Today Makes Me Happy! ~ by Jay

Sure, it's Monday, and it's cold and kind of rainy, and I left my Friday charts at home so I feel like a dodo.

But at 1:05 PM EDT, the Yankees start the season, and I will have the radio playing through the computer in my office. Baseball is back. Life is good.

UPDATE: It's not just rainy here, it's also rainy in the Bronx. Game postponed until tomorrow night. Sigh.

It's Not A New Thing ~ by Jay

Nicholas Kristof comments in today's Times on what he sees as an alarming new trend in American culture: people believe stuff that isn't plausible. He starts out with the statistic that 30% of American blacks believe it's possible that AIDS was released as a plot to kill off minorities, and moves on to the percentage of Americans (led by the Dumbass-in-Chief) who don't believe in evolution, a number roughly equivalent to those who do believe in flying saucers. I agree with him that it's alarming. But it's not new.

Anti-intellectualism is a core part of American self-image. It's how we distinguish ourselves from those effete Europeans. We're not Tom Jones or Mr. Darcy or Don Quixote. We're Natty Bumpo and Huck Finn. Just listen to the first line Huck speaks:

You don't know me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but that ain't no matter.

Huck is smart, but he's not learned. As far as Huck is concerned, learning is for girls (and by extension sissies, I suspect). Here's where Huck leaves us:

But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there
before.

Two centuries ago, Americans prized the education that you received out in the woods, on the frontier; now it's street smarts that count. The message is the same: book learning isn't real knowledge. In particular, book learning is not for real men. Teddy Roosevelt went to Harvard, but I didn't learn that in school; what I learned was that he shot big game and charged up San Juan Hill and said "Bully!" a lot. The most intellectual and intelligent presidents of the 20th century may well have been Wilson, Carter and Clinton - yes, Carter is brilliant - and two of them are remembered as namby-pamby. Clinton, well, we do remember Clinton as a man, but he was elected despite his intelligence, not because of it. I think his sexual history actually helped counteract the feminizing influence of his Yale degree and his Rhodes scholarship.

Americans left the mother country (note that the Old World is female) to come here and be rugged, self-sufficient, real men. We prize action over reflection and simplicity over nuance. We idolize Kit Carson and Davy Crockett; we don't remember the Mercury astronauts because they were good at math. We actually elected a president who thinks the jury is still out on evolution and who prides himself on the fact that economics are too complicated for him. This is who we are. It's not new; in fact, it's as old as the United States herself.

Love and Literature ~ by Jay

Interesting essay in tomorrow's Times Book Review. "It's Not You, It's Your Books" talks about people who've broken up with lovers because of differences in literary taste. Apparently for some people Jonathan Franzen can be a deal-breaker. I was reading along and chuckling to myself when I found this

I think sometimes it’s better if books are just books. It’s part of the romantic tragedy of our age that our partners must be seen as compatible on every level.

Marco Roth, editor of a magazine I've never heard of called n+1, has spoken the truth. It's not enough to like someone, to be attracted to them, to find their quirks endearing and their voices soothing. We expect to find our soulmates, to be completed. We expect to be able to spend the rest of lives alone on a desert island with our lovers and never feel deprived.

What a crock.

Perhaps I feel more strongly about this than usual tonight. Sam is out of town, and after a busy day of ballet, playdates and paint-your-own pottery, I tucked my daughter into bed and ordered Chinese food, which I'm now enjoying with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and my computer. I spent several hours chatting about family and community and travel and schools with the other mom at the playdate, and tomorrow I'll get to talk about politics and immigration and Jewish history at our Adult Education session. If I wanted to get a sitter, I could then go to book group tomorrow night and talk about books (and kids and family and schools). I'll probably IM with a colleague in Boston if he's online in the morning and ask his opinion about an odd lab result I ran across yesterday. And I'm Emailing back and forth about crosswords and grammar with people all over the place tonight.

I love all these conversations, and I'm glad I don't have to have them all with Sam. Sam is cute and funny and smart and kind and creative and I love him dearly, but he doesn't have to fill my every need. He can keep reading science fiction. He could even read Jonathan Franzen, and I won't kick him out of bed.

