Girls of the World

This morning, as I turned to leave after dropping my youngest daughter off at her classroom, her teacher motioned to me.  ‘Could I have a word?’ she said, and my heart froze because I know that ‘a word’ with a teacher generally means that your child has been involved in something unsavory.

My child, it turns out, had been part of a group of girls ‘accidentally’ pushing other girls in the playground.  The pushing resulted in one child going home with a bump on her head and another—one of her best friends--going home in floods of tears. 

While I was disappointed to hear this, I wasn’t surprised.  My daughter is part of a tightknit group of friends and just last week it was she who came home in floods of tears because none of her friends would play with her during playtime.  ‘I sat in the mud by myself,’ she wept. I was concerned, but reassuring.  After comforting her, I suggested that she confront her friends and let them know how sad they were making her. Maybe they didn’t know that her feelings were hurt.  Maybe they didn’t realize that she felt sad. I told her to speak to us or to speak to her teacher if it happened again.  I instructed her older sister to look after her and make sure she was ok when she saw her.  And I spoke to her teacher, who, in turn, spoke to the girls in the class about the importance of kindness.

Fast forward a week later and the tables have turned. Now it’s my daughter causing the tears.

As a child who was bullied, I find it easy to side with the victim and baffled by why one child would treat another unkindly.  Bullying wasn’t tolerated in my family.  I have a very clear memory of being in the swimming pool with my cousin and a friend.  At some point, I decided to lord it over one or the other of them, resulting in tears and hurt feelings.  My dad had me out of the pool in seconds flat and, with his face in my face, made it very clear that my behavior was unacceptable.  Shamefaced and , I spent the rest of the time by the pool in a chair, while my friend and cousin continued to enjoy themselves.

That said, it’s easy to see how tempting it is to slip into the seat of power and out of the seat of persecution.  It’s protective to be the one who is telling the others how to act and what they can and can’t do, to push down those who are weaker to ensure that you aren’t the one getting pushed, even if it results in hurting the people you really care about.   

These days, women need to band together.  We need to be teaching our girls from a young age that hurting each other is hurting their futures.  Instead of following the pack and ganging up against other girls, they should be standing up for each other. Instead of badmouthing and ‘slut shaming’, they should be supporting each other.  Instead of targeting each other’s weaknesses, they should be celebrating their differences and accomplishments.

Tonight, at our house, we’ll be having a serious conversation about what it means to be a girl in the world these days.  We’ll be talking about how important it is to be true to ourselves, to stand up for other girls and to not be afraid to be kind, even if it means confronting your best friends in the process.  I hope that by reinforcing the values that I try to live by as a grown woman—be kind, be tolerant, be helpful, be non-judgmental, love yourself, respect yourself and don’t back down—I will, in turn, help my girls to continue to become amazing girls of the world.

How 2016 Set Me Up to Kick 2017's Butt

Like a lot of people right now, I'm sitting here on New Years Eve 2016 contemplating the year we are leaving behind.  On an International level, this year has been a bummer.  Around the world, innocent people  suffer in ways that are  inhumane, while the rest of get on with our lives and our overpriced coffees. Racism, Misogyny and intolerance are are on the rise in both of my countries, as evidenced by Brexit and the election of Donald Trump.  Women, immigrants, people of color, homosexuals, trans people, non-Christians are fighting for their rights. Still. And the list goes on...

But, on a personal level, despite a few bumps along the way, 2016 has been a really positive year for me.  2016 has reminded me of how lucky I am to have an amazing, supportive family, a husband who loves me, children to be proud of. 2016 has been full of love and strong friendships and has allowed me to discover new passions and gain confidence in myself. 2016 has given me a new nephew and another on the way!  In 2016, I have been lucky to spend fun, if sometimes intense and chaotic, time with my family and in 2016 I have remembered on many occasions why and how much I love my husband.  2016 hasn't let me compromise and thanks to 2016 I have more purpose in my life. I have set more goals for myself and have been able to clearly see what is most important to me.  I'm proud of my 2016 and I'm entering 2017 without regret, ready for whatever it throws at me.  I'll keep fighting the good fight to follow my heart and be the best I can be for myself, for my family and for the world.

So thanks, 2016.  In a lot of ways you've been tough, but ultimately you've made me stronger.

