The Men

I was driving along a country road, several years ago.  I happened on a possum, half run-over in the middle of the road.  The possum was struggling, trying to get up but it was clear that simply was never going to happen.  I pulled over, stepped out of the car and cried.  Sure that the little thing was eyeing me, begging me for help, I felt useless.  Along came a fellow who also pulled over to the side of the road.  He pulled a bat out of the back of his truck and slowly approached the dying possum.  He looked at me, cool  and expressionless and I knew he was going to put an end to it. Mechanically, and without hesitation he did just that.  And I was very grateful as I could not have. It was the right thing to do.

The men in my family are made of different stuff.  When I found a Facebook page years ago targeting a classmate of my sons' I told Griff about it. I told him that I saw posts from several of his friends, boys and girls, who wrote mean things about the boy.  Griffin cried. He has always been a defender and a protector...not uncommon when your brother has a chronic illness. And Cesare...he is a sweet and soft spoken young man.   

When my dad last visited from Florida I thought I'd impress my family by stopping by the seafood market and picking out the biggest lobster they had.  It was roughly the size of a Fiat.   When I brought it home , dad and my family appropriately oohed and ahhed over the yummy specimen until it became clear to us that we did not have a pot big enough to do the quick boiling dunk one does with a live lobster.  Truthfully, no one on earth could have had a pot big enough for this monster.  The fate of our shellfish was clear: someone was going to have to hack it in half, while it was still very much alive.  Now, my dad is a practicing Buddhist.  And while he's happy to eat a living thing once it has met it's demise, he is adamant that he does not want to be a killer.  But as we all sprinted out of the kitchen, me doing that hand over the ears, shrieking thing, he valiantly deposited half the lobster in one pot of boiling water, and half in another.  He looked ashen when he retired from the debauchery and joined us in the living room.  Dad said he would never do that again.  No one witnessed the scene, but I can tell you it required a shot or two of whiskey to put it in the past.

To see our loving golden retrievers pelt my husband with paws and stuffed animals of all sorts when he comes down to the kitchen each morning is a sweet thing.  He has his routine, making tea for me and for him, coffee for Griff and whatever will get Cesare out of bed.  But the dog routine is priceless.  They adore him.  They trust him.  He is steady and calm and loving.  Walden will bring as many stuffed animals as he can mouth to the Tom alter:

These are the sensitive and kind men I am privileged to spend my life with.  There is a place for the putting-a-possum-out-of-misery-kind-of-fellow, but I am glad there is a space in the world for men who might tremble at the thought of killing a possum, or a lobster.  

I'm thankful for a more diverse portrait of what a man is.  I'm grateful my boys are not completely restricted by a one dimensional idea of who they should be, how they should think and act.  

I know this is a silly representation and presented rather melodramatically, but nevertheless a touching example of the growing diversity allowed men in a culture where the stereotype of the tough, emotionless, heterosexual, predator still dominates.  CLICK

Almost there...

After thirteen years of school...three days left.  We're happy.

Click

Winners

I started the day today composing a letter in my head to my sons’ school district.  I was fuming this morning; I don’t know what touched it off.  In reference to our town newspaper that profiles a senior student each week, I wanted to tell the district who feed the articles to the paper that they need to put their student profiles where their mouths are: have the profiles reflect their stated dedication to diversity and inclusion. I wanted to demand that they understand that disabilities are part of diversity; it’s not just about race and ethnicity.  While I would thank the district for the excellent education my sons have received, I wanted to tell them it is an isolating experience for parents of differently abled children to read the  accolades of their neuro-typical peers, week after week.  The accomplishments that are universally deemed wins:  state athletic records, extraordinary service in India, leadership in the school, etc.  I wanted to remind them that a senior with autism that can navigate the halls is a winner, and a student with bi-polar disorder who gets out of bed every day is a champ.  That Cesare, who has actually made it to the finish line and will be granted a diploma, did so after surviving multiple brain surgeries and the extraction of an entire lobe of his brain; that’s a win. 

I wanted to say all of those things.  But then I arrived at my job at the Alternative School and got swept up in the bustle of graduation day there.  We awarded certificates of completion to twenty one students today.  They blew my mind.  They do every year.  One student, who is 18 and pregnant with twins, has battled chronic mental illness to get to this day.  Jewel high-fived our very gifted principal on her way to the podium.  Once settled there, Jewel boomed into the microphone, “I have a question for all of you out there.  Can you see me?”  “YES!” we answered.  She paused and said, “Good…because I’ve only seen myself standing here in my dreams”.   It went on like that most of the morning.  Kids who bounced around foster homes, jail cells, drug treatment facilities, and beds. Our students with Aspergers spoke about finding their way out of their shells, and feeling loved at school.  These are our square pegs who have never fit nicely into the round holes offered them by their school districts.  They fist pumped and cried.  And we cried too. 

Our kids come from nine neighboring school districts.  Often reps from the districts, social workers, probation officers and therapists join us in this graduation celebration.   I noticed a woman in the audience whom I knew had taken a leave of absence from her job as an adolescent therapist and had just recently returned.  I didn't know that it was because her high school aged daughter went on a hike with friends, four years ago, and slipped off the edge of a cliff.  I don’t know how anyone survives the death of a child.  But the mere presence of this therapist/mom at the celebration of other parents’ children was nothing short of an extraordinary gesture of generosity and courage.  

Any rambling letter half composed on my morning commute was quickly forgotten.  I felt tremendously fortunate for all that I have.  And I know that there are places and people in the world who celebrate the successes not always seen by the naked eye.  It takes a special perspective and an open heart and mind to see these wins. 

Pushing, Pulling and Running Away

Mere days to go before my twin young men are high school graduates.  Days.  And how is that going?  I am pushing, pulling, cajoling, threatening and bargaining with them both to complete their last assignments and, for Griffin, to finish in the black.  My sweet, talented, smart young man is dragging his heels.  And I am turning gray(er).    

In spite of this, or perhaps as a result of this, I spent a sunny, slow paced weekend in Washington D.C.  I traveled down to meet a long time friend. The two of us moms were on the lamb, having run away from home and parenting.  Note my selfie:

I hope the fact that I look like I'm in jail in no way detracts from the theme of this post.

When I get together with friends, we talk about what we are reading, how we are feeling and maybe the world in general.  But our identity as moms is front and center.  Parenting and our angst about our children is the universal bond among women with kids.   

I broke away for the weekend with no guilt.  I know better.  I need to get a break, I deserve a break and I crave the silence.  Do you know I had not been to a museum in 17 years without worrying if Cesare would get lost? Speeding through at a children-in-tow pace?  This visit I languished at the Andrew Wyeth exhibit.  I strolled through the streets and sat for a spell to listen to a young Mexican man, built like a linebacker, who played the most sorrowful cello.  Never quite content with being quite content I started to think about what it would be like in a few months when Griffin is at college.  While I am pushing and pulling Griff through to the finish line it does not escape me that these very actions are ushering him out the door.  Off to college. Away from me, away from our quartet.  I suspect that the quiet, the strolling, the slower pace may become the rule, not the exception.  

I don't know if Cesare's worst years, medically, are behind him.  But, funny thing about living a life of crises, medical emergencies and contingency plans:  I don't really know how to do anything else. I will learn to embrace the comparative quiet and the blessing of time on my hands.  I won't have to go on the lamb to find respite.  But I'll make time to run away anyway.  Now and then.