart. He produced a television special a few years ago designed to make Americans look ridiculous - something we hardly need assistance with on a good day. There are copious shots of Americans signing petitions to stop the "Canadian tradition of setting their elderly on ice drifts and sending them out to sea", or congratulating Canada for getting the 24 hour clock. It IS funny, in a "Dear God, Americans know almost nothing about what goes on right next to them" kind of way.

So, after they were all done laughing at the silly Americans, one hearty fellow asked,
"Well Dawn, I suppose you must think the same kinds of things about Canadians"

and I responded - deadpan and serious, "Actually we don't think about them at all" - which wasn't meant to be as funny as it ended up being.

Herpes is a volkswagon right? The love bug?

Overhead today in the Graduate Students Lounge:

Anon student 1: "And then I thought I had the CLAP!"

Anon student 2: "What? Did you say the Clap?"

Anon student 1: "Yeah, the CLAP."

Anon student 3: "What is that? Is that some disease?"

Anon student 2: "Is it like chlamydia or something?"

Anon student 1: "Yeah, I think it is like chlamydia...or something like that..."


I sipped my drink and rolled my eyes and thought it was a sad, sad day when graduate students didn't know what a good old fashioned STD was.

I waited then for the discussion on crabs - and how delicious they were with butter.

Lice ain't nice

Two weeks ago Friday, we went to lovely party.

There was wine and Wii and children running about. There was laughing and hummus and delicious cupcakes.

All good and wonderful things.

On Monday morning, I was in the office while the host of that party received a phone call from the school of his children.

He, not being a native English or French speaker, turned to the office after he hung up with the school.

"Is your daughter OK?", I asked solicitously.

"She has fleas?", he stated - somewhat puzzled.

I stared at him. My teacher instinct kicked in. "Lice?", I offered. "She has lice?"

"Yeah, thats it - Lice"

My head began to itch. Instantaneously. In fact, I suspect some of you are itching simply READING this.

Then, I recalled my impossibly curly haired child rolling on the floor with his long blonde straight haired child. The same long blonde straight hair child who spent quite a bit of time in my lap as we giggled and watched her brother and Emily play Wii.

Then I thought about my spouse. With his dreadlocks. And his natural hypochondria.

Oh, Shit.

I offered to check his daughter at the office. I have expertise in this area. Years of teaching and living in child care centers makes you a savvy lice spotter. I have calmed many a parent down as I showed them what they were looking for, what to do, what to use, how to comb the eggs out. Reassuring them that it was not do to a dirty home or dirty child - quite the opposite, in fact. Lice LOVE nice clean heads - best real estate around, and WHO doesn't want to build their home on the best real estate available?

Sure enough - there they were. In full, lice-esque glory. Doing their lice thing.

And theres me. Staying calm. Trying not to itch my head. Trying to think of how I am going to break this news to my husband who is perpetually coming up with new diseases what he is sure he has. Trying to figure out a way to let him KNOW ( since I have my late class and won't be home until 7:30 or 8) but not make him lose his shit and begin some kind of bleaching extravaganza.

In hindsight, I shouldn't have left the message on his cell phone. But oh well.

The good news? We seem to have been spared.

The bad news? Terrance keeps checking my hair. Because he doesn't know what he is looking for, he spends the whole time making dire air sucking in noises as he pulls out lint and other NOT LICE stuff from my hair. And let me tell you - nothing makes you randomly itch your head than the suggestion that you Could have lice.

In fact, you are all scratching right now - admit it.

That's Good! That's Bad!

* Getting your period after waiting for two months - knowing that you aren't pregnant (cause the tests keep saying no AND that would indicate a massive failure of a vasectomy). Hurrah! Ugh! The massive cramping!

* Finally figuring out one of your paying gigs is Up and missing (in advance), deeply, the dollars it brought it each month. Hoping someone is going to hire you for your witty caustic observations. Realizing that most likely won't happen.

* Not having to cook Thanksgiving dinner cause you live in Canada. Figuring out how to bribe your kid about not having a traditional American Thanksgiving cause you live in Canada and have to go to work tomorrow ( and she has school).