A moment of clarity

UPDATE: People, I would like to make it clear that this is a CREATIVE WRITING blog. What I write on this blog is fictional or loosely based on things happening in my life. I have had a rough month, but this blog post is about a 'mother' (me and a lot of other people), about the challenges that a lot of  people face as we try to juggle career and family, the emotions we feel and NOT a full or completely true account of anything (besides that I have a six year old who has tantrums and that I haven't figured out the whole work/life balance thing yet--that's the truth!). If you want to see what is REALLY happening in my life, you can check out my other life blog: claireandjim.blogspot.com, where I actually am talking about real life.


In the background there is the sound of a child playing happily in the bath.  She is splashing and talking to herself, playing a game with a cup and, occasionally, with the dog who keeps wandering in and out of the bathroom.

In the kitchen, her mother eats a salad and wonders, distractedly, when her older daughter is going to be home.  And when her husband will be home. And if the dog has peed on the floor somewhere and she just hasn't discovered it yet.

The black and white cat yowls at the back door, too stupid to figure out the cat flap. Downstairs, the neighbour yells to his son.  "Stewie!  Stewie!" It's time for the boy to practice the piano and the mother can hear him downstairs, stomping to the keyboard in his kitchen, petulantly banging out the notes. He hates to practice.

The mother stares into her computer, vacantly, registering that the bath water must be getting cold by now.  She calls to the child, but the child cheerfully calls back that she wants to keep playing and so the mother returns to her computer and the glass of wine that she is nursing as she trolls websites for a job.

The mother has lost her job in the most unfeminist of ways. A slap in the face.  The mother has lost her job because she is a mother.  Running her finger around the rim of her wine glass, the mother contemplates her situation: gainfully employed in a job that she loved and then...not.  She remembers the moment when she decided.  The child in the bath, so happy now, was prostate on the floor, howling at some injustice.  The dog was systematically destroying the house. The older child, ever encouraging, hugged her mother as she sat sobbing on the floor.  The husband was at work.

'Louder! Say it louder!'  the child in the bath said to her imaginary playmates. 'I can't do it anymore. I can't do it anymore,' they replied.  'Louder!  Louder!  Try harder!'

 'I can't do it anymore, ' said the mother to her job.  'In a year, I can, but right now I can't.'

 'We can't do it,' said her job, 'We can't do it your way.'

For three weeks the mother cried.  She railed. She was angry and distraught.  The child in the bath thrived at school and raged at home.  The older child flowered.  The dog, as if sensing change, settled. The husband was gentle and kind.  The mother couldn't sleep.  She dragged herself to work in a fugue-like state, counting down the days until the end.  Counting up the injustices.

And slowly her anger faded. Slowly her grief retreated.  She licked her wounds.  The child in the bath howled at some injustice. The mother remembered that she is a mother first.  She is always a mother first.  The child got out of the cold bath, dripping water on the floor. 'I love you,' she said, 'I love you, mama.'

Buster Brown's Sausage Story

In my second creative writing class, we read a news story about how a butcher was left open by accident and the surrounding community 'liberated' the goods.  All around were people with sausages, giving them to each other, creating good will among men, dropping them so that even the pets could enjoy them.  Our assignment was to write the story from the point of view of a character within the community. I chose a dog.  And, since there is only one dog who has really inspired me in my lifetime, I chose Buster Brown as my voice (for more Buster Brown, visit my early blogging on the JIm and Claire blog).

It had been a long week, what with the pill popping and stomach pumping.  Humiliating to be labeled a cage jumper and even more so to be forced to wear one of those giant satellite dish things on my head.  What self-respecting canine wouldn’t want to pull an IV out of his leg? Needless to say, eating a bottle of ibuprofen for attention hadn’t gotten me the kind of attention I had been seeking and I was glad to be home again, drooling in my own bed and ‘vacuuming’ the floors.

We followed the usual route on our evening walk and my nose was once again in fine form, post-vet.  While I was there I felt like I was never going to smell anything but antiseptic and cat and fear again, but a couple of minutes out in the free world cured me and I could smell that Moose had already been by on his evening walk. I lifted my leg onto his scent in greeting.  Then I had a good growl and hackle raise at the neighbor’s yard art.  I wasn’t too hot yet, so I was feeling good, not too itchy, and looking forward to flipping my squeaky frog around a few times when we got back home and the possibility of a possum sighting.

