I Still Have the Shoes

April 19, 1995 was a beautiful Oklahoma spring day, sunny, blue skies, lovely.  I had on one of my favorite dresses, so I was smiling a little bit more than usual that day.  I had been at work for about an hour and a half when it happened.  At first we thought it was an accident.  The possibility that a person opened this door to hell didn’t even occur as a possibility.  The questions started when that realization started to crack open our minds to the fact that a person caused it:  Why?  There was a daycare there.  Who would kill kids? Why?  These things happen in other parts of the world, not here.  Then we thought about the people we knew.   In those days before cell phones were common, most of us ran for a landline and spent frantic minutes trying to track down loved ones, praying none of them had business in that part of the city that day. 

I remember the helplessness as they asked people to stay away from the site.  They didn’t know if there were other bombs and the site was so dangerous that they couldn’t use the help we could offer.  Oklahomans don’t stand by.  Watching passively as someone else faces down a horror is not what we do.  We defend.  We help.  We pitch in and take care of our own and other people’s, too.  But we couldn’t follow our instincts, so we watched and we prayed.   

As the day went on and the search and rescue began, the sun disappeared and the rain started. All I could think about was survivors trapped, terrified and injured, and now cold and wet.  But emotionally the rain somehow felt right.  It felt like we all unintentionally willed it to happen, like Nature responded to what we were all feeling.

The one thing I could think to do was give blood.  When I got to the Red Cross nearest to my home in Tulsa, I had to park about half a mile away because there were so many cars.  The shoes I had on were a little fancy and definitely not made for walking in the rain.  When I finally got in the building, I remember how quiet it was.  I had donated there before and it was always cheerfully noisy and bustling, but not that day.  It was busier than I’d ever seen it but almost silent.  In the place I could normally donate on a walk-in basis, the next available appointment was two weeks away.

I was lucky.  Some loved ones had some close calls – the meeting in the Murrah Building cancelled at the last minute and other aggravations suddenly recast as life preservers  – but everyone was alright.  Physically alright.    

I’ve long since donated the dress I had on that day, but I still have the shoes.  I am an “out with the old” kind of person, donating clothes, tossing and recycling things.  I hate clutter, but I can’t bring myself to give up those shoes.  I guess they help me remember what it was like before, and what it was like after.  I need to remember.  And I do. 

Embracing My Inner Grandma

I am just going to embrace my inner grandma and admit that I am out of step with many cultural trends. So here’s me doing that: What’s up with profanity suddenly being OK in professional publications, network TV and other public realms? My husband and I have both recently read well-regarded professional publications with curse words -- "asshole" and "bullshit," specifically -- in the titles and names of recent network TV shows include S*%$ My Dad Says and Don’t Trust the B___ in Apartment 23. Don’t get me wrong, I have been known to say a curse word on occasion, I love me some First Amendment, and I don’t expect the world to cater to the fact that I have young kids. But...using profanity in these settings doesn’t make shows or books “edgy” or cool; it makes the writers and producers look...well, crass and unimaginative. I think cursing is a personal decision that belongs in private and not in professional settings, on mainstream TV shows, or anywhere near young kids, who can read billboards and hear ads for the shows that are aired during the day. There are many far-worse issues facing kids today, certainly, but this seems so easily preventable. Isn’t there enough crudeness and incivility in the world that I have to explain to those sweet little faces, without having to explain what the “B___” stands for? Can’t we do better than this?

I know what you're thinking. "Teresa, you read the profanely titled books and are thus participating in the problem." Please know that I refused to buy mine (meaning no financial support for the author or publisher) and both books had critical information in them that Rome and I needed to do our work.

 

Now come give your grandma some sugar...and stay off my lawn, you kids!

On Wallpaper

Today was wallpaper removal day in the on-going remodeling saga. Some reflections:

1. This is the most emotionally sadistic of the home improvement projects. You go from elation (a piece peeling off in a large swath, resulting in wild optimism) to despair (said swath ends and the next 4 feet come off in millimeter-sized shards) in a minute.

2. I’m fairly sure the former owner of our house worked for NASA or the Defense Department because obviously some experimental uber-adhesive was used to put up the kitchen border.

3. Profanity and fantasizing about blowing up a wallpaper factory are acceptable means of releasing frustration during this process. My husband says bourbon helps, too.

4. When I finished, I got a flag for excessive celebration but it was totally worth it. What did it look like? Well, let’s just say this guy stole my moves.

The Suwanee Squirrel Standoff

After 20 hours, the Suwanee Squirrel Standoff appears to be over. Or at least the first phase of it is. We first heard the thrashing around and squeaking in the wall late last night. Today, after making four holes -- one in the ceiling, three in the walls -- and cutting some pipes under a sink, a squeaking, wet rodent was freed from our master bath drain pipe. Jerome – sweaty and covered with drywall dust from the sawing -- wasn’t in a forgiving mood and wondered if we had any recipes for squirrel. Apparently Rome had forgotten who my family was: My mom’s second husband was an outdoorsy guy and we actually ate squirrel once, so I’m pretty sure an appropriate recipe is in my mom’s archives somewhere. (And suddenly the reasons for the vegetarianism decision become clear, no doubt. My mom’s fondness for stuffed beef heart for a time in the late 1970s didn’t help, either. It was the meal she made when my sister brought her future husband, Joe, home to meet the family. My mom loved it but the rest of the family was pretty sure she was sending Joe a message about how he was to treat my sister. He was thankfully a persistent young man and was ultimately not deterred by the cardiac cow parts with Stove Top.)