* Referring to the Brownie leader as "Brown Eye", instead of "Brown Owl". Hoping Scary Brownie leader never catches you, or she will most likely smack you with her cane.

* Living with La Chatte who has your sorry meat puppet ass in her zombie cat eye cross hairs.

It's the Aliens Fault, apparently

Can someone explain the holiday significance of the alien trapped in an electric tower, surrounded by sawblades?

Furthermore, this was the beginning of the float for the War and Child Amputees, which made it all the more puzzling.



Americans! Be on the lookout for this new "blame" strategy - It was the Aliens who TOOK the WMD's.

Fear of Failing

This time of year makes me feel a bit twitchy, I think.

I go from being agitated to bored to hyper anxious, in the span of a few minutes.

Now, what some of you do know and all of you are about to learn is that I have a stupendous fear of failure.

"Oh Dawn", I hear you say, "We ALL have a fear of failure! That's normal."

Well, imaginary internet audience, I agree. In fact, as a human species we tend to use this to our advantage. We move forward. A little fear keeps us on our toes.

That's not what I am talking about. Tonight, as the fear creeps up on me, my heart starts to pound. I begin to wish for an Ativan which will disconnect the fight or flight response which is beginning to flood my brain.

My ability to be avoidant when confronted with Fear can be legendary. Just ask my PhD adviser, as she tries to get me to commit to meeting with her. I drop off the proverbial radar. I become the invisible lady.

Or, I stuff it so deeply in my subconscious that I cope with it through dreams for YEARS following the event.

I referenced in an earlier posting that I have been lucidly dreaming as of late. Where I KNOW I am dreaming, and yet I choose to continue with the storyline, albeit in a more controlled fashion. I am not a dream analyst or even a dream Anal-rapist, like Tobias Fucke (Analyst and Therapist) but I do know that the things I have been doing in these dreams are different.

In 2001, I was fired. More precisely, because my employer didn't have legitimate means for terminating me, they "eliminated my position" . Of course, I was the Director of the Child Care for a Housing Authority in Southern New Hampshire.

To say that this event scarred me is a little under stating the enormity of it.

In August 2001, I called for treatment of my post-partum depression. Emily was three and my depression had grown so deep that I wasn't sure that I could ever climb out. It was during this time that I started fearing talking to the staff at the center. I feared everything. I couldn't cope with decision making about anything, let alone budgetary matters. And the budget, at that point, was in shambles.

I got my work evaluation in August of 2001. It was very positive - as the copies I kept tell me.

In September 2001, I entered therapy. I started medication for my depression. I started taking days off,as my therapy would leave me exhausted and we were in a heavy ( twice a week) schedule until I stabilized.

I told my Assistant Director about the situation, but I was loathe to tell my Executive Director. Meetings with him felt tenuous since he had once lay into me in the office of the child care - asking my book keeper and secretary to offer their criticisms of me then and there. It was demoralizing and brutal. When I look back into my personal journal entries of the time, I was devastated. I was a new Mom of a fussy infant. I was running a child care with 30 plus staff and 120 children. My husband had quit his job to start his own business the month before I delivered Emily, so I had to go back to work at 11 weeks post partum, as I was carrying the health insurance for the whole family.

I approached my Asst Director in October, 2001 about me dropping to four days a week for the upcoming year. I wanted her buy in before we presented this to the Executive Director. It would help some of the budget issues, as I would take a cut in pay - and give me time to heal myself.

We went to him together. The Asst Director and I sat with my proposal. I would go to four days a week. I needed a more flexible schedule for awhile, but I remained committed to the child care. I just needed time.

Later on, he emailed me. He asked me to tell him what was really going on. I made, in hindsight, a fatal error. I was so relieved that my plan seemed to be working, I admitted that I had started Prozac, and needed some time to get myself on an even keel. He quickly responded that he understood and that everything would be fine.

So stupid of me to believe that.

Later that month, I got sick. Super, super sick. While my brain was starting to re-boot and regain normalcy, my body had given up the ghost. What started as strep throat, moved into my ears and sinuses..then into my lungs. Pneumonia. And Shingles.