When we rounded the corner to head back to the house, I stopped short. I sniffed and snuffled and then, before I knew what to do with myself, I let out a howl and streaked off at high speed.  Being a beagle, I follow my nose, and it takes my brain a while sometimes to catch up.  I could hear Eddie shouting after me, but let me tell you that there is no such thing as an obedient beagle when there is food involved.  And this was food with a capital “F”: spicy and sweet at the same time, tangy and fat and juicy.

I shot under the first house I got to, eager to put some distance between myself and Eddie, and found myself in an enclosed yard with a deck. Trapped! To go back under the house would mean an end to my quest for Eddie would surely put me back on the leash he had so foolishly let me off of.  I peered around, frantically.  A potted plant sat above a chair on the deck and it seemed the most logical way to access the next yard, where the smell was stronger. My legs trembled and I leapt from chair to plant to fence top, where I balanced precariously and then inched forward before free falling to the ground.  Many years of cat and possum observations had taught me some fancy footwork, although I had yet to master a graceful landing.

The smell was stronger, almost visible, wafting over from the next yard.  I howled and squeezed myself under the fence, digging and clawing my way through and then, without stopping, I was upon them.  Sausages! Everywhere! I don’t know where they came from, but I wasn’t the only one who had been drawn.  People were running out of an open doorway with bags full of them. Children dropped armloads on the ground. After months of organic dog food there were sausages dropped on the ground, willy nilly!  I could hear Eddie calling me and I threw myself at them with a furor that I reserve only for food, growing and snapping at the feet around me, choking them down at breakneck speed.

 It was the best day of my life.

A return: The anecdote

I'm back!  And I'm taking a creative writing class. Our first class focused on "the anecdote" (written in the first person; could be something that happened or not). So here are my first creative writing attempts in LONG time.  I give you an anecdote from the point of of an object: Dou Dou.

To be loved so thoroughly that one’s nose has been rubbed off is a privilege.  At least I keep telling myself this, although at times I do feel slightly vulnerable.  A giraffe of my status--one who has been discontinued--is worth quite a bit and I make sure that despite my lack of nose..and my unfortunate name (which, in some cultures is a term for excrement) I continue to carry myself with dignity.

When I was new, my fur was soothing and silky to the touch.  I was a beautiful lemon yellow with soft pink spots. My body flowed out into a blanket shape, each

corner tipped with aqua green hooves.  My little ears flapped when I moved and I held my pink tipped horns at a stately angle.  My tail was a colorful conglomeration of pastel ribbons, designed to tease and tickle tiny fingers.

I was a gift for a child of only 3 months, who promptly, upon meeting me, put me in her mouth.  At first, I was horrified by the saliva on my previously pristine fur, but eventually I got used to the feeling of being sucked and chewed on and I took pride in my role as “favorite blankie,” despite the insulting title and the general hardships of my life.

I had to learn to sleep creatively—preferably on the floor or jammed between the wall and the mattress-- to prevent nightly suffocation. My frequent escapes from bed caused the child to shriek in despair, which in turn drew the exhausted parents into the room to crash about in the middle of the night trying to find me. I never managed to hide for long and all the ruckus was a bit unnerving so I focused on inching myself over onto the side of her pillow and that’s how we spent our evenings together.

I was frequently dragged about by tail and horns, stuffed into bags and boxes and suitcases, dropped from great heights into dirt and mud and, most terrifyingly, thrown into a machine that first doused me with water and then battered me for hours.  Wet and exhausted, I was then tossed into a loud, hot chamber, where I tumbled around for what seemed like an endless eternity.

But I was loved. And it was a love I couldn’t escape, a possessive and undying love that took my nose and stained my person with bodily fluids.  A love that I didn’t appreciate until the day I got lost.

It was a cold, but sunny winter day and the grandparents were visiting.  As usual, the child insisted that I come with her and I looked forward to a day outside of the house.  It was nice to get some fresh air and I enjoyed seeing the city sights.  The distractions of the outside world gave me a reprieve from the constant stroking and squeezing that the child inflicted upon me.  But it also presented other challenges, particularly when the grandparents were around and there seemed to be no end to the drips from untidily licked ice cream cones.  But still, I considered myself a giraffe of culture and felt that it was my duty to see the sights of London so I welcomed the chance to educate myself.