A Touch of Gray ~ by Jay

I love the analogy Mary used in her post about Silda Spitzer, the one about Silda having her arm ripped off. She gets to at least one possible version of what's going on for Silda. But the public reaction that has Mary turning off the radio to breathe calmly is not about Silda. It's not even about Elliott. It's about people clamoring for them to behave differently, to be someone else, because we need them to act out some great morality tale.

I've had my own moments of disbelief bordering on rage since the Spitzer scandal broke. I've been stunned at the comments on radio and the letters to the editor saying "now I'll never believe in anyone again". The logic is always the same: Spitzer was supposed to be good. He fought the greedy corporations; he stood up for the Little Guy; he was the Governor Who Would Save Us. And then poof! he was bad. And he was gone. It's a betrayal that wounds the letter-writers. They can't be sympathetic to the real people living with this story because to them it's not about the real people, it's about the other people, the ones watching at home.

What on earth makes people think that anyone is All Good? That anyone is without fault, without illness, without some sort of personal challenge? And why is it that we cast people as either Good or Bad, with no possible in-between?

When we classify something as Good or Bad, we lose sight of the subtleties. Nothing is simply black and white, not even old movies or Ansel Adams photographs. The beauty is in the variations of gray. Once we decide someone is Bad, we no longer have to wonder about her motivations, or her feelings. We think we know him. We shut down our empathy. That's easier sometimes, because it helps us ignore the uncomfortable parallels between our story and the story of the Bad Man.

We are all flawed, fallible, struggling human beings. I believe that every single one of us has the capacity to change and grow, to meet and overcome our challenges, but many of us haven't done that yet. We are progress, not perfection, as Mary so beautifully puts it. I don't expect any one individual to be incorruptible. That's why we need laws and governments and systems that monitor behavior. But I also don't believe that we are defined by our behavior. Behavior can be inconsiderate, immoral, illegal or self-destructive. It can even, in extreme cases, be evil. But the people who do the behaving are all like us. That's why our systems need to respond to behavior only, not to our ideas of Good and Bad. If we think we're supposed to reward the Good and Punish the Bad, we will consistently reward the white and the rich and punish the black and the poor.

We have no right to demand any particular behavior from Silda Spitzer at the moment her world shatters. We do have the right to respond to the behavior of Elliott Spitzer by arresting him, if warranted, and by asking him to resign. But that doesn't make him a bad man. And labeling him a bad man won't help anyone. We need to look beyond the black and white, even if that means we'll see ourselves somewhere in the shades of gray.

Silda Spitzer's Message ~by MPJ

This is also posted on my own blog

---

Photo credit: Photo by MotherPie on Flickr

I was driving to pick one of my kids up from school for a dental appointment when I caught the words "prostitution ring" (just those two words) on the car radio and turned up the volume to find out who the latest outed addict was. That's the free association of my mind these days: prostitution ring to sex addiction.

As the week of media frenzy wound on, I followed the coverage of Eliot Spitzer's fall from grace in the most idle way. I would read or listen to things if I happened upon them, but I didn't seek them out. I would overhear talk shows on the car radio: ten or fifteen minute segments on the way to or from my daughter's preschool. Sometimes I'd catch a news headline pushed at me online or overhear conversations or get e-mail from folks (who know nothing of my husband's addiction or this blog) wanting to speculate or criticize. Often I'd stop reading or listening or turn off the radio because it was too painful or infuriating. I'd breathe and center myself.

I get so frustrated with myself that I am in a state of progress and not perfection when it comes to being sucked back into craziness on occasion. And on this occasion, the craziness, the pain and anger, didn't come from the Spitzers. I'd read or listen, looking for their voices between the lines. I'd listen for my own voice, the voice of someone who had been there and knew. Instead, what I heard, for the most part, were the ones and zeros of people talking in binary from inside the Matrix.

The voices that made me tremble most in rage, even misguided as I knew them to be, were the voices criticizing Silda Spitzer. Yet I was, with a different sex scandal, in a different place in my life, one of those voices. As a strong woman and a feminist, I was outraged, just absolutely disdainful of Hillary Clinton when the whole Monica Lewinsky scandal broke. I wanted her to kick Bill in the crotch right in front of the press and send him to live on the streets while she got the White House. I was furious at Bill, furious at the image of men he represented, and I wanted that powerful woman, right there are the heart of things, to show him (and all men) that women would not stand by and quietly tolerate such behavior. And she did nothing, nothing except appear a little icier than usual. How I despised that woman. How could she betray women, betray me, that way? What kind of a message was that sending to men? To women? I certainly would never let my husband get away with that. (As if that were in my power.)