The day I made it into my doctors office from work ( as I was already on antibiotics for the strep and ear infections), I was at a stunning 70% oxygen saturation. I was an odd grayish color. I mentioned that I came from work, right?

I was out - as demanded by my doctor - for a month. Not shockingly, I had that time and much more in accrued sick time. As a person who had invested her entire entity into her work persona, I NEVER missed work. Never.

When I got back to my desk, it was after Thanksgiving. On my chair was a letter stamped confidential. In the letter, aside from telling me that the organization was "eliminating" my job as Director, were not-so veiled threats that I should resign so a positive recommendation for any future employment would be insured. If I recall correctly, I think there were some other things about me being a lousy employee and a bad manager.

I always wondered how much my admission of being on Prozac factored into the decision. It was also much later that I began to wonder about my Assistant Directors role in this bloodless coup. She, who I had defended countless times in meetings with this same Executive Director, may well have been hand in hand with the ousting of me. He liked to threaten to get rid of her when he was feeling like he needed to punish me.

I was at my weakest point. I allowed myself to be vulnerable. Actually, I had no choice, as my body had made the decision for me. I was the wounded antelope. After I finished crying, I just gave my resignation. I folded.

From then on, whenever I felt insecure or upset I would dream of the child care. I would dream of sneaking in through the back door. I would encounter people that I did not know, although I would insist that I was the Director of this place. I would wander lost and scared and angry through this dream child care center. I would wake from these dreams feeling the same way. Scared. Angry. Lost. Reliving my failure over and over.

In the last weeks, I have dreamed of the child care. These dreams are different, however. In these dreams, I am opening drawers in my former office. Drawers that are sealed with packing tape in my dream. I am opening them, stripping off the tape and sorting things out. I am giving things away in my dreams. I am emptying these drawers and saying goodbye to the people that I still recognize. The people I don't recognize I no longer chase after them insisting that I am the Director of this place.

I am still sorting these dreams out. I am still sorting through my feelings of failure - feelings which have kept me in relationships with old boyfriends, or old work places and old bosses far too long. Feelings which keep me running from PhD advisers. Feelings which make me hold onto past successes so tightly that I can miss new successes waiting for me.

Ira Glass, Bitches!

WHAT? No comments on the Wild Fuck Reserve being worn by a European Nation's youth?
Can I no longer shock you people? Do I need to show up with one boob hanging out of a tube top, talking about how I am carrying Vlad the Impalers love child?

Cause I can. I am not afraid to totally GO there....

Here is another entry into the

"Youth of today are all going to hell in a hand basket"
or
"Why I am becoming that cranky old woman who mutters about todays youth all going to hell in a hand basket"

Lecture in class on Monday night - I am giving a co-lecture on GRAPHIC NOVELS!!! How fucking cool is that? Graphic Novels, People!! The Sandman, Stardust, Batman: Dark Knight Returns, Maus, Persepholis......

My colleague reads a quote from Ira Glass. She intros the piece and says "You know Ira Glass? This American Life?"

Nothing. Not one flicker of interest.

Although I outed myself as a blog writer to these same students that night as a Blogger and later, when I watched the stats meter, I could see all of them hitting the sites from class. If you are still reading, I say STOP and read your book for class. You don't want me to bring Vlad to class.

Someone needs a new translator

A work colleague of mine recently went back to his European country of origin for a holiday.

He was shopping for clothing for his children in a chi-chi boutique when he came across this logo, emblazoned on the clothing.



Aside from the bear looking as if he is experiencing anal rape AND calling your mother a whore, this can only serve as a warning to not wear the logos of things you can't read.....

Mackin ain't easy

Sunday night, 12:30 a.m.

Dawn and Terrance, laying in bed in the dark - back to back, having just watched SuperBad...

Dawn: You know Fancypants called her baby McLovin on her blog. It is such an awesome nickname that I wonder if she'll be able to stop once he's born.

Terrance: It was an awesome name.

Dawn: Yeah. It would have ruined it kind of if he had a first name (in the movie)...