On that fateful day, we were headed to Covent Garden.  There was some discussion between the grandmother, a great enthusiast of flea markets and the grandfather (decidedly NOT a great enthusiast of flea markets) about how much time would be spent perusing the Covent Garden wares before heading to the ultimate destination: the Transport Museum.  The child’s mother wore a glazed look and kept checking her phone and the child was focused on pulling all of her baby wipes out of their packaging. That was when it happened.  With one  enthusiastic tug and a squeal of delight, she freed all of her wipes and sent me sailing out of the buggy and onto the ground. I watched in horror as they trundled on, not one of them noticing my dirtied and supine figure on the ground. 

At first I was sure that I would be trampled, but somehow managed just to be kicked around like an old piece of trash until someone noticed me for what I was and, with a sympathetic cluck, draped me over a nearby railing.  That gave me hope, for while I had always been treated roughly, in my opinion, my life with the child was a far better option than spending the rest of my days draped over a fence. Unfortunately the kindly person had draped me so that my head was hanging upside down, so I could hear pigeons roosting above me, but could not get a good look at just where they were positioned. It also impeded my ability to seek out my child and her family and gave me a headache.  So, confident that they would retrace their steps and find me, I decided to take a little nap.

When I awoke, I was no longer on the fence, but smashed into a dark and cold space that smelled of petrol.  I was pinned to the floor by a heavy metal object and I stared helplessly up at a small slit, through which a tiny ray of light shone.  I have to admit that I was terrified.  Everyone had heard the story of the Velveteen Rabbit and I wondered if I was destined for a similar demise. I wondered if anyone would have the common decency to at least hold a small memorial for me…or write a complimentary obituary.

At once the car (for I had determined that it was a car in which I was hurtling through time and space) stopped, sending the metal object crashing across my face.  The last thing I remember before fainting was a middle aged, dowdy woman reaching down for me.

When I came to I was in a room that was filled from floor to ceiling with stuffed animals and dolls.  Many of them were brand new and perfectly preserved with their original tags and certificates attached.  I was in sorry, rumpled state, but this was early in my life and well before the loss of my nose, so I pulled myself together and attempted to make small talk with some of my fellow inmates, who I suspected could shed some light on my situation.

From inside of her unopened box, a vintage Barbie informed me that we were part of the Dowdy Woman’s collection. We were all, she said, discontinued, which meant that the company that had originally manufactured us, no longer did.  We had been replaced by new designs and new lines to keep up with the trends and the fickle desires of children around the world.  But before she could explain what the dowdy woman was planning to do with all of us, my captor appeared and picked me up.

I could smell the coffee on her breath as she she tutted and crooned, rubbing my fur and examining my stains. I suddenly missed the sweet and inoffensive breath of the child in a way that I never had before. The Dowdy Woman then crossed into the kitchen and tossed me into the terrible washing machine with a particularly distasteful detergent called Borax. I had only ever experienced ecologically friendly and hypoallergenic detergents, and the Borax was an insult to my skin, leaving me feeling raw and peeled. But it did, I admit, get the stains out, and I felt very handsome despite all the manhandling.

After my deep clean and a slow dry on the radiator, the woman set me down on a fluffy blanket and began taking pictures of me.  When she was satisfied, she tossed me back onto the shelf with the others before plopping down onto a groaning chair and turning on computer. 

I contemplated this. Computers have always been part of my life. My child’s parents sometimes spent more time staring at their computers than they did at each other or at their own offspring...and this thought sent another pang through my heart.  What if she had to spend the rest of her life without someone to look at, to hold, to confide in, to comfort and be comforted by?  What if I had to spend the rest of my life on a shelf with discontinued dolls in the same state!? I realized then, that all that suffocating and chewing was an expression of love and that I loved her, too.  She wasn’t an inconvenience…she was my child and I missed her dreadfully!

The days went by and the Dowdy Woman frequently checked her computer, occasionally looking back at me with an expression of disbelief.  Every day there were new arrivals to my shelf and several of my shelf mates were bundled off, never to be seen again. No one knew what happened to them.