Some of my fury was born of fear, fear that men really are pigs and that the only way to control them is to let them know you're very serious about punishing them. It was born of not understanding my mother's life or choices. It was born of insecurity. It was born of not understanding what it really means to be strong or to be a feminist. The universe let me have my lesson a few years later when I found that my own husband is, like Bill Clinton (and Eliot Spitzer), a sex addict.

Needless to say, I don't see things quite the same way these days. I still feel rage (yes, yes, working on universal compassion, not there yet), but the target of that rage has changed. I see Silda Spitzer up on that stage, with the eyes of the world upon her, and I hear people say that they wish she weren't there or that she were visibly angry. I hear them say that she is sending the wrong message or that she's being used or that she should be thinking something different from whatever it is she's thinking. And I want to change myself into some avenging angel, covering Silda Spitzer gently with one great, silken wing while raining fire down on the press and fellow feminists and advice columnists and every possible incarnation of the old me. I want to shield and protect her, to heal her with whispers of the truth, and open the eyes of all the world with blazing pain.

Because here is how I see what happened to Silda Spitzer: There she was in the Governor's Mansion, maybe happy, maybe unhappy, who knows. What I do know is that she had a little pain or maybe just discomfort, a little twinge, let's say, in her arm. Some days it would hurt very much, some days she'd almost forget there was anything wrong. Maybe it never seemed serious enough to see a doctor about, or maybe she was afraid of doctors or what they might find.

Then one day someone walked up to her and shouted, "Good lord! Your arm is infected! It's rotting off your body!" And ripped her arm off her body and threw it to the floor. Now writhing in pain and shock, she's asked what she wants to do with the arm. A moment ago it was part of her body, part of herself, something essential to her life. The arm may have caused her problems and pain, it may be causing her pain now to see how infected the arm was, how close it was to killing her, how hideous and disfigured it had been without her ever noticing. Yet it was still her arm.

Now all the world looks at her and judges what she does next. (Bastards.)

What kind of message was Silda Spitzer sending? The message that she and Eliot Spitzer are human beings, in enormous pain, worthy of compassion, understanding and love.

What ought she to have done? Whatever, in that blinding pain and shock, she did was what she ought to have done.

If she had spit on and kicked that arm, or thrown that infected thing in the trash, I would have understood. And if she kicked Eliot Spitzer in the crotch at that press conference or walked off the stage or just not come at all, I would have said, "You go, girl. You do what you need to do right now." But if she cradled that arm for a moment and wondered if it could be reattached or healed or just buried properly, I would have understood that too. And when she did show up and walk away with Eliot Spitzer, hand in hand, I said (softly), "You go, girl. You do what you need to do right now."

Things I Could Do Without: Baseball Advertising Edition ~by Jay

Joe Torre is no longer managing the Yankees, but he hasn't left the NY radio airwaves. I'm listening to the Yankees play the Marlins (exhibition game, but it's still Yankee baseball and I'll take it) and they just played an ad for something Joe endorsed when he was in NY. He's still endorsing it from LA - they even said that.

For some reason, this strikes me as more opportunist than the original series of ads they ran when he was here. I know Torre is a legend, but he's the Dodgers manager now, and we (and NY area retailers) need to Get Over It.

Conversations With my Daughter ~ by Jay

Why do dogs lick their privates?

Why do you think?

Ick, it must taste awful.

Well, dogs don't taste or smell things the same way we do. I don't think it tastes awful to the dog. Maybe it feels good.

Privates are icky.

Your own private parts aren't icky. They're just like the rest of your body. Your vagina and your vulva are just other parts of you, like your arms and legs and eyes.

What's a vulva?

The outside part of your private parts. The inside is called the vagina.

It feels funny when you touch there.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it feels good. But you're the only one who gets to decide who touches you there.

