Elf on the Shelf: Savvy Auntie Edition

My sister tells her kids, ages 8 and 6, that the family's semi-feral cat would eat the "Elf on the Shelf." Their cat is a renowned hunter, so the kids believe this is the reason why there is no elf wreaking havoc at their suburban Baltimore home, tattling on the kids to Santa and the elves.

But this does not mean they are off the hook when it comes to good behavior in the weeks leading up the Christmas.

My sister does not need a successful commercial enterprise, masquerading as a Christmas tradition (in spite of being fewer than ten years old), to keep her kids in line during the holidays.

It used to be, before the age of the Internet and cell phones, merely humming a few bars of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" was enough to keep Christian children (and their non-secular counterparts) on their best behavior throughout the month of December. When I was a kid we KNEW that he knew if we'd been bad or good, so we had better be good, for goodness sake.

I think children are a little savvier than we were back in the 1970s. And my youngest sister KNOWS her kids are savvy consumers of parental legend.

So every year, right after Thanksgiving, she changes my contact name and photo in her cell phone from "Auntie Clownface" to "Santa Claus."

And then I start getting random text messages and cell phone calls, from my sister, ostensibly to Santa, asking for verification that I am in fact real, that I did in fact shake her son's hand at the local tree lighting ceremony, or I did receive her daughter's light mailed just a week ago. They always start with a "Hi Santa" greeting, so I know it is time to turn on the "ho ho ho." So I glibly reply, savvy auntie that I am, with a recapitulation of her message, affirming that the alleged incident (e.g. shaking Santa's hand at the local tree lighting, or an incident of mischievous behavior at school) did in fact occur, followed by a reminder to the kids to be good because I'm watching them carefully from the North Pole.

I love being able to do this for my sister because she lives 400 miles away, and I rarely have the opportunity to be hands-on in my support of her parenting. I love that this happens effortlessly. One day, maybe three years ago, I randomly received a text addressed to Santa and just picked it up and ran with it. We never rehearse, I never know when a message is coming, and I haven't dropped the ball on her yet.  And nearly 35 years after an early end to my belief in the physical manifestation of Santa, I am still delighted by my child's eye view of Santa and the magic that happens at the North Pole.

Are you a savvy aunts or uncle who celebrates Christmas? I invite you to share this post with the parents of the little ones in your life, and invite them to play along. It is a great way to get the effect of elf on the shelf, without kowtowing to the relentless pressure of developing new, hijinks-fillled tableaus to showcase the elf's worst behavior, and it is a wonderful way for you to be involved in your siblings' Christmas traditions beyond gift giving.

Let freedom ring

It was with tears in my eyes that I read my nephew's "What Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Means to Me" essay aloud to BMG a few moments ago:

"He fought with his voice and with his voice he heard Freedom! Freedom! And because of his voice me and my moms can live together. Oh! How thankful it makes me that my family lives together. Living in the same house, eating the same meal, drinking the same water and sharing the same love together. Thank you! Dr. King!"

Juxtaposed against the beauty of the inauguration - in which President Obama paid homage to the writers of the U.S. Constitution, President Lincoln and the men and women who advocated for the end of slavery in the U.S., Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the principled men and women who fought back in the Stonewall riots - my nephew's words strike a powerful chord this morning. 

*****

Blogger's note: Nathaniel is nearly 8 year-old young African American boy. He is adopted and lives with two Caucasian moms and his adopted older sister from another mother. Nathaniel is of above-average intelligence and he struggles with an emotional disability. He loves Pokemon and the color orange. 

The Art of Partnership

Are you good at negotiation? I'm not. And it seems as if no one in my personal circle is either.  Let me share two examples from literally the last four hours of my life.

In scenario one I'm planning to head to NY to visit my family, including four fantastic nieces and nephews. It has been two days since I've sent a potential schedule of activities for my short trip to the four adult members of my family - after several days of cajoling from them. In my note to them I suggest on the first night the kids might head to my hotel for picnic and swimming. Getting no feedback from anyone, I then text a sibling to suggest that maybe a picnic that first night at her kids' favorite playground might be better. Eight hours later, still nothing. (Eight hours is a long time to respond to a text given the speed with which people communicate nowadays, particularly when the other conversant is one who was eager for "a plan.") So then I call. This is how it goes (excerpted to reduce boredom).