 After about a week it was my turn to be plucked off the shelf to meet my fate. The Dowdy Woman cocked her head at me and guffawed. “Fifty-Five pounds…well, YOU sure were a lucky find!”

Before I knew what was happening, she wrapped me in some tissue paper and tied a ribbon around me then stuffed me into a padded envelope.  From inside of the envelope, I could hear the sound of packing tape and the scratching of her pen writing an address.  A little later I fell from a great height into the bowels of what I can only assume was a Royal Mail Post Box.  Where I was going, I couldn’t know. Maybe I was to be sent off to some horrible place where raggedy, unloved toys gathered dust and dry rotted. Maybe I was to be incenerated…or worse, to be a chew toy for a new puppy!

The Royal Mail is not a smooth ride, so by the time I reached my destination I was battered and bruised. I felt limp and drained and resigned to my fate, whatever it may be.  I had failed my little girl by falling from the buggy, so whatever happened to me was what I deserved….

But wait!  From inside of my parcel pack, I could sense something very familiar…noises and smells and voices.  With a squeal, my little girl ripped open the packaging. “Dou Dou! My Dou Dou!”  She smothered me and kissed me and tossed me into the air.  I gazed into her eyes and if I could have cried I would have. No amount of smothering would ever convince me that I belonged anywhere but here.  And as she carried me off, I heard the mother say to the father, “Thank God for that horrible woman on Ebay.  The baby doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s a different one…”

How they took over my life

We have a new baby in the house. She's another beautiful and feisty little girl with ginger hair and blonde eyebrows and a ginger personality to match. When she cries, she turns bright red and her eyebrows stand out like little white streaks on her forehead. She has the determined personality of a second child and doesn't take no for an answer. When I leave her to scream while I deal with some toddler related crisis that her older sister has created, she takes it in stride and belts it out even louder, even more hysterically, hardly pausing to take a breath lest I forget the injustice of her having to manage on her own for a few minutes.

With this new little person comes, again, my loss of self. Suddenly, everything I do is dictated by screams in the night and at all hours of the day from every corner of the house. As I type this, I am trying to ignore the calls of "Mommy! Mommy!" coming from the room where my older daughter is supposed to be taking a nap. The baby is strapped to me in a sling and I tiptoe around, hoping that she stays content and doesn't cry long enough for me to do the dishes. I haven't shaved since before she was born and have to wait until my husband is home from work to even take a shower. Eating has become strategic. I throw something together and then bolt it down as fast as I can, between tantrums and diaper changes and bottles and dinners and baths and books. At the end of the day, when they both are blissfully quiet (temporarily), I am exhausted...and even more exhausted thinking about the long night of waking up every three hours that I have ahead of me.

And still, I'm happy. Three weeks into being the mother of two and 3 days into being home with them on my own, sleep deprived, hairy, highly caffeinated, I've managed to get out and do things with both girls. Although, it takes 2 to 3 hours to get out of the house, we have been out three days in a row! Today at a music class, I watched my almost 2 year old thoroughly enjoying herself, dancing and singing and clapping and participating, for the first time since we started going. The baby slept in her sling, looking angelic, her eyebrows blending into her fair skin. There were no tantrums and no tears. When I told my toddler how proud of her I was, she beamed at me with her slightly bucked teeth and her big lips. And even though it all went to hell when we got back home, it was worth it. It is worth it. They have taken over and I love it.

Sisterhood, Daughterhood, Motherhood

A long time ago, when I was two, something incredible happened: my sister was born. I don’t remember the event or how I felt at the time, but according to my mother, the first thing I said when I saw her was “oh, she’s so beautiful!” On the cusp of having a second baby—who could be a girl and could be a boy—I wonder if our funny, feisty daughter will have a similar reaction or will be horrified by the idea of having to share the previously undivided attention that she got from us.