{Mommy's editorial comment ends the exchange. Someday Mommy will learn to keep her editorial mouth shut.}

But What about the Children?! ~by MPJ

I was listening to NPR yesterday and heard yet again how the youth of America, newly engaged in politics and invigorated by the Obama campaign will be so disappointed if he doesn't win the nomination. It will be crushing to them. How can we disillusion yet another generation and shut them out of the political process and the hope of democracy forever?

Funny, no one is talking about how bitterly disappointed women and girls will be if Hillary loses. I went to a rally for Hillary recently and the place was packed with thousands of people, the majority of them women. I talked to several women in their 50's and 60's who were so excited about Hillary's candidacy; they were volunteering, making phone calls, passing out buttons to anyone who asked. I saw hundreds of women there with their daughters, holding their little girls up so that they could see this woman who might be president. I've heard stories girls cheering for Hillary and of mothers listening. I know a woman (not the only one, I'm sure) who decided in the voting booth how she'd cast her vote when her daughter confided, "I want the girl to win, Mommy."

It's ok to disappoint little girls. And by now, the rest of us older women, in our 40's, 50's, 60's, 70's and beyond, really ought to be used to not being important enough to be considered. But those poor college kids. We can't disappoint those young men who will be the future leaders and those young women who think there is no sexism anymore and so expect to be too.

Well, This is Ridiculous ~ by Jay

So I was away for a week and arrived home on Friday just in time for bedtime and stories, and for a late dinner with Sam. Saturday and Sunday we had dinner as a family - one evening out (Indian food, new experience for the small fry; went pretty well) and one at home. Then I was out Monday and Tuesday for work, Sam is out tonight for work and tomorrow for a board meeting, and then he leaves on Friday afternoon for a hobby weekend and will probably be home after dinner on Sunday.

Monday we get to eat together (hooray!) and Tuesday I'm out again for work, and Wednesday he's out again for work.

My daughter enjoyed tonight - "Girl's night!", in her words - especially since I took her to the burrito place and then to the frozen custard stand. But by Saturday she'll be missing her Daddy, just like she missed Mommy last week.

Apparently it's possible to be married and still have joint custody.

Conversations with Patients ~ by Jay

"Dr. Jay, I have a rash on my hands. I thought it was from the latex gloves at work, so I tried an experiment."

Holds out her hands.

"See, this is the latex glove hand and this is the nitrile glove hand. The nitrile glove hand is better, but I still have a rash on my wrist on that side, so I don't think it's the latex."


"Maybe if you take those bracelets off, the rash will go away."

Things I Could Do Without, I Can't Believe I Did That Edition ~ by Jay

We bought a family-pack Leopard upgrade a few months ago, but when I tried to upgrade my MacBook I found out that upgrading a partitioned disk (I use Parallels to run WinXP for my charting program) wipes the disk. Since I wasn't sure my backup was actually working, I didn't do that.

Saturday Sam and I spent some time sorting out the backup issue and I started to copy my user files. It hung on a video file that looked as if it was the last on the list, so I figured it had everything and I didn't need that file.

Yes, you know where this is going. Turns out I had copied only the first part of my documents folder - not the libraries - so I lost many of my charting files, all the pictures and all the iTunes files. iTunes was easily fixed by downloading PodWorks ($8.00, works like a charm) but the pics and all the electronic copies of my charts since last May are gone. That means a fair amount more time doing data entry every day for the next - oh, six months.

Sigh.

Are You There, God? ~ by Jay

Mary's been musing about God lately, trying to figure out what God is and isn't. I admire her struggle and her commitment to her own truth, and of course she already told my favorite God story.

Before I found that story from the Kabbalah, I struggled to explain or understand my impulse toward God. It seemed - it was - fundamentally irrational. And yet I found I needed to believe. And I read something by Rabbi Harold Schulweis about predicate theology that helped me put words to it, words that met my intellectual needs while I waited for something to meet me spiritually.

If we can't say "God is love", perhaps we can say "love is Godly". We can find those qualities we honor and in them we can see the divine impulse. Predicate theology connects our rational brains to our spiritual hearts.

Glimpses of Privilege ~ by Jay

Sam facilitated a board meeting a few years ago during which the men spoke substantially more often and at greater length than the women. I pointed this out to him afterwards, and he said "I don't attend to gender when I'm facilitating shul meetings, just professionally". I said "Well, that's a luxury I don't have. I am always aware of gender".

