My Aunt Maureen, the Nurse

My aunt Maureen died this weekend. She was a nurse. I remember when she received her nurse's hat. It was white and crisp and we were all called in to see it in its hatbox. We stood around admiring it like we would have if it were a new baby.

I was pretty young at the time, but I remember it clearly. We were proud of Aunt Maureen for being a post-college graduate. Her hat was the symbol of her achievement, determination, her courage and her devotion.

Much later, when I was nineteen, I had surgery for a kidney problem. My Aunt Maureen volunteered to be my private nurse. My parents did not have to fear that I was not well taken care of late at night, or between nursing shifts, because my Aunt Maureen sat with me every night until I was out of the woods. My hospital stay was 21 days. I don't remember exactly how long Aunt Maureen stayed with me, but I remember that her no-nonsense approach and vigilant watch made me feel loved and safe.

Nurses don't wear hats much anymore. They should. Dignity, respect, compassion are all embodied in that hard-earned symbol of achievement. I had an Aunt Maureen who wore one proudly.

Facebook or World-wide Billboard

I am a mother coming to grips with the fact that her two sons have reached their teenaged years and have little or no time for her. Despite this, I feel that I cannot abdicate my position of seeing them to adulthood safely. So I keep abreast of what they are doing by asking questions disinterestedly so that it doesn't seem as though I am prying. I look at the house caller i.d. to see who has been calling them. And I have taken to looking at their facebook pages to learn more about what they are up to. (I realize that many consider this spying and I will tackle that in a later post).

As I was perusing my son's facebook page, I realized that there are many adults who have facebook pages linked to his: one of his junior high school teachers, several cousins and my own two sisters. I was completely nonplussed. There, once I went to her spot, were my sister's children (my own sweet nephews, thank you) in diapers and milk moustaches. As I scrolled down, it became quite clear that despite her youngest being two years of age, my sister was in the depths of postpartum psychosis. What other reason could there be for her to have rap videos on her page, pictures of backyard beer bashes, and an array of pictures of diaper-clad toddlers standing on furniture? Why would she think this was suitable material for the world to see? And what would my parents think? We were raised by the junction that you do not air your dirty laundry in public.

I think facebook is dangerous for kids. There is too much pressure to "one-up" each other and post pictures and comments that are lewd, dangerous or at the least, sophomoric. It is hard enough to be a teenager without adding this to the mix. But I think facebook is downright undignified for adults.

I believe that whatever our public profile is, less is more. It does no one any good to know that at 12:15 pm on July 6th, my sister was having her "first cup of coffee." Nor was it necessary for her to post, on July 19th, that she would need to decompress after seeing her family for the first time in over a year. Some may argue that one person's circumspection is another's repression, but I'll take being discreet over sloppy any day.

I recognize how much fun it can be to get in touch with people you have not seen in a long time. I also get the need, as we reach forty, that we feel we have to justify the kinds of people we have become. Facebook can be a great tool in measured doses. You can show that roommate who drove you nuts that you are doing just fine, thank you. It might also be restorative to show the one who got away that you've recovered from your heartbreak. But to fill people in, constantly, with the minutiae of your day is tedious for those who read it. It also seems a bit narcissistic. Really, is it necessary for people to know that you are watching the Food Network? Again?

A Baby Step...

It has been a long time since I posted anything here. If this blog were a house, there would be squirrels living in the empty rooms. So much has happened, and yet nothing has happened which is probably why I haven't written. It doesn't seem like it is worth it to post if there hasn't been a whole heck of a lot of growth. I have never given myself credit for baby steps, and I really should. If not for the baby steps, I would be nowhere. It is just frustrating that my life is the personification of "same fight, different day." Of all of the cliches that my life has embodied, that one, while not being the saddest or most tragic, is certainly the one that will test my sanity. So here is a baby step back to posting and maybe it will be easier to do now that I have written even this little after all this time.

The Audition

My son has wanted to be an actor ever since the day I took him to see a production-for-children of Peter Pan at the local playhouse. The minute the play was over, while the other kids were probably talking about what they wanted to do for the rest of the day, my son was talking about what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Despite his young age (only 7!) he articulated his feelings perfectly. He said, "I want to do what they did." I thought it was adorable.

Years went by and he was still speaking about becoming an actor. It was not anything that I had planned for him through my pregancy, and his baby years. I can remember rocking him in the wee hours of the morning, whispering softly into the downy hair covering the dimple at the top of his head, "you can be anything you want to be: a doctor, a lawyer, a scientist, the president of the United States." For me, it was clear: he was brilliant, beautiful, and blessed by God. He would do amazing things.

In my defense, I got it half right. He certainly has done amazing things; just not the things that I had envisioned. On Saturday, he amazed me once again. He auditioned for a spot in acting conservatory. They estimated that roughly 600 people would be auditioning. There are fewer than 25 openings. The odds took my breath away. I was a basket case. I was jittery. I could not control my anxiety.

My son was just...well, amazing. He greeted every single person as though he had known them his whole life. He was friendly to the others auditioning, laughing and commiserating with them. I saw him mentally preparing, but not once did I see a doubt creep in. He was ready, he was prepared and I was so proud of him. The consummate professional, he did not allow himself to feel anything until it was over. Then he and another prospective student laughed with each other over their nervous energy.