Me: Did you get my text?
Sibling: Yeah. It has been really busy at work. I can talk a few minutes now.
Me: So what do you think? About picnic in the playground?
Sib: Well, I'd already told the kids about the pool (me - didn't really we had decided that - it was a suggestion) and they're really excited to see their cousins.
Me: Would your kids like some one-on-one time with me?
Sib: They're pretty excited about the pool and their cousins.
Me: So they don't want one-on-one time? Okay. And if they want to go in the pool we need to figure out how to do it so they aren't trooping in and out of our room. BMG has to do a three-hour conference call that night.
Sib: Well, I guess we can go to the park. I'll have to talk to the kids about it to adjust their expectations.
Me: I didn't say they COULDN'T go in the pool. I just said we'd need to do it in a way to prevent trooping in and out of the room.
Sib: They've never done that. (me - we once spent an entire day at the hotel pool, trooping in and out of the room. I've had her wet kids in my bed. not an issue, just not for this trip) I just want to talk with the kids before responding to you. I'm sure we can go to the park.
Me: Sib, are you listening to me? The pool is fine provided that BMG's call isn't disturbed.
Sib: OK.

In scenario two I'm following up with BMG on an offer he made to do very easy video editing for me at work; I need to have a title page and end page added to a video produced by colleagues at work. I've given him the movie file and asked him to try to get to it within the next 36 hours. I've moved on in my life, made dinner, washed dishes, started laundry, had a glass of wine, chatted with the neighbors, watched some TV. I've come back into the living room after being in the basement. The TV is on mute and BMG is staring at his computer (his usual pose).
BMG: What did they do this video in? Three frame, four frame?
Me: Huh?
BMG: This video what did they do it in?
Me: Are you talking to me? (I seriously thought he was video chatting with the guy who is his partner in a nascent - and awesome - video production company.)
BMG: YES! I'm talking to you. What did they do this video in?
Me: I don't know. Are you working on this now?
BMG: Yes. Come look at this.
I sit down.
BMG: So what do you need?
Me: Branding at the beginning and the end. I didn't know you were working on this right now. I can get you the stuff you need.
I head to my computer, six feet away.
BMG: So what do you want it to say?
Me: Are you typing? Didn't I just say I'd get it to you? I need a minute to get my head in the game. I didn't know I was going back to work right this moment.

In the first scenario both my sister and I assume at different times that simply because someone made a suggestion that suggestion needed to be the decision. This is so frustrating to me. In most cases I crave  discussion about things like family plans. I crave the discussion because I want to hear what makes the hearts of my sisters, brother, mother, nieces and nephews go pitter pat. And I want to find a way to make the most people the most satisfied with our family time. To have one person's suggestion become the plan - sans conversation from others - means I (a) miss out on learning more from my siblings, and (b) we don't find a way to try to get what we all want. A child of divorced parents, I know I felt as if I had to do whatever my mom wanted me to do in order to keep her from leaving the family too. So my modus operandi is "Do whatever the other person says, no matter what. The risk is too great to counter with a different idea." Pretty sure other siblings operate the same way.

BMG knows this about me. And he has a very dominant personality. Not a classic alpha male, but he takes up an enormous amount of space - usually joyfully. But the second incident is a classic between us - he is ready to do what he wants to do right now and I (a) need to know exactly what he's doing, and (b) ready to ask "how high" when he says "jump." So my family background is great for him.  In the midst of pulling the video content so he could finish his quickie for me (for which I am grateful), I actually sat at my desk and whimpered.  I wished BMG had said, "I want to work on this now. I need X, Y and Z from you to get this done. When can you get this to me?" And then I could have said, "You're awesome! Thank you so much! Give me 20 minutes to pull it together starting right now." Instead, I was caught off guard, felt as if I needed to rush because the video editing boat was going to leave without me, and, worse of all, was jolted back into work mode when it is SO hard for me to wind down.

I crave a feeling of partnership with all of my loved ones, a feeling of collaboration that comes from a spirit of adventure.

So...what would you advise to help me get to this place, besides taking a daily dose of Xanax? Seriously. I need help here.

"I have a question for all you parents..."

"Other parents: how did you handle yada yada, if/when it occurred?"

If your friends are anything like my friends this is a question you've seen a gazillion times on Facebook.

And...I find it annoying.

Why?

Not because parents are asking for help. Goodness knows we can all use more help with nearly everything we do. And I have great admiration for the work parents do - work they do with inconsistent role models, no instruction manuals, no training. Nope, that's not it.

This is annoying because it presumes that those of us who haven't gone the parenting route don't have any experience that might inform their question.

Let me make myself clear.