Last week when I was at a conference, I worked in a small group for five days, and we wrestled with significant gender issues. The women couldn't get their voices in much of the time. And sports metaphors flew around like, well, badminton birdies. OK, maybe not badminton metaphors, but football and baseball and even rugby were well-represented. The men were uniform in their response when I mentioned the theme: I don't even like sports. It's just a figure of speech. It's not about gender.

Well, if you don't even like football, but feel comfortable participating in a discussion using passes and touchdowns as metaphor, that's male privilege. I do like sports. I follow baseball pretty closely. I can even explain the infield fly rule. But when the primary metaphor used in a conversation is about sports, the signal is clear: it's not a conversation I'm supposed to be joining. Female Science Professor picked up on the same image in her most recent post.

I know I'm often blind to my own privilege - I'm white and relatively wealthy and I'm straight and married. I do this work in hopes that I can better hear people when they call me on those things, and that I can ally with them as I hope Sam and the men I was with last week will ally with me.

Conversations With My Daughter ~ by Jay

(age 4, two years after the disruptions)

It's not fair. I want to be like Tommy. Tommy has a baby sister. I want you and Daddy to get another baby.

Well, I can understand that, but we're not planning to.

Remember when we had babies and I was a sister?

Yes, I remember.

I really loved those babies. I was a good sister.

You were a wonderful sister. And we all loved the babies, and we took good care of them, and then they had to go back to live with their other families.

How long did they live in our house?

Rose lived with us for six weeks, and Jesse for ten weeks.

That's a lot of days. When I have a baby I hope I can keep it for lots and lots of days.

When you have a baby, I'll bet you can keep it forever, just like you will be with Mommy and Daddy forever.

Oh, I can't stay with you forever. I'm going to grow up and get married and move to another city. But we can have lunch.

Re-entry ~ by Jay

What a long, strange trip and all that.

Yesterday I spent 12 hours traveling home, including four hours sitting in an airport between flights. The only thing that made it bearable was that I happened to sit next to a friend on the first flight and he got me into the airline's club lounge, so I had wifi, a comfy chair, free soda and relative quiet. I managed to get a few hours of paperwork done and wasn't nearly as frazzled as I would have been.

The best part of the whole trip: I arrived home right at our daughter's bedtime, and she came running down the stairs in her nightgown as I walked in the door. One leap and she was in my arms. Now that's a homecoming.

Um, What?

I've been listening to the news, as Barack Obama distances himself from Rev. Wright's extremism (if you will). I'm trying not to listen too hard to the election coverage, even though -- ok, becauseI'm deeply emotionally invested in it. So, all I've heard are snippets or rather the same snippet over and over again. Rev. Wright has (*gasp!*) called America "a racist nation."

I don't get it. That's it? A racist nation. That's the worst sound bite the news media could come up with for this supposed extremist? We are a racist nation. Sorry, but duh! And that's evidenced by the fact that we're collectively gasping at being called on it, and that Barack Obama, who has certainly faced that racism himself, has to distance himself from the voices ringing out in greatest bitterness against it.

Well, this is new ~ by Jay

Sam and I have communicated in all sorts of different ways over the years. We often use Gmail chat these days. I'm up early ($% jet lag) so we were chatting while he ate breakfast, and then our daughter started typing.

She's a pretty good typist, it turns out, and we had a nice little chat that way - and then we went over to iChat and turned on the iSight cameras.

I was rewarded for this exercise in geekdom when she took one look at my face on the screen and dissolved into giggles. That's a sound I can start my day with.

Off Again ~ by Jay

The week as a whole, and today in particular, have gone far better than I anticipated. Now the only thing left to do is pack - and I made that easier by buying a new rolling carry-on bag with a spot for the laptop, so I won't have to lug the laptop bag through the airport.

I've transferred four Law & Order episodes to my iPod, and purchased several audiobooks from Audible.com. I bought a gadget that allows me to run the iPod off AA batteries so it will last the whole flight, even if I'm watching videos for four hours. And of course I have books (four mysteries, the circumcision book I'm still reading) and crosswords. And more electronics: my Palm, my GPS unit, my cPAP, my cellphone, noise-blocking headphones, the various chargers and cords (and an extension cord with dual plugs so I can plug the cPAP in where the lamp is if I need to).