The squirrel is lucky. I have a soft spot for his kind and, after some persuasion, Jerome agreed to set the beast free in some local woods. The squirrel apparently wasn’t too happy about that recipe remark, as Jerome says he growled all the way to the woods and then gave him the (very tiny, furry) finger as he ran away into the Chattahoochee River Greenway. The squirrel was carried in a pillowcase, which gave the whole thing a mob kidnapping feel so maybe that didn’t help matters much.

And now for the aftermath of the Suwanee Squirrel Standoff of 2010. The whole event has revealed that the drain vent on the roof doesn’t have a cap, which would have prevented the mishap to begin with. That means a trip to the roof is in Jerome’s near future, as is yet another trip to Home Depot. Let’s hope that’s not followed by any trips to a local medical professional. The repair process has resulted in a broken water line, and repairs to that will involve taking the double vanity off the wall. It will join the large double mirror which was removed earlier today. We’re about $150 in so far with more to come. We’re rather attached to washing, cooking and flushing, so a hotel stay might be necessary if water isn’t flowing tout suite.

The kids have been greatly entertained by all this, although Ethan does deeply regret giving his treasured small acorn to the squirrel. The little guy (the squirrel, not Ethan) apparently looked in need of a snack while we broke for lunch, so Ethan helped him out. Ethan insists that the acorn is somehow distinct from the other 10 billion acorns in our yard and was destined for family heirloom status. He mourns its loss greatly.

We’ve had plans to remodel that bathroom literally since we moved into the house, so the squirrel invasion has kicked that into high gear. The bathroom is damaged enough from this little adventure that the remodel has to happen soon, or we’ll end up paying big bucks to repair a bathroom that we’ll end up trashing soon anyway.

And how was your weekend?

The Health Care Debate Comes to Town, Belatedly

The health care debate has died down quite a bit but I’ve been thinking a lot about it for some time now. To help me sort through the overheated rhetoric on this subject, I tried to educate myself. In the process, I found the Kaiser Family Foundation’s website. It’s a great resource and really helped me see why this issue has been considered in various forms for so many generations.

After reading a good deal, I started to write down my thoughts. I learned a lot of interesting information but the topic is so complex that I found myself writing, and writing and writing as I worked through it. I quickly realized something critical. The facts are certainly very important and have shaped my view, but for me, it all really boils down to Jennifer.

Jennifer was my hairstylist. She was about my age and we had a lot in common. She had a husband and a daughter who was about a year older than my daughter. She loved her family intensely, always smiling and radiating love when she discussed them. I would come in every six weeks or so to get my hair cut and we would exchange the latest adventures in parenting. From the pictures at her station, I knew her daughter looked like her husband, with cute red hair, beautiful blue eyes and fair skin. Jennifer was quiet but funny. She was a great hair stylist, not just because she did good hair but also because knew that sometimes a tired working mother just needs to be quiet and read mindless magazines while she gets her hair done. I got to know her over the years and, while I’m sure she had flaws like the rest of us, she was a good person, kinder than most.

Then one day I came for my appointment and I noticed she was thinner. She was never overweight to me but she said she had gone on a diet and quickly lost a few pounds. She was happy with the outcome. We chatted, she cut my hair and I made my next appointment.

When I came back six weeks later, Jennifer wasn’t there. They told me that she was sick and asked if someone else could cut my hair. I said sure, and didn’t think much of it. Velma, the substitute, told me the real story. Jennifer had kept losing weight after she concluded her diet. She got thinner and thinner and finally went to the doctor when she started having pain and trouble eating. The doctor quickly discovered that Jennifer, at 41, was completely riddled with cancer and there was very little they could for her. She lasted for another few weeks and then died, leaving a completely devastated husband and 3 year old daughter and at least one customer who will never forget her.

Jennifer’s cause of death was cancer but the truth is she died because she didn’t have health insurance. She and her husband both worked full-time, often more than full-time, and neither of their jobs provided health insurance. She apparently had felt off for quite some time – not much energy, etc. – but because her symptoms were not overwhelming and they didn’t have coverage, she didn’t go to the doctor until it was too late. Like most mothers, she was thinking of her family and putting her needs last. She didn’t want to incur the cost of an uninsured doctor’s visit so she waited. She waited and now her daughter has a whole chunk of her life that’s missing. Mom will never show her how to do a ponytail or counsel her through playground heartbreak. No cheering for her on stage or field, no pictures before prom, no excitement of college, no congratulations on a great job, no crying at her wedding or easing her anxiety as she experiences her first pregnancy and birth.