Now we wait. It is extremely hard for me. I know that my son would be an asset to their conservatory. But the conservatory would offer so much to my son as well. His pursuit of his dream has sometimes made him a misfit. Most boys his age cannot fathom the commitment he has to make to the company when he is involved in a play: every weekend, 15 hour days, time spent learning lines during the week, blocking, choreography, run-throughs. As his mother, even I have had a hard time with it.

Being a part of this conservatory would give my son a place with like-minded people. I pray that they could see what a great fit it would be.

It's October, For Heaven's Sake!!!

I walk to work. It is 16 long avenue blocks in the city and at a brisk clip it takes me twenty minutes. I like the walk, I like the view, and it is the only part of my day that I am not listening to someone, or figuring out what to make for dinner while I'm supposed to be listening.

As I was walking toward work the other day, I realized that it was October already. Having grown up in the big city, October means a lot of things to me: Halloween, pumpkins and apples, the time you finally get to wear all those cool back-to-school sweaters you stocked up on, and it is the month when the landlords start sending up heat to their apartments. This stopped me in my tracks. I had to do some mental calisthenics to make sure I was in my right mind. Yes, it actually is October; yes, it is the time of year when the landlords start sending up heat; and yes, last night I ran my air conditioner. Something is not right about this.

Not only was I not wearing a new sweater, I was guiltily wearing an obviously "spring" outfit that I should have packed away in the spare closet by now. I had actually had the thought, when getting ready for my day, that I hoped no one "in the know" would see me in my floral skirt and linen-like camp shirt so far past Labor Day. But with temperatures still in the eighties, I just could not bring myself to wear something more seasonably appropriate.

Many will say, and they are certainly right, that we should rewrite the fashion laws, among others, to more accurately reflect modern times. But I am a creature of habit. I grew up with certain heuristics, rules of thumb, and I have steadfastly held on to them. And that is why, knowing that I ran my air conditioner in October has been gnawing at me lately.

My friends say that warmer weather all year round will be delightful. No more bitter winds and slush to slog through. It feels wrong. When my older cousins abandoned calling the parents by "Aunt" and "Uncle," I could not. It felt wrong. When my doctor said I could call him "Peter," I could not. It just felt wrong. And I don't care how hot it is or how much I needed to run my air conditioner in October, it just feels wrong.

My Daughter Wants a Doll for her Birthday

My daughter is turning five and has asked for a doll for her birthday. There is nothing unusual in this, I asked for dolls when I was little. As I anticipated the arrival of my beautiful daughter, I dreamed of playing dolls with her, setting them up on pillows and having tea parties together. Unfortunately, the doll she wants is a Bratz doll.

For those who don't know, Bratz dolls are scantily clad dolls with oversized lips which have that annoying line outlining their lipstick, ostensibly from lip liner (apparently Bratz girls don't read the magazines; you are supposed to match your liner to your lipstick). Even the Bratz baby dolls are heavily made up and adorned with jewelry. From the looks of these dolls, I think they would eschew tea parties in favor of the latest fruit laden martini.

I played with a beautiful effanbee baby doll which smelled of powder and had cute baby rosebud lips. She was my baby, my friend. She later shared my affections with Chrissy a doll with a hole in her head so that you could give her long or short hair, depending on your mood, by pulling it out of the hole in her head and then pressing her navel to roll it back inside. When Chrissy's hair got too tangled, I fell in love with my Baby Tender Love, a doll with pores and soft baby-like skin. None of these dolls would have inspired the Police to write Roxanne. Not so with the Bratz dolls.

The Bratz dolls look like juvenile delinquents. Bad news. The kind of girl your mother warned you about, the kind of girl a decent boy would never bring home to his mother. I've told my daughter that we don't approve of Bratz dolls in our family. But she is really too young to tell her why.

She isn't getting her hearts desire for her birthday. And what makes me so angry is that someone must be buying these dolls or they wouldn't continue being sold. There are people who actually think these dolls are appropriate. I don't know what age the dolls are marketed for, but in my opinion they aren't appropriate for ANY age.

Tonight, a mother cries...

Tonight a mother cries. She is the same mother who, on Friday night, continued to have hope that her son would beat his leukemia as he had his cancer. The cancer treatment put the cancer into remission, but caused the leukemia. He would have graduated from high school in June. Tomorrow he will be buried. My heart is broken for this woman I have never met.

I, too, have a son who is a high school senior. Tonight his fresh mouth and snarly attitude made me feel awful. So often, lately, I question why he hates me when all I want is for him to grow up to be a fine man. And I thought of the woman who will never see her son grow into the man he would have become. I cannot fathom her grief, her despair, her limitless faith.

As mothers, we all too often point fingers at each other: she lets her kids drink soda, she lets her kids play violent video games, she doesn't seem to care what grades her children get, she stays at home, she leaves her kids in day care. All of the criticism we level at each other means nothing tonight. A mother is crying because the best person she ever knew, the person she loved best, has died. We feel a pain, but even as we do, we know that it is nothing like hers.

Tonight, a mother cries. And every mother cries with her.