Yes, I know this is ridiculous, and yet I can't think of a single one I'd give up.

This conference is my professional Shabbat, my chance to reconnect with colleagues who share my deepest values, to sharpen my existing skills and stretch into new expertise, to catch my literal and metaphorical breath.

I wish you all peace while I'm gone.

Conversations with my Daughter ~ by Jay

Mommy, did you have friends in college?

Sure.

Who were they?

Well, Daddy for one.

Who else?

Mommy lists several other people.

Wow, you remember really well, even though college was a lot of years ago.

Pause.

Oh, you probably don't want me to say that because it will make you feel old.

How To Have a Pleasant Evening ~ by Jay

Announce 15 minutes after dinner that you are taking your daughter to the frozen custard stand for the first cone of the season. Just because.




Listen to the chant of "Mom-my rocks! Mom-my rocks!" in the car for two blocks, followed by the sudden onset of confidences from the safety of the back seat. Two weeks worth of school, friends, worries and stories in the last ten blocks.

Get your own cone and have a licking contest right in the parking lot.

Sing all the way home.

Things I Could Do Without: Bumper Sticker Edition ~ by Jay

I went to the grocery store today, and this slogan was on a bumper sticker on the car next to mine


There's nothing I can say about this that hasn't already been said better by Jessica over at Feministing, but I'm not accustomed to suddenly feeling unsafe in the middle of a shopping center parking lot in broad daylight.

(the shirt above, by the way, is sold at Wal-Mart. One more reason I'm glad I don't ever set foot in the place)

Who'd've Thunk It? ~ by Jay

My daughter's ballet class will dance to Moon River for the spring recital. She asked me to download it and make her a CD so she can rehearse.

Turns out that iTunes has Moon River listed as "New Age".

Looks pretty old school to me.

This Week in Jay-land ~ by Jay

Just finished a 90 minute conference call completing planning for the conference I'm co-chairing that starts on Saturday two time zones away from here, so I'll be leaving Friday to assuage my travel neurosis.

That means I have to clear off my desk on Thursday before I leave the office, but I can't stay late to do that because Sam and I are teaching an adult education session and I have to pick the babysitter up after I carpool the kids home from tap dance. And then pick up the pizza.

Sam and I haven't really planned the adult ed session so we have to do that tonight because Sam is going drumming tomorrow. I'm not going drumming because I have office hours until 8:00 tonight (and every Tuesday) and I don't want to miss bedtime three nights in a row right before I leave for a week.

I'll likely be late getting home anyway tomorrow because I have to do all my home visits in the afternoon; my morning is occupied with a conference call on another subject and working with a founding member of our congregation on her durable power of attorney for health care and her living will before she has major surgery next week.

I'm supposed to make phone calls for the religious school committee (was going to do that last night but forgot) and I'm covering for the hospice medical director which adds an extra trip to the end of my day each day until Thursday, so tonight I finish seeing patients at 8:00 PM, drive to hospice, do the hospice paperwork, get home between 9:00 and 9:30 and then finish the paperwork from my office session.

Oops, I'm late.

Conversations with my Daughter ~ by Jay

Daddy said I could have a lemonade stand this summer. I know what you need to sell things: a table, an umbrella in case it gets too hot, a chair, a sign that says what you're selling, and a place to keep the money. Oh, and you need to be OK with people walking on your sidewalk and talking to you. Plus you need some music or something.

Why do you need music?

So people will come to your sidewalk. You need something to distract them.

Distract them from what?

Not from anything. You know, make them want to come to your place.

Oh - something to attract them.

Right. So they'll come and they'll think your stuff is the most AWESOME stuff, and they'll buy it. But they won't do that if they don't know about it, so you have to have music. Or balloons. Or somebody yelling "COME HERE AND BUY STUFF" really loud.

Incoming! ~ by Jay

My mother, that is. Who doesn't know about the blog. So I'm running to pick up the kid to buy a birthday present for Mom before Mom arrives, and will have to do my chart notes after everyone is in bed tonight, and then will not be able to blog until Mom leaves around noon on Sunday, at which time I will need to make rounds at hospice and get ready for the synagogue board meeting on Sunday night (for which, come to think of it, I have not yet secured a babysitter....)