Terrance: Unless it was Mick

Dawn: Mick McLovin.....Yeah thats good

Terrance: Or Mack'n McLovin

(Dawn hears this as black slang Mack'n - as in pimpin', which we all know ain't easy)

Dawn: I suppose they could call him Mackin McLovin. I think that might be a Scottish name.

Terrance: That's what I just said.

Dawn: No you didn't. You said "Mack'n"

Terrance: Yes, I said Mack-in.

Dawn: That isn't what I said. I mean M-A-C-K-I-N, as in a Scottish name. YOU said "Mack'n" in the black colloquial manner meaning pimping.

Terrance: No I did not. I said Mackin as in the Scottish name. I was not using a Black colloquial phrase.

Dawn: Yes you were! You are even SAYING it different now.

Terrance: Dawn - of course I know what I meant, and I meant the Scottish derivative.
I would KNOW if I meant the black colloquial slang.

Dawn: I can't believe we are having a heated discussion about McLovin (breaking up into hysterical laughter)

Terrance: Do you plan on laughing like that all night?

Dawn: (giggling) I hope the cat jumps on your head just as you fall asleep.

Desperately Seeking Smart Alecks

Seeking: Smart ass people who enjoy mocking others. Successful applicants will not be easily offended, have no issue with seeing nudity, and revel in passing snarky judgment.

Format is loose - come as you are, or use a pseudonym, your choice. Commitment is loose too, the more the merrier, I say.

Apply within at balefulregards@gmail.com

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Echo and Narcissus

Over the past year, my blogging has been stripped down to the bare bones.

Of course, one could look at my collection of bloggy bloggedness and think...This is bare bones? She IS crazy.

No, no. I mean here. Baleful. This is my blog home. The place I can come home, take off my very pretty heels. Put on my comfy jammies and just be me. This is the home where I know where everything is, hidden in the cupboards. Even that old tin of dusty saffron, way in the back, or the mysterious jar of mint jelly. And honestly...why do I have this many cans of broth? Is there an impending broth shortage?

For a little while, I felt what other bloggers have described. I started to write for other people. I dressed up my home. I put out the special hand towels in the bathroom. I served some fancy dishes. Not because I liked them, but because OTHERS seemed to like th em and I wanted to be liked. I, like Harvey Fierstein, just want to be loved. Is that so wrooooooonnnnnng?

No, it isn't wrong - but it isn't really me.

I had a rage yesterday. This rage sent me into the bathtub for a long soak. I covered my face in mud and lay in the steaming water trying to filter through the different levels of anger and disappointment that moved through my body in rapid electrical shocks.

Part of this rage is figuring out my place in this world - this odd, ethereal blog world. Let me be clear - this isn't a rage at any one person - but within myself. There are things that I have left undone - goodbyes to former friends that I have let go unsaid, or simply faded away into the nothingness of the internet. That is easier for me, certainly. I, who sneak out of parties when I can not take the social aspect anymore. I like lack of fuss. I like quiet endings. I am a very low maintenance friend.

However, those endings do not tend to be soul satisfying. This had led to my dreaming as of late. Dreaming in which the landscapes which have dominated my dreams for years are subtlety changing. This is very disconcerting, as it is like walking into your bathroom and finding all of your toiletries gone. These places have a purpose and the purpose has changed and you are trying to piece it all together through a foggy filter of dreaming.

Do I sound a little crazy?

Sigh. Sadly, I am not. I am the most lucid I have been in two long years.

The dreams tell me that I am moving on. Literally. I am packing things up in dream worlds that I have occupied for over ten years. I am announcing to the people who live in those places that I am leaving. I am not sneaking out. This is , of course, scary. And liberating. It means I will be able to tell those stories soon and that my telling will be as objective as I can be. Maybe even funny.

And here, in this waking blog world I am saying goodbye to the people to whom I failed to say good bye. This might seem silly as they no longer walk by here on their way to work, but it needs to be done. I will miss you, friend. I enjoyed our time together. I liked the person I knew at the time I knew that person. I accept that it is not you, and it is not me. We did not fail at anything. There is no blame to be assigned. The friendship lived its life for the season it was meant to live. You made me laugh - maybe more, but that the beauty of the shared emotion is enough. I release you from your obligations, and me from any of mine.