• I'm trained in social work and public health. I spent four years studying and doing work in the field of mental illness, infectious disease management, human behavior change, and human and organizational development.
• I am a sexuality educator who has been trusted by complete strangers to help their pre-teens as they navigate the world of sexual and gender identity, sexual expression, and love of self and other.
• I worked in public education for nearly six years. In my work I regularly talked with families about their hopes and dreams for their children's education and aspirations. I also talked with teens about their experience of school and their aspirations. I was a generalist and was required to know the current trends and literature about the PK-12 educational process, special education, school choice, art and music education, recess and school lunch politics, PTA/PTO organizing, the college prep process, etc.
• Prior to this job I worked for nearly four years for a nonprofit that helped people of tremendous wealth come to terms with their financial circumstances. Many of these people were parents who sought to find ways to help their children have balanced and generous lives because of their circumstances. In my work I listened to them and directed them to resources to help them realize this dream.
• And now? Now I work for a nonprofit that helps parents of young children develop, practice and maintain habits of reading together as part of healthy individual and family development.
• I am an auntie to six little people on my side, and six on BMG's side - now ages two through 16. I've observed five siblings and their five partners parent twelve children. I've listened to each one work their way through the "disposable versus cloth" diaper debate, home school versus public versus independent debate, you name it, I've heard it. 
• I also offer my own unique and supportive relationship to each of my nieces and nephews, as well as (although to a lesser extent) the children of my friends.

My point? I know a shit ton about kids, families and parenting. I don't know any of this from the experience of being a parent, but it doesn't make my knowledge and opinions any less valid.

And, because I don't have kids, it is highly likely I have more time. Time to read your questions and thoughtfully respond.

And, because you are my friend and you have kids, I understand that much of you life centers around your children and your ever evolving role as a parent. Being excluded when you pose your Facebook questions just to other parents doesn't inspire me to learn more about the person you are as a parent.

So, when people direct Facebook questions about their parenting journeys exclusively to parents they are discounting all the experience people like me - who aren't parents - can bring to question with which they are grappling.

Dear friends. Keep asking questions. And please don't exclude me. I want to be involved in your life and I just may have a perspective that helps.

The Great Pumpkin Part 5: Gay pumpkins and droughts

My giant pumpkins were all gay (not that there is anything wrong with that). And a drought has killed them all. While I grew better, stronger pumpkins than I did the previous year, I now have only three yellowed plants with anemic squash flowers on them to show for my Giant Pumpkin Experiment.

It was obvious to me on Independence Day that there would be no giant pumpkins at The Tiny Bungalow when I had no fruit starting to mature on the vine. The book said that I should have one fruit that I was starting to bet on by this time. Scurrying, I did some background reading on hand pollination and realized, to my dismay, that I had no female flowers on any of the six plants stretched out across the backyard. The male flowers were crawling with bugs, confirming that the lack of a tiny giant pumpkin on any of the vines was not a problem of insect inactivity. So I began checking obsessively and daily at dawn and dusk - when the shy female flowers are more likely to be open - in the hopes that a female flower would emerge that the bugs would fertilize once, and I would follow up with the double fertilization by hand.

But nothing. I began to think that my pumpkins were gay.

Then our swank suburb by the ocean entered into a state of water emergency, restricting to the use of hand operated sprinklers (or hoses in everyday parlance) every other day. Irrationally I began to worry that the reason the pumpkins were producing no female flowers was because they didn't have enough water and this was going to cement the fact that I'd be carving watermelons at Halloween instead of a carriage sized pumpkin. In my mind I had made my pumpkins gay by withholding water from them.

Now, home from vacation, three weeks after the initial realization that there would be no giant pumpkins this year, I have given up hope for the three shriveled up plant mounds. My pumpkins, in defiance of the word of God, have literally not been fruitful, nor have they multiplied. They have remained a joyful handful of male flowers on increasingly yellowed pumpkin vines.

I am now putting all of my pumpkin eggs into the watermelon basket. This morning I fertilized the watermelon vines, which proudly boast at least eight of the tiniest and most perfect miniature melons I have ever seen. I hope to have watermelon to give away to my family and friends by the end of August. And one I will keep to carve as a jack-o-lantern for Halloween.

Over the winter I'll read more about giant pumpkins and try to figure out how to make year #3 even better than years #2 and #1. I will not give up until I have a giant pumpkin to call my own.

*****

In other garden news, I've discovered, in this year of gardening at The Tiny Bungalow, that one side of the garden gets TONS of sun. The plants growing there are going bananas - I have cherry tomatoes entwined with zucchini which have locked leaves with peppers, cucumbers and cauliflower. I am practically drowning in zucchini, and the cherry tomatoes will need to be picked daily to keep up with their gorgeous, jewel like selves. On another side of the garden the zucchini plants from the same six-pack are tiny and have yet to produce one dark green, squashy bat.