So unless Mary gets inspired we'll be lying low here for a few days.

Another Reason I'm Voting for Hillary ~ by Jay

The morning after the Texas and Ohio primaries, I brought in the paper and said to Sam "Looks like Hillary won big". Our daughter looked up from her bowl of cereal, face alight, and said "HILLARY"? She bounced in her chair and grinned.

Even if I weren't already supporting Hillary, I would do it just for that grin. Just for the sense of opportunity that Hillary's candidacy brings to my eight-year-old. Just for her delight in seeing a woman on the national stage.

The flip side is realizing that she didn't expect a woman to be there. At 8, she's already recognized the limitations of women's roles, and knows that most of the people in charge are men.

I wish my daughter thought Hillary was an ordinary woman, that this election was just a normal year. But since she already knows the truth, I will vote for Hillary to try and keep that smile on her face.

Mommy Apologizes ~ by Jay

My daughter has been in a Mood lately. This Mood arrived before I left last weekend and has resurfaced intermittently since. It appeared in full force this morning.

What's causing the Mood? "Nothing". Ah, so it's Nothing that's making you stand there looking like a four-foot-tall thundercloud, poking your toe into the floor over and over again. That's Nothing?

I want to give her the emotional privacy I never had as a kid. I don't want to try to and force information out of her. But I can't stand to see her upset and not know why. I want to fix it. I'm the mom; I'm supposed to be able to fix this stuff. And of course during the week I get only little bits of time to try and fix things. An hour before breakfast, an hour or two after school.

So this morning, running on about six hours of sleep and dreading the meeting with the Big Boss, I alternately tell her she doesn't have to tell me what's causing the Mood and threaten to take away privileges if she doesn't Cheer Up.

I know this is nuts even as I'm saying it but I can't stop. I just can't let it go. I hate having to drop her at school after this series of schizophrenic exchanges, and I have all good intentions of picking her up early but that of course gets shot to hell by the course of my afternoon.

So when we do all land at home I take a deep breath and say "I want to apologize to you for the way I spoke to you this morning" and her face crumples and she flings herself on to me, snuggling her head into my neck as if she's trying to burrow under my skin. We hug each other hard for a long time, and I tell the top of her hair about how much I want to fix things for her even though I know she needs privacy. I tell her I never, ever want her to be afraid of me and that I knew I'd spoken to her in a scary way this morning, and I was sorry.

There are worse things than showing your kid that everyone makes mistakes, and that we all have the capacity for forgiveness. Being forgiven is pretty powerful stuff, even for Mommy.

And I Thought I Liked Him ~ by Jay

I posted about Phil Hughes and his blog last week, and yesterday in a desperate attempt to avoid doing actual work I went and read some of his entries. And then I followed a link to an interview he did with another blogger. Seems Phil's favorite TV show is The Office, and one fan asked him to compare his Yankee teammates with the characters on the show. Phil's first comment: "I’m not going to put anyone on Pam because that would just be insulting I think, to be compared to a woman".

Suddenly I'm wishing the Yanks had traded him for Johann Santana.

Home, Again ~ by Jay

Home from the Crossword Puzzle Tournament. Not much sleep. I always love the idea of being alone in a lovely big hotel bed with lots of pillows and plenty of room, but I never sleep as well as in my own bed at home with Sam over on the other side. It was SO worth it - lots of fun, lots of friends, and a killer Thai dinner last night, which is a treat for me, especially with great company.

I'd been telling everyone that I was just going for fun, that I knew I wouldn't win anything and that results didn't matter at all. I was astonished to discover that I cared about my scores. Really cared. As in, I got anxious when the clock started ticking, and again when they posted the standings after the first three puzzles. And when I rolled over and looked at the clock at 6:15 this morning, my first conscious thought was "I bet I can go check the web site for standings after six puzzles!" I won't reveal where I finished - trying to preserve some semblance of anonymity - but I'm pleased about it, and also quite sure that I can do better next year, if I admit to myself that I care about the results and practice beforehand.

I've been dreaming about going to this event for years, ever since I first heard about it, and it was even better than I'd hoped. How many things in life can you say that about?