And that includes any of you lingering here for any other reason but choice and enjoyment. You don't have to stay, and I am grateful if you do, but I am no longer writing for anyone else. I am turning off the comments for this blog, as I know myself and I will be tempted to see who is visiting and who is commenting and who, who, who.....

No, I write for me.

This is how my voice will come back to me.

Random pieces of information- Take 2

Good advice no one ever told me:

Halloween isn't fun when you are the person carving the pumpkin, buying the candy and enduring the constant pleas of "How much longer until we can trick or treat?"

If you are in your 20's, STD free and unattached - and are of the inclination - you should have protected sex with whomever you chose. Really. I look at these young beautiful women and think about how much time I worried about my "reputation", et al. What the hell was I saving myself for?

Don't bother to fake an orgasm - I mean, honestly. It does nothing for you, and gives your partner zero feedback. If they are doing something that isn't working for you, speak up. In fact, don't fake anything.


TB's adds: Go naked more often, which I agree with whole heartedly

Buy and wear the pretty underwear. For yourself.

Get massages.

Young men in their 20's are idiots. I also look at them and am astounded that anyone finds them charming or attractive. I certainly do not. (I qualify this by saying that they are "cute", certainly. However, having watched them close up for two years now, and seeing these lovely young women look at them adoringly....Sigh. Kind of makes me want to shake them. The same feeling I had when I saw pre-kids, pre-crazy Brit and K-fed, and I wanted to grab her and say "NO!!!!!")If you are in love with one of these men, know that they will not change (see Lisa's Comment). What you see is what you get later on. But with Hair growing out of odd places.

There may come a moment when you think "My partner actually understands me!" and you will be grateful. This moment, of course, may pass. It will come back again, you just can't know when.

Other peoples babies are very cute. Your baby will be the most work/worry/lack of sleep/joy you never imagined. Proceed with caution.

There is nothing more pleasurable than laying in bed in the sunshine. Adding coffee ups the pleasure even more.

Parking in a city engenders a certain ruthless attitude.

Eat what you want.

Reading graphic novels as an adult is really fun.

Spending money on music is never wasted. Yes, you may regret some of the CD's in hindsight (Yes Slow Jams CD I am talking about you)

Drink the wine you like.

You will come to enjoy the joy of someone else cooking for you. When your parent did it, I mean - it was no big deal. If you have had to do it for yourself, you will be wildly grateful for a nice bowl of soup made by someone else.

There will come a day when you weigh - heavily - the two to three days of being hungover for the one evening of drunken debauchery.

Hit me with your wisdom, my loves.

Right next to the Spock cafeteria

Overheard today as I was walking out of the Multicultural Class:

"Yeah Dude. I'm gonna head over to the Shatner Building and hang out for awhile."

Yes - there is a William Shatner building - a McGill alumnus....

Wriggling off the Hook

Long before I was a parent, I was an Early Childhood Professional. Some may know this profession as “child care”, or “daycare” – but I stuck with term Early Childhood Professional. After all, I had racked up quite a series of student loans to get that Bachelor’s degree from the University of Vermont, and by golly, I was going to work it.

I taught almost all ages at various points in my career. My calling, however, lie with Infants and Toddlers. I kept coming back to this age group. I loved them. I was fabulous with them.

Now, working with a group of 8 to 12 children ages 6 weeks through 18 months could be challenging. I won’t lie. I have been shit and vomited upon in the most clever and unique ways. I have cleaned things from children’s orifices and plucked beans from ears and nostrils. I have administered Ipecac and then held the bucket as the toddler puked her everlasting guts up. I even once rode shotgun to the ER with a bleeding toddler on my lap; from the head wound he acquired after climbing up something unclimbable and dislodging something immoveable.

I watched other people become parents.

While it isn’t widely known, there are actual developmental stages of parenting. Each parent moves through the stages, with each child. If you have a 4 year old and a newborn? Two stages, at the same time. Of course, as we know about children, each parent goes through their development differently.