In the spirit of learning I know (a)where to put tomatoes versus brussel sprouts and cauliflower, (b) I need to find better strategies for fencing off the garden from rabbits but NOT from me, and (c) my charge for the Winter is to find organic ways to keep the invisible bugs from eating all of my cabbage-like plants. I also need to make more space for the sun loving veggies and to give each plant wide enough berth to do their enormous veggie-making thang.

I'll be solo for the next two weeks, while BMG is in New Orleans on assignment. This means lots of vegetables will be cooked and enjoyed for lunch and dinner. Give a holler if you want to visit for a garden fresh meal.

Patriotic Thaw

Create your own country? Who thinks they can create their own country? I don't have the kind of hubris or creativity that would let me consider seriously the idea of throwing in the towel in my native land and just starting my own republic.

This Independence Day I've been thinking much more gratefully about the events that led the European settlers to travel across an ocean to begin the process of starting the nation that is, for better or worse, my home country.

Like a good progressive Democrat, with a dash of hippie thrown in, I've spent much of my adulthood feeling more ashamed than proud of being an American. What contributes to this shame? The perception that we're the bullies on the international playground, we consume more than our share of the world's resources, we are xenophobes who don't respect differences among people, and we hoard more wealth than people of other nationalities. This ethos of shame has only been cemented by experiences like the time, during the presidency of the second Mr. Bush, a cranky European yelled at me for being a loud American while I was traveling on a French train.

I've been surprised, in the lead up to this Independence Day weekend, by feelings of patriotism popping up at unexpected times. Observing homeless vets begging for spare change from passers-by in downtown Boston, cruising past Adams National Park in nearby Quincy, MA on my to and from work, looking at the rather unimpressive Plymouth Rock on a weekend excursion, watching fireworks while mindlessly humming the lyrics to the "Star Spangled Banner," and stopping to watch local firemen hang a large American flag across an intersection the night before the big parade. In these and other activities what I'm feeling is a sense of timeless and single-minded hopefulness, expansive possibility, and chutzpah. The strength of character or depth of pain one needs to feel to travel by ship across an ocean, or by wagon across a prairie, to settle a new land inspires me. I yearn for the intellectual excitement and repartee of writing a brand new national constitution, one that could become the model for many young republics follow. I want to create something brand new that makes a positive difference in my life, and the lives of the people who come after me.

I am certain this patriotism is partly inspired by the work of President Barack Obama. I'm not a Pollyanna however, I work for a local government and I know firsthand our system of government has flaws. That's because our nation, like all nations, is run by human beings. I'm sure the Iroquois chieftains fought amongst themselves, and Mayan peoples engaged in nation building and underhanded political acts for their personal benefit. (Europeans wiped out many native peoples as the Americas were colonized, which is crappy. But said native peoples weren't any better than we are.)

What I do know, this July 4, 2010, is that the values and experiences - the hope, the possibility, the hardship - that have shaped this nation have different meaning to me today. When I look at our flag, with its 50 stars and 13 red and white stripes, I feel an appreciation for the chutzpah it takes to declare independence from a nation or set of ideals, and for the on-going struggle to sustain and adapt these new ideals in an evolving culture. With my eyes wide open to the realities of our nation's flaws and strengths, today I feel proud to be an American.

The Great Pumpkin Part 3: In the ground

I planted nine giant pumpkin plants last weekend. It may have been too soon to put them outside without a protective shelter, but I was afraid the tiny root balls were rotting. Why you ask?


About three weeks earlier I had repotted the seedlings into a larger pot temporarily because I was concerned the baby pumpkin plants had leached all of the nutrients from their seedling pots. And the larger pot, stolen from a gorgeous and coincidentally orange begonia, had bad drainage and the pumpkins were swimming in a slurry of enriched potting mix, Neptune's Harvest All-Natural Organic Fertilizer, and two weeks worth of water that hadn't been absorbed by the atmosphere of my home.

So, after working 30 quarts of cow manure into the freshly tilled soil, I transplanted the pumpkins outdoors. The plus side of the plants swimming in slurry was that they weren't root-bound. I smoothly eased each of the three clumps of pumpkins out of the pot they shared, dropped them into three freshly dug holes, and then scattered the soil slurry around the base of each freshly housed seedlings.

We've had two chilly nights, one rain storm, and several beautiful, temperate days. I've hand watered the plants twice.

I've examined the seedlings at length today. It appears as if one grouping is doing better than the other two. This group - made up of three plants - has fewer dried out leaves, more budding leaves/stalks out of the center of the plants, and was standing just a little taller.

I planted four watermelon plants nearby just to cover my bases in case none of the pumpkins survive.

#3 or "If I knew then what I know now"

CAUTION: This is a scatological - and mildly humorous - blog post. If poop stories aren't your thing then feel free to stop reading here.