I can’t remember my life without my sister. In all of my memories from childhood, she is there, a smaller, blond, pouting, pretty little girl who I bossed around and who shared my passions for things like My Little Ponies, Sesame Street and making up dances to the oldies records our parents let us listen to on our Mattel record player. I remember celebrating her first birthday at my preschool and the cookie monster cake she had and how she was a better Easter egg hunter than I was, resulting, inevitably, in tears on my part. I remember being dressed in matching dresses and both of us being unable to contain our excitement about Christmas morning. Together we shared the joy that was going to Dunkin Donuts with our grandmother, picking any donuts we wanted and eating as many as we could. Together we experienced the flu and copious amounts of vomiting post-Dunkin Donuts, which, even though it had nothing to do with the donuts, changed our attitude towards them for many, many years. We played together and we fought with each other. We spent nights giggling in each other’s rooms and jumped from one of her twin beds to the other. We snuck downstairs to watch the Love Boat from behind the couch when our mostly deaf Great-Grandmother was babysitting us. We dressed up in discarded cocktail dresses from our grandmother and grinned at the camera from the bathtub.

I have a wonderful brother, too, who is less emotional and more pragmatic than my sister and I (not to mention more private) and have only one memory of life without him. My sister and I were in a Cleveland daycare and the whole family was temporarily living with our grandparents while waited for our brother’s arrival at the Cleveland Clinic. In the daycare they separated us and were mean to her. She cried and I felt defensive. The next week our parents moved us to a new school.

When he was a baby, I used to carry my brother around and call him my Buddy. I bossed him around as much as I bossed my sister and in our make believe games we called him Jon-Jon. I’m pretty sure I named him and I’m not sure he had a choice in the matter. He probably was a better Easter egg hunter than I was. Mostly I remember us ganging up on him, dressing him up in girl clothes before he was old enough to know better, teasing him about various things. I remember when he pooped in the pool and in the tub as a baby. He was as excited as we were when we all got Cabbage Patch Kids in our Easter baskets one year. Ours was an Easter of consumerism and competitiveness. At some point he went off and did boy things like micro machines and Nintendo. He and my sister were close, but I’m not surprised he didn’t want to hang out with me as much. When I was twenty-three and he was eighteen, he disdainfully informed me that, no offence, but he and his friends didn’t really want to hang around with twenty-three year olds, thus implying that we were a bunch of old farts. Now we are good friends and his 29 years do not seem so different from my 34, with the exception of the fact that I have considerably more grey hair.

In our teen years, when we both had entered the middle school/high school that, at the time, could make or break our teenaged existence, the friendship that I had with my sister deepened in a way that I didn’t experience with my brother because of our age difference. We ate lunch together at school and I felt like it was my duty to look out for her during the day. When I got a serious boyfriend, the three of us spent time together and when my sister and I were both old enough to go out on the weekends, my guy friends were always excited for me to bring my pretty, blonde sister out with me, too. When I got in serious trouble with my parents and she was involved, too, I defended her, boldly lying to keep her out of trouble. She got into plenty of trouble without me, eventually. I remember driving home from New Orleans during a terrible rainstorm after she visited me at my college freshman dorm for the weekend. I complained that a trucker had appraised my legs and honked his horn while she was sleeping. “That’s what you get for wearing such a short ass skirt,” was her response. She’s not one to mince words.

We both ended up in New Orleans for college—she in her freshman year while I was in my senior year—and had a raucous year together, during which she did a lot of chauffeuring me around after bar hopping and parties. One night, when we found ourselves without a car at a house party in a questionable neighborhood in the middle of the night, we curled up on the floor together and spooned to stay warm until it was morning and we could get a ride home with a sober person.

We have been sisters and we have been daughters. Now we are mothers. We live across the ocean from each other, but we still have the sisterhood connection that we’ve always had. We someday hope that we will be in the same city so that our daughters can grow up more like sisters than like cousins. We are again bonded through the mutual experience of loving our children more than we ever imagined we could and the anxiety that comes with that unbelievable love and the responsibility of being parents.

At this point in our lives, we are almost everything to our little girls but someday we know, because we were girls once, too, that the tables will turn. We will be the enemies, the preventers of good times, the cause of hysteria. We will, in our efforts to be the best for them, hurt them in some unknown and unexpected way. They will go away, attempt to become independent, develop their own views, talk to their therapists about how we ruined their lives, pushed them too hard, put too much pressure on them, or not enough. Despite our roles as life destroyers, they will still call us when they are in crisis and we will be the ones they confide in when they are unhappy. We will know that they will come back to us some day, forgive us for our motherly flaws, love us, remember that we were once everything to them. But, in the meantime, during the years that they work it out, grow up and make their way back into our realm, we’ll have each other and our sister bond for comfort and support.