But here is the secret that I am going to share with you. Closer…..Come here, I want to whisper it to you…

99.99% of the parents were doing fine. Really.

I watched hundreds of couples parent. With almost no exceptions, they were doing fine. Yes, I know what they worried about. I know that they worried that I was judging them, and sometimes I was, for I did not know their pain. I know that they worried that their child would never walk, or never give up the binky, or never eat solid foods, or never win the Nobel peace prize. I watched them compare and contrast their child with the others in the room. I watched them try to bait me into telling them that their child was more or less advanced than someone else’s child. I watched their joy at new teeth, and their exhaustion and pain with teething. The joy of a child becoming a walker, with the pain of the child becoming a walker! The joy of the acquisition of language, then the pain of the incessant “no.”

I watched them develop from insecure parents who weren’t sure about how much their child should eat, to confident parents wrangling toddlers from classroom to car. I watched the cycle start again when they feared their child would never learn to use the toilet, to the confident 4 year old displaying the rudimentary lines of a name.

Of course, as soon as I became a parent, I forgot all of this knowledge. I worried, I obsessed, I fretted. I second-guessed myself constantly. Everything that had worked for other people’s babies didn’t work for my own child. My husband looked at me as the expert. My staff at the child care looked at me as the expert. I was the deer in the headlights. I was the empress with no clothes. I was screwed.

Here, come closer again. I want to make sure you hear this………

Everything is Fine. Your child is who they are. You can not change or modify their basic personality. Nothing you do – sort of serious abusive actions- will damage them. They will succeed at some things and fail at others of their own accord.

No product will make your baby smarter. That is all a load of bullshit. The only thing that affects children is experiences. We are the sum of our experiences. It is how our brains form. Good child care is not damaging your child. They are increasing their experience base. We are social creatures. Children crave other children. Even when they cry and cling to you, they start playing about 5 minutes later. I assure you. Its like the jump that you know you need to take, but are scared to do it. Sometimes the Mama bird has to give the baby bird a nudge.

Parents who are happy are better parents. If that means working, then work. If that means staying home, then stay home. If that means doing part time child care and part time home, then do that. None of the children that I cared for – some now in their mid teens- have stood up, pointed at their parents and yelled “If only you’d not put me in child care – I’d be an Olympic gymnast/best selling author today!.”

People who make parents feel guilty for their choices are self-absorbed assholes. Usually politicians. Or they are trying to sell you a product. Or very insecure other women…who want to have some perverse “motherhood smack down” with you. You know, the Uber-Moms.

Guilt and insecurity are big business. We have swallowed the entire hook, and it is no wonder that it is ripping our guts out.

Now. Stop right here. I want you to think about your happiest childhood moment. Were you outside, playing with friends? Were you alone watching ants or picking dandelions? Or was it learning French with your mother at “Speaking French the Parisian Mommy way” three times a week? No? How about “Baby Physics and Me” classes?

Yeah, I thought so. Me too.






From Ellen Galinsky’s 6 stages of Parenthood:

(Galinsky, 1987)

1 - The Image-Making Stage

During pregnancy, parents "form and re-form images" of the upcoming birth and the changes they anticipate. This is a period of preparation.

2 - The Nurturing Stage

Parents compare image and actual experience during the time from baby's birth to toddler's first use of the word "no" (about age 18 to 24 months). This is a period of attachment and also of questioning. Parents may question their priorities and also how they spend their time.

3 - The Authority Stage

When the child is between 2 years and 4 - 5 years, parents decide "what kind of authority to be." This is a period of developing and setting rules, as well as enforcing them.

4 - The Interpretive Stage

Stretching from the child's preschool years to her approach to adolescence, this stage has the task of interpretation. In this period, parents interpret their own self-concepts as well as their children's. Parents also are concerned with interpreting the world to their children.

5 - The Interdependent Stage

During the child's teen years, families re-visit some of the issues of the Authority Stage, but find new solutions to them as parents form "a new relationship with their almost-adult child."

6 - The Departure Stage

When children leave home, parents evaluate not just their offspring's leave-taking but also the whole of their parenting experience.