*****

I recently headed into the bathroom at my sister's house, immediately after one of her kids exited the room.

As I turned the door handle I received the following warning. "Aunt Clownface, I wouldn't go in there right away. I just did some #2 and #3."

"#3? What is #3?" I asked.

"Diarrhea. You know, #1 and #2 mixed together."

Deep breath. "Uh, diarrhea isn't #1 and #2 mixed together." Then I explained what diarrhea is.

Affronted the child responded, "THAT'S what diarrhea is? How come no one ever told me?"

*****

One of my sisters used to carry a very tiny chip on her shoulder that our mom never "taught her that she needed to rinse conditioner out of her hair." My mom claims that she didn't want to point out my sister's greasy hair (which was made so by the unrinsed hair conditioner coating it) for fear of making her feel bad about what my mom thought was an unfortunate, temporary and unavoidable aspect of puberty.

Hearing my niece complain about never having been told what diarrhea is made up of reminds me that you can never predict what your child "needs" to know in order to live a fully informed life.

Good luck parents.

Say Yes to the Dress

"I am not getting a wedding dress. Instead I want a wedding bathing suit." So starts my niece, CMR, in reply to my mother who asked her if all of the women in her life could go with her to Kleinfeld's to pick out her wedding dress when she is ready to be married in 30 years or so.

To understand the genesis of this line of questioning posed to a 9-year old, one must go back in time 12 hours earlier to the Kohl's in Fayetteville, NY.

With CMR in the backseat, I was driving to my sister's house in rural NY to spend the night when I realized I had left my pajamas at my mother's house, now 15 miles away. I knew a pants-free sofa bed night with my other niece, the Divine Miss M, was unacceptable. So I told CMR we'd need to take a few minutes to stop so I could buy some pajama pants. So, at 8:47 PM we roll into the Kohl's parking lot and head in to buy a cheap pair of jammie pants.

After finding an acceptably soft pair of sleeping pants for under $15 we we were headed to the registers to check out when CMR was distracted by girlie dresses. This itself was odd. CMR is generally not a girlie girl. She makes fart noises in her armpits, wishes they dissected more things - really anything - at school, and claims she'd rather be friends with the kids everyone else calls 'nerds'. So the in-store detour from women's pajamas to party dresses for 'tweens was a surprise. I decided to roll with it (a) because there was nothing we HAD to be home for, and (b) I wanted to see what happened.

After 4 minutes of frenetic browsing she had two dresses over her shoulder - a flowy pink number with sequined flowers under the bodice, and a polyester white dress with an asymmetrical hem and lots of ruching. She turned to me and said, "Now can we try them on?"

"You want to try them on?" I replied, somewhat disbelieving. I've never known CMR to enjoy shopping for clothes, and she especially hates the trying on part.

"YES!" and she made a beeline for the dressing room. Aunt Clownface gamely followed, wondering what amazing thing would happen next.

She chattered with me like I was her best girlfriend as she slipped into the first dress. She curtsied, twirled, and primped in the mirror. But it wasn't the right dress - too big.

Next came the white dress, a polyester number with black straps and a built-in bolero jacket. The white dress transformed this tomboyish 9-year old, who entered the dressing room in faded lack yoga pants, kiddie-sized barn "muck boots," and a fleece jacket over a purple t-shirt with sequin butterflies on it.

She ogled herself in the mirror, gushed about how pretty she felt, and was inspired to play an extended air guitar set in the dress which ended with an impressive split.

She begged me to buy the dress for her.

We hadn't planned to stop at Kohl's, nor had we planned to buy a party dress. In fact, CMR has no parties on her size 8 agenda. But she loved the dress, and, more importantly, she loved herself in the dress. So we made a spit shake deal - she'd pay me half the cost ($22.40 marked down from $56) AND if her parents said "no" she'd have to return the dress.

All the way home, she said repeatedly "I hope they say yes to the dress! I hope they say yes to the dress! I hope they say yes to the dress."

We arrived home by 9:25 PM and CMR immediately asked if she could try on the dress for her parents. While she changed, under the supervision of her 6-year old sister, I explained the conditions of the spit shake to her mom and dad, and told them the story of the unexpected shopping trip.

Then, with a drum roll played out on my thighs, CMR was introduced to her parents in her fancy party dress. It was impossible to ignore her excitement, and they "said yes to the dress."

She wore the dress to mother's day brunch the next day. Everyone oohed and ahhed over CMR's fancy dress. Together, she and I relayed the story of the dress adventure to the gathered crowd. When we got to the part where CMR was praying her parents would "say yes to the dress," my mother interrupted and said, "CMR, when you get married, will you let EVERYONE come to Kleinfeld's with you to pick out your wedding dress?"