On a very fundamental level, I think this is wrong. Morally wrong. It’s wrong that a family can follow all the rules and still get a death sentence that could have been prevented. Jennifer and her husband both had training that qualified them for jobs needed by our society. They both worked hard, pulling extra shifts and generally making it. And Jennifer died anyway. This isn’t “just one of those things that happen” or a mysterious bad luck scenario that we just have to accept. This happens because so many of our leaders have cared more the next election and those fat checks from the insurance industry than they did about helping actual people, and the life and death problems they face every day.

I also think this is wrong because of my faith. I’m no theologian but my reading of the Bible makes one thing clear: We are to help those who need it, especially those people who have less than us. We are to love others as Christ loves us and demonstrate that love through our actions. It’s hard to imagine Christ being OK with us waging a war of choice and approving tax breaks for millionaires but suddenly finding ourselves broke when the subject of helping people comes up.

So I’m now armed with quite a few facts about the health care debate in America and I can quote those to you if you like. But for me it all comes down to Jennifer. I don’t believe in a government program for every issue but I do believe – to put it in the terms of our former president – that no child should be left behind when a parent dies for lack of insurance coverage. We can quibble about the details and work those out over time but the bottom line is extending health care to all was the right thing to do. I’m just sorry that it didn’t come soon enough for one little girl in Suwanee, GA.

Sleepy Booty

Princess Katie continues her reign. I’m not sure where the interest came from as we haven’t really started reading her fairy tales yet. I think it’s genetic or some sort of collective unconscious thing. She had a princess birthday party theme and princess pajamas and so on. Today we were having our usual bedtime discussion and she wanted us to pretend to be princesses. We played several rounds of the game, which apparently involves assuming a royal identity, making imaginary snacks and juice – my rainbow juice was a hit -- and then changing personas. The game totally fell apart when she told me she wanted to be Sleepy Booty. That’s Sleeping Beauty, if you’re not familiar with the Disney-fied princess pantheon filtered through preschool vernacular. I lost it when she said it and then she and I dissolved in giggles. I’m not sure she knew why we were laughing but she laughs whenever I do, and since her laughter is one of my favorite sounds, I laugh more after she starts and much mother-daughter hilarity ensues. I’m pretty sure a running family joke has been born and I’m fairly certain I’ll yell, “Go Sleepy Booty!” at least once at a future sporting event in which she’s playing.

That sport will likely be soccer, at least at first. She’s into any kind of ball and loves to play soccer, catch, whatever. Every time we drive past a soccer field (which is a lot in the suburbs), she points it out and asks if she can play, so I’m sure the request to be on a team is coming soon. Her skills are not too shabby. She may not bend it like Beckham quite yet but she can header like a pro. I guess those little physical ed classes at school are showing some results.

Katie also talks about ballet, possibly because her friend Morgan takes ballet. Katie will bust a baby move whenever there is music playing anywhere and sometimes to music only she can hear. We definitely encourage this because she does it with such unbridled joy. We're big fans of unbridled joy and the world needs more of it. Sleepy Booty is happy to do her part.

It Takes a Village...or an Advisory Board

We are all grown ups and, as such, we are responsible for our own decisions and their consequences. Hopefully most us have made pretty good choices and, consequently, have a certain amount of confidence in our ability to handle life’s challenges, but we also never stop growing and developing. We are, or should be, nudging the boundaries of our comfort zones and following our curiosity into uncharted lands, even though it can be a bit scary and frustrating to find yourself in those new places. You may not speak the language or have the right money. The denizens don’t get your sense of humor and they wear weird shoes. That border guard frowning at your passport and reaching for his radio can’t be good. It’s hard.

So I think we need some help. Many organizations, notably startup businesses, have a great solution. They need a host of experts to help them navigate tricky situations and to give good advice, so they usually collect these experts into advisory boards to help them. Since our lives are all fraught with so much growth and change -- we are all essentially "startups," so to speak -- I think we all need our own advisory boards.

Some view asking for help as signaling insecurity or weakness, but I think no one is perfect in every area of her life (and anyone who thinks she is probably needs a reality check instead of an advisory board). Seeking advice is about deepening connections with others, and taking something that may already be good to a higher level. I need advisers whose guidance can help me be the best parent I can be for Ethan and Katie -- if you have ideas about how to get Katie to use public bathrooms, please share – and the best wife for Jerome. I would love help wrangling slippery questions about leadership, supervision, working in higher education, being a female administrator, work/life balance, religion and spirituality, politics and citizenship and on and on. I want to do all these things as well as I can and I believe in not reinventing the wheel. I want to benefit from the buckets of wisdom that are all around me, locked in the heads and hearts of my beautiful friends, family and colleagues. And if it helps you to hear what I’ve learned, I’m happy to share it. So, what do you say? Want to be on my advisory board? Here’s a chance to give me advice, so lay it on me, and don’t forget to tell me what I can help you with. I’m listening…