Can you pash that dish of oppression?

It is no secret that my politics are.....quite left. I AM that left wing bleeding heart liberal that gets demonized in the press. The fact that my spouse is a bit more left than I am makes for an interesting parenting experience.

Now, aside from the lack of godliness in the home ( which I am sure indicates a lack of "values" or whatever the hell else won the republicans the last election)- there is a decided "anti-establishment" theme to many of the books in our home. Look, there is the Marx reader ( my husband's), See there Alfie Kohn's books on the failings of the American educational system, Behold "Lies my Teacher Told Me" on my bedside. Our child had no regular alphabet in her room - she was looking at the "Alternative Alphabet" - featuring "P is for Peace and Y is for Yoga". You get the point.

So when our daughter comes home from public school with a cut and color Columbus day ship and asks us if we are going to have a Columbus day feast to honor Columbus - you get two dumbfounded adults scrambling for a response.

Terrance's response: "Daddy isn't into Columbus. I don't do Columbus day."

Oh, very helpful. Thanks ever so much. That was quite illuminating.

I bring out the children's book "Encounter" by Jane Yolen- which we read, and re-read at this time of year. Being an early childhood person, I tend not to answer my daughter's questions with the same cut and dry responses my husband uses. I want to engage her thought process and get her to think critically. Terrance thinks that this is a bullshit approach.

So we talk about what the experience of the Native People's must have been like. That discovery isn't the same when you discover something that belongs to someone else. It would be like me walking into her room and "discovering" her Playmobil house and claiming it as my own. Not very heroic.

"That's stealing.", she says.
"Yes it is, honey. That's why daddy and I are uncomfortable with Columbus Day. He may have been very adventurous to sail over the ocean to find and see new things- but he was very unkind to the people he found living there already."

And Emily - as always - absorbs this information to the best of her ability. And says

"Can I stay up late and eat popcorn?"

Fight the power, honey, fight the power.

Gradations

My apologies, friends, for being absent - both in writing and reading your blogs. I have been grading papers for the past week, and I forget that this seemingly straightforward task can take on monumental proportions...

Tonight I am awake.

Maybe it is the moon. Or hormones. Or something I haven't considered yet.

But I am awake, and grading papers. Since I am awake, I might as well be doing something useful and this is good. It is quiet and I can attend to these papers.

These papers are taking on lives of their own for me. As I read them, I am absorbing bits of other peoples stories. Life stories. Things they may have never considered before are revealed to me, laying bare on the page. I see in their words the blueprints of future experiences - which may or may not come to pass. They are young. They are old. They know everything and nothing. Some already understand things about life that their peers will never understand. In others I can see a path of least resistance already forming, the water trickling through their young souls forming crevices.

Some are defiant. They will prove everyone wrong. Their parents. Their friends. Themselves.

Others are disturbed. Why did no one tell them about the world outside of their family and towns? How can they be responsible for everything? The world is too big and they are too small.

A few are hostile. They are the victims. They are the ones being made to feel uncomfortable. Stereotypes are kinda true, aren't they?

In some, I see a glimmer. Their consciousness has expanded to allow for possibilities of conversation and understanding. A discussion about who we are as is defined by the choices we make. The ones we make with purpose and intent. That those decisions - the scary and often painful ones? Build our foundations. The realization that reflection on those decisions - even the ones we didn't make, or wish we had done differently - the ability to reflect already sets you apart from many others.

They're everywhere

If only everyone thought this way

Said by a six year old girl to me, in response to the information that we had moved from the United States:

"United States? I don't know what that is. Is it like a really, really tall building?"

Beautiful dreamer

This was a piece I wrote in January of 2006. It has sat, completed, in my draft blog file for quite a while. I think I am ready to share it now.

I have had a series of very odd dreams the past three nights. People I have long forgotten, or consciously banished, have been strolling through my subconscious waving at me.

Being a very tightly controlled external person has meant that I have always had vivid and specific dreams. Some will tell you that they can't remember anything they dream. I almost always remember - down to the transitions between dreams.