My sister smirked and said, "CMR doesn't want a wedding dress when she gets married. She has other plans. CMR, why don't you tell them your plans?"

"Well, I am not going to wear a wedding dress. I'm going to wear a wedding bathing suit."

All of the adults in the room cocked their heads quizzically.

"Go on CMR, tell them why," prodded her mother.

"Well, instead of having a wedding aisle, I'm going to have a Slip n- Slide. In my wedding bathing suit I'm going to SLIDE down the aisle, pop into my husband's arms, and then we'll kiss."

The adult heads remained cocked as my sister added, "This plan started out as a wedding via water slide."

"Yeah!" CMR continued enthusiastically. "I was going to go 'whoosh' down the water slide and at the end, in the pool, I would end up in my husband's arms and then we'd kiss and be married. My husband and I will have already built a beautiful house with an in-ground pool and that's where we'll have our party afterwards."

'nuff said.

*****

I loved hearing my niece, who has fully entered the confusing world of pre-teens, chatter on about her ideal wedding plans. I love that she has these dreams, and they are so characteristic of a nine-year old mentality. I've never had wedding dreams that I remember and listened to her with the curiosity of a loving anthropologist. I loved being a catalyst in the chain of events that triggered her plans being revealed to her family, and being part of the circle that gave her a dress that made her feel so special.

Being an aunt is great.

Princess MCKTP

My niece MCKTP is a six years old. She has a wide smile, shy talent, and refreshing curiosity and honesty about the world. She is also adopted, living with two (and White) dedicated moms, and is African American. My sister, one of her parents, is committed to raising a daughter who is confident, smart, and loves how she looks. Her home has a healthy dose of Black Barbie, stories featuring Black characters in positive and healthy roles, and art depicting African Americans in ordinary and appropriate scenes.

For whatever reason - maybe living in a predominantly Caucasian family in a mostly Caucasian neighborhood, and being raised in a culture where books, toys and TV shows featuring African Americans and other racial and ethnic minorities in supporting roles far more than in lead roles - MCKTP has expressed a kind of dislike for African Americans for most of her little life. "I must make made choices because all Brown people make bad choices," she declared conclusively to her parents one day. She distastefully pushed the African American American Girl Doll away when she received it for her birthday a few months ago, and she adores her blonde haired, blue eyed cousins.

On a recent visit to see my family my sister and the Divine Miss MCKTP were enjoying hot cocoa and conversation at a local bookstore. I was chatting with the little princess about the new Disney Princess, Tiana.
"Is she beautiful?" I asked.
"Yes, Auntie Clownface" she replied assertively, squirming in her seat as she absent-mindedly sipped her cocoa.
"What does she look like?" I prompted her. "You know I haven't seen the movie yet."
"Well she has a sparkly green dress, and..." MCKTP stopped in mid-sentence as a light bulb started to glow brightly over her braided head, "Hey, she looks like me! Does that mean I can be beautiful too?!"
I looked at my sister, who was grinning from ear to ear, fighting back tears of joy and relief. "Of course you can be beautiful too! You ARE beautiful MCKTP!"

*****

I'm smart with an overly developed empathic gene. I've read Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye several times, and the film version of The Color Purple brings me to heart shaking tears. It wasn't, however, until this brief conversation with my niece that I really understood the pervasive power of popular culture, no, of American culture in general, on African American identity. This beautiful girl who is only 6 years old and surrounded by a family who has loved her since birth, listened carefully to social cues and came to the misguided conclusion that she was ugly and bad. And something as seemingly simple as one movie, one schlocky Disney movie, helped my niece reach the tipping point in her articulation of her beauty.

An imaginary conversation with my dying self

An old acquaintance whom I respect mightily recently included me on a mass email inviting her friends to think about their "bucket list." She didn't use that made for Hollywood phrase, but instead couched the invitation within the context of dying without regrets.

So, I imagined myself lying at home in cozy jammies with a glass of wine at my side, knowing that my life is shortly ending. "What," I thought, "DON'T I want to hear pass through my brain or my heart at this time?" I don't want to say,
"I wish I had hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro,"
"I'm sorry I never made it to Hawaii or the Caribbean,"
"I don't know why I never bought a house,"
"I wish I had taken each of the kids - nieces and nephews - on a special trip,"
"I would have liked to have lived in New York City, even for a short period of time,"
"I could kick myself for never having tried to live in Paris or somewhere else overseas."

If I listen just a little more closely, I might hear the following:
"I'm sorry I didn't have a bigger wedding,"
"It would have been cool to work for the National Park Service,"
"Not going into the Peace Corps when I had the chance was mistake I'll never forget,"
"I regret I didn't give more to ease the ache in my heart over homelessness,"
"It would have been fun to enter a giant pumpkin - or something - into a county fair,"
"Why didn't I apply myself more as a biker (or a kayaker or a hiker or a xc skiier)?"
"I wish I had seen my daddy one more time."

These are some of the imaginary conversations I'm having with my imaginary, dying self. The timing couldn't be more perfect as I prepare to start the second 40 years of my life. Turning 40, for me, means embracing my adult decisions, lifestyle, attitudes and values with confidence and enthusiasm and purpose. As I head into the final six months of my thirties, I will ask my real self, "How do I prevent as many of these imaginary conversations from happening in real life?"

Are you willing to have imaginary conversations with your dying self? What would might they sound like?

"Do you ever miss Santa"

My nine year-old niece asked me this earlier today when I was telling her that I was at the mall to buy my brother a gift for his Christmas stocking.

"Wait a minute!" she declared after half a beat. "Why are YOU filling Uncle TK's stocking. Doesn't Santa do that?"
"Santa only fills the stockings of kids. He has his hands pretty full taking care of children all over the world, so at a certain age he stops giving people presents."
"How old were you when Santa stopped bringing you presents?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"Twenty-one or twenty-two," I swiftly replied. (I hope Santa reads this so he knows how long he is on the hook with the present giving.)
"Do you ever miss Santa?" she asked, in an even quieter voice.

Of course I miss Santa! I'm also grateful that the spirit of gratitude, surprise, and fulfillment can be experienced through buying gifts for my family, populating my online registry with things I've found online, and quietly contemplating Christmas lights that bathe the front of my home, the homes of neighbors, town centers, and many businesses.

Where do you find the spirit of the season - whether you observe Christmas or Hanukkah, Kwaanza, Solstice, or New Year?

Reflections on turning 40

"Hyperopic (far sighted children) are able to pull things into focus which is how they manage without glasses..."

My ability to pull things into focus sans spectacles has come to an abrupt end in the last week or so. Seriously. As a far-sighted person I've often bragged about my ability to compensate sans spectacles for the 33 years I've been a four-eyed girl. My glasses are more often found perched atop my head acting as a hair styling aid than an eye sight aid.

Until this week. Now if my glasses are off for more than 10 minutes during my waking hours I find myself with an excruciating headache which nearly incapacitates my ability to find said glasses. So, with all of my 39 year-old wisdom, I've come to realize that the glasses cannot come off. Not without painful consequences.

This makes me feel old. Well, older anyway.

I'll be marking the end of my 40th year on this planet in eight months, in June 2010. With this important milestone circulating in my subconsciousness I've been finding myself reflecting on other milestones not reached, items on my personal "Bucket List," and stages I've burned through in my adulthood.

How did you mark your 40th birthday? I've thought about planning to jump out of a plane (too fleeting?), whitewater rafting down the Grand Canyon (too expensive and time consuming), trekking to Mount Kilimanjaro (too expensive and time consuming but maybe worth it), or having a giant party (too narcissistic). Nothing feels quite right yet.

I've been pushing BMG on the topic of marriage lately. On Friday night, while driving home from a favorite Boston restaurant, I said to him "I don't want to die at age 85 having never been married. And if it isn't going to be you, then I need think about the point at which it will be too late for me to find someone I love enough to want to be married to." I also want to own a home, to feel like I've accomplished something significant in my life, and to be the kind of aunt my nieces and nephews regard as super cool and interesting. I want to be less hung up about my body, the loss of my father to divorce, being as impressive as Nelson Mandela or Forrest Church.

I'm not afraid of turning 40. If there IS a party I won't buy the stereotypical "Over the Hill" vulture and tombstone party favors. What it feels like is a time of reckoning, a time of transition as I get serious about and settled into this life, as I celebrate both my choices and the paths I have yet to take on this journey called living. I expect to embrace my 40th birthday, even if I don't feel fully ready.

I have eight months to keep my eye glasses on and pull my life into focus in time to celebrate turning 40. I look forward to sharing it with you.

Generation Google

There is some confusion about the generational name of children born in the 2000s. I've seen "Generation Y", "Echo Boomers", and the "Millenials". My favorite so far is "Generation Google". Let me tell you why.

My sister and her two kids, CMR and The Divine Miss M, were visiting just last week. As the five-year old "M" walked into the tiny bungalow I share with BMG she spied an olde tyme typewriter in our entry hall. You know what they look like:
What do you imagine The Divine Miss M said when her eyes lit upon this piece of nostalgic office equipment? That's right. She said, "What's that Aunt Clownface?"