I get out alot of aggression in these dreams. I scream. I yell, I tackle people. I beat them up. They were much worse before I started therapy many years ago. You don't need to be Freud to figure out why that was. Those were the years of the nightmares. Being pursued, always by the shadow man, who - if he caught me brought terrible things. Much worse than death. The shadow thing hasn't shown up in many many years. But my father showed up last night. I woke up panicked and startled this morning.

I assume that my father was the shadow man for the many years I dreamed of that archetype. My flight in the face of that unknown evil was understandable. As I got older and began to name - out loud- my experiences with my father, the Shadow man disappeared. I had robbed it of it's anonymity. He had a face. That face was my father.

My recovery has come in fits and starts. I do some work, I rest. I do some more work, I rest. As all of you who have been in therapy know, the evolution of understanding is not a straight path. There is no pre-defined time limit to unlocking the reasons you do the things you do. As much as the HMO's would like to say that Depression can be fixed in 12 visits, it isn't true. As much as the pharmaceutical companies would like you to believe that their drug will fix you, that also isn't true. Prozac has helped me tremendously in straightening out my lousy brain chemistry, but Prozac has never resolved any of my family issues. That was done all on my own, with very patient therapists.

In writing about my brother last week, I was inviting some of these memories to come out of their closets and play in my subconscious. I believe that I did this knowing that the wave would come and wash over me within the next few days. It has.

Today I have recalled a couple of very specific incidents. I write these down as a way to exercise them from the silence of my mind. I have only spoken of them in therapy a couple of times. In my determination to never be seen as a victim, I rarely allow these to come to the surface. In my determination to be a professional, a mother, a wife and a woman who has her shit together, I have rarely allowed time for these memories. It is clear from my dreams the past several days that they demand to be heard.

It must have been 1973 or maybe 1974. I can't recall if my brother was born or not, but I do know that we were living in a Trailer in Ohio. I was picking up the pasta my father had cooked ( plain just butter) with my fingers and eating them. Hardly something that a 3 or 4 year old would not be expected to do. My father warned me. He said "stop eating like an animal". He left the kitchen. I promptly started eating with my fingers again. He returned and caught me eating with my fingers. He said "If you're going to eat like an animal, you can eat with the animals." He dumped out the dog food from the bowls on the floor and put my pasta in the dog's bowl. He stood over me and demanded that I eat like a dog. I did it. I was afraid.

He later shot these dogs in the winter because they were howling at night. After warning my mother to do something about those dogs before he did something about them, he ran outside and shot them both with his shotgun. My mother called the police who said that he had a right to do that if he wanted. She had to clean up the bodies and the blood before I discovered them.

The next memory is from 1979 or so. My mother had left my father but he had my brother and I for 4 to 6 weeks in the summer. I suspect he did not want to see us so much as give my mother the proverbial finger. He was in the Marines and he was also dealing a great deal of a variety of drugs. He left us home alone every day while he went to work. I was 9, Donnie was 5.

One night, he woke us up and told me that he had to go see a friend. We had to come with him. He bundled our sleepy selves into his car and drove. I fell back to sleep. When we got to wherever we were going, he woke us both up and had us stand together, holding hands. He walked with us in front of him. He walked us into this apartment and introduced us as his kids. The man in the apartment lifted the top off of the coffee table and displayed a dazzling assortment of drugs. I recall the colors. My father purchased his goods and walked us back out into the car. Many years later, as I pieced this memory together, I realized that my father had used my brother and I as a human shield. He was afraid the guy was going to rob him.

I do not tell these stories to gain a sympathetic response. I do not tell these stories to be told how strong I am, or how I survived things which - for many - may be unsurvivable.

No.

I tell these stories because they are mine to tell and because when I do the invisible power that the memory of my father can still exert dissipates like glittery fog. It is in the telling of these bits and pieces of my childhood that I regain ownership and control of who I am today. That this is one more band-aid I don't need and can let that skin breathe out in the light.

Too much time on our hands

I walk into the living room, minutes ago. I look at the television. I look at my husband sitting on the couch

Dawn to Terrance:

"You know how I know you're gay? You're watching The Lake House by yourself."

and walk out.