She had never before seen a typewriter. NEVER BEFORE SEEN A TYPEWRITER! I typed my college applications on a typewriter only 20 years ago. Boy did I feel old.

But it got worse. A few moments later I grabbed my keys on the way out the door with the kids en route to a nearby playground. The Divine Miss M noticed my key chain.
"Why do you have a 'g' on your keychain?" she asked of her aunt (whose name actually begins with the letter 'g').

"Good question. Why do you think I have a 'g' on my keychain?"

"Hmmm." She thought. "Is it because you love to Google?"

Generation Google. I rest my case.

Tonsillectomy

By the end of tomorrow, both my nephew, NWTP, and my niece, MAR, will have gone under the knife to have their tiny tonsils removed. NWTP was well enough the day after surgery to crave toast, and MAR is exuberant at the notion that she can "eat all the popsicles I want and then SOME MORE!" I have strong olfactory memories of Hawaiian Punch, so strong that the smell of it even now transports me back to Upstate Medical Center, the teaching hospital affiliated with the state medical school. On the phone tonight my mom said, "I hope she comes through this better than you did." "What happened to me?" I asked. And then my mom told me the story of the blood clot at the surgery site rupturing while I was in recovery, which resulted in my appearing to vomit blood uncontrollably. I was rushed back up to surgery to have the incision cauterized a second time. Suddenly my older sister's story of being so afraid that I was going to die that she walked tens of miles from our home to the hospital (in the snow, uphill both ways) to visit me because my parents wouldn't (couldn't?) bring her. I know the surgery was preceded by three hospitalizations for severe infections accompanied by 105 degree fevers and trips to the emergency room. I remember visiting our pediatrician, Dr. Cantor, so often that I became bored with the fish tank and the games and the same old tired books in the waiting room. My tonsils were what young doctors call "a finding" and I distinctly remember medical students being endlessly rotated into my exam room to peer into my throat.

****

It was good to hear stories of my childhood as told by my mom, however briefly. My memories of growing up are, like everyone else in the world, skewed towards a particular worldview. In this case, my world view is undoubtedly affected by my child's understanding of the break-up of my parents' marriage, which was happening at around this time. You know the rap - either the break-up was my fault or I was going to be left alone because both of my parents hated me. I felt comforted hearing my mom talk about rubbing my back as I rested in recovery, and hearing her recollections of being afraid when I was rushed back into surgery. I have a different understanding of my sister's story of walking to the hospital (seriously, like seven miles) in the snow to visit me because she was so afraid I was going to die. (Or maybe she thought mom and dad were fighting so much that they couldn't possibly be paying attention to me?) Regardless, I understand that place of sisterly caring just a little differently tonight. And I'm grateful.

Dream Aunt

The week before my oldest niece, CMR, started Kindergarten I took her out for "Special Aunt Clownface/CMR Day." I took her for her first mani/pedi (she had her nails painted blue with daisies painted on them), we went to lunch (Friendlys), then we went to a nearby state park and played chase (her idea), and wrapped up with a trip to the craft store where she picked a new craft kit that we did together.

She is now 8 and deep into the second grade and we haven't had another "Special Aunt Clownface/CMR Day" since. Until this week. When I pull her out of school on Friday. We set our agenda by phone today.

Step one: Have breakfast with Gammie (that's grandma to the rest of the world).
Step two: Go have our nails done (this went over VERY VERY big two years ago).
Step three: Go to Syracuse's Everson Museum of Art to see the Central New York Scholastic Art Fair Exhibit, which goes up on Friday.
Step four: Go out to lunch.
Step five: Make art together at Gammie's house or her cousin's house or her own house - if we feel so inspired.

I suggested the museum to CMR's mom by email, who then asked the wee one if she was interested (she apparently recently read a book about a little girl who goes to an art museum independent of this plan being hatched). When I told CMR I wanted to take her to the museum to see art made by teenagers from her town I could hear her eyes pop out of her head. She said to me "Do you mean someday I could have art hanging in a museum?" "Yes Little Bear, someday YOU could have art hanging in a museum. Let's go see what kind of art is good enough to hang in a museum!"

I feel like a great aunt because I get to help CMR have a unique experience that will open windows and doors to her imagination and stoke her aspirations.

I have six nieces and nephews. CMR is the first so she gets to have these types of experiences before anyone else in the passel of little people who are being raised by my sisters. I hope I can sustain this type of effort for each of them, so they can come to know how fantastic they are as individuals - and I can feel as if I've had a little role in helping them unfold themselves into this world.