Daily Cup of Jo

It’s an acronym for Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.  I had to remind myself of it yesterday when I crossed paths with people behaving as if the gravitational forces of a full moon had compelled them into lunacy.  (Note: no full moon yesterday, no scientific proof it matters anyway.)

I was tired – too many late nights and subsequent early mornings dealing with unexpected issues and 8am soccer games.  I was angry because people are stupid and, oh yeah, I was tired.  Not hungry, not lonely.  But too much of any one of those four letters – H.A.L.T. – and I’m screwed.  We’re all screwed.  And therefore, I halt.  Stop.  Breathe.  I ask myself, “What’s going on?  Why do I want to burst into tears right now?”

Wednesday, I was taking the dogs for a walk.  A third dog joined us, our friend Lucky (I call him the Luck Man – he and his nickname have no bearing on this story whatsoever).  One of them pooped; I scooped it up with a bag and, this being trash day in the neighborhood, I threw it in the closest black bin out in the street.  Suddenly, a banshee’s voice was heard.  “Really?!  Seriously?!”  A woman in her 60s, brunette, casually dressed for a day at home, came out her front door speaking to me as her big dog barked behind the driveway gate.  I had no idea what she was implying.  “You’re going to throw that in MY trashcan?”  And then I realized she was upset at what I had deposited in the aforementioned black bin.  I was calm.

“It’s a trashcan,” I reminded her calmly.  What is dog poop but trash?

“I can’t believe this!  No, no, no.  Not in my trashcan.  You can’t put that in there,” she told me while her dog continued to bark.

“I’ve been doing this since I got a dog.  I pick it up, I throw it away.  That’s what they’re for.  They’re TRASHCANS,” I said again, as if my emphasis would force her to come to her senses.

“No, take it out,” she ordered me.

“Really?”  I couldn’t believe she was speaking to me as if to a child.  Nothing irritates me more than being treated as if I were one.  And yet, I moved toward the bin.

“Yes, take it out.  Throw it in your own,” she demanded.

When I lifted the lid to reach in, I knew this was absurd.  The sanitation truck was due to arrive any moment and take it all away.  “It’s full, ya know?” I told her.  And then she shook her head, as if in that moment, she realized I was a neighbor she’d see again and that her hysteria was based on thinking I’d tossed a smelly bag into her empty bin to sit there for another week.  I wouldn’t.  I didn’t.

“Oh, it’s full.  Okay, leave it then,” she said and walked back into her house.

Moving on, feeling my face get hot, I pulled Jack’s leash as if it was his fault and watched his tail go between his legs.  Poor guy, living in a human world where, because we’re hungry, angry, lonely, and/or tired, we burst into tears and yank their chains.

Later that afternoon, driving the girls back from somewhere, the car in front of me stopped short in the middle of the block.  I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting them from behind and barely escaped denting their bumper.  Then I watched as the driver of said car gesticulated to their passenger, yelling, ranting, berating.  It was a mother to her child (I could see, I was that close) – a parent who thought it a good idea to deal with her family issues in the middle of the street, me directly behind her unable to go anywhere.  It was weird and I didn’t want to continue watching, so I honked my horn.  No reaction, so I honked again.  The woman flipped me the bird and drove off.  We pulled up ahead to the red light side by side, so naturally, I rolled down my window to essentially ask, “WTF?”  She dismissed me with a wave of her hand while continuing to yell hysterically at her teenage daughter.  Wackadoo.  I felt my face get hot again.

Last night, throwing dinner on the table, it was apparent that I needed more sleep.  Without it, the world would suffer.  Without it, I’m only able to deal with craziness up to a point – and it’s been a peculiar few days.  Without proper sleep, I’m capable of becoming peculiar, and unpleasant, myself.  Same thing happens when my stomach is growling or when I desperately need someone to talk to.  I unravel and it’s hardly gentle.  Without taking care, I’m likely to exhibit behavior I’ll regret, for which I’ll have to apologize.  Ugh.

H.A.L.T.  It’s a twelve-step acronym, useful for everyone to remember.  Don’t be the crazy lady on trash day.  Yell at your kids in the privacy of your own home.

Breathe.  Eat.  Sleep.  Talk to your friends.  (B.E.S.T.)

A ‘Monday motherhood’ post didn’t happen for two reasons: Dad is out of town and soccer can be complicated.  In other words, I’ve been a single parent for the last several days now and sometimes, in club sports, we meet a new kind of ‘crazy’.  I won’t bore you with the details because, well, they’re boring.  And single parents are everywhere, making things work.  Instead, let’s talk about yet another magazine cover, but not one that includes suckling.

President Obama is apparently gay.

Newsweek’s cover this week has him wearing a rainbow-hued halo with the caption “America’s First Gay President”.  Who knew?

But seriously, and you know I’m serious about this issue, I was thrilled when the president decided to share his belief last week that he supports marriage equality for homosexuals.  Those afflicted with the screaming meemies cried ‘political calculation!’ and who could disagree?  Obama is, after all, a politician where everything you say may or may not affect your job security.  But it’s not as if he’s lying.  He does, in fact, support gay marriage.  His interview with Robin Roberts on ABC News laid out his idea that this issue should be handled on a local and state level – I understand his point but respectfully disagree – yet he also shared one of the reasons why he finally ‘came out’ about this now:

“You know, Malia and Sasha, they’ve got friends whose parents are same-sex couples. And I– you know, there have been times where Michelle and I have been sittin’ around the dinner table. And we’ve been talkin’ and– about their friends and their parents. And Malia and Sasha would– it wouldn’t dawn on them that somehow their friends’ parents would be treated differently. It doesn’t make sense to them. And– and frankly– that’s the kind of thing that prompts– a change of perspective. You know, not wanting to somehow explain to your child why somebody should be treated– differently, when it comes to– the eyes of the law.”

I urge everyone to share with every parent they know this excerpt from the interview and to place themselves at a similar dinner table.  I’ve watched my daughters grow up and I’ve seen how this ‘hate’ thing works.  It’s taught to children like so much else.  In other words, when the girls were two and three-years old, their reaction to someone who looked or behaved differently from them was one of curiosity, not disdain.  Not everyone who is against gay marriage is a hateful person; I know that.  Often, it’s a matter of exposure, of perception, of what I believe to be religious ignorance (I give you the infamous “Letter to Dr. Laura”).

Looking at this controversial issue through the eyes of a child, I dare you not to be moved.  This is from Andrew Sullivan’s article that accompanied the Newsweek cover:

“The core gay experience throughout history has been displacement, a sense of belonging and yet not belonging. Gays are born mostly into heterosexual families and discover as they grow up that, for some reason, they will never be able to have a marriage like their parents’ or their siblings’. They know this before they can tell anyone else, even their parents. This sense of subtle alienation—of loving your own family while feeling excluded from it—is something all gay children learn. They sense something inchoate, a separateness from their peers, a subtle estrangement from their families, the first sharp pangs of shame.”

I don’t know if I have a lesbian daughter.  They’re nine, ten, and twelve-years-old.  But thanks to Mr. Sullivan, I’m now aware that if Goldie, Bun Bun, or Miss T ended up wanting a relationship with a girl named Sue rather than a boy named Bill, the husband and I have a responsibility to ensure they know of their continued, loving place in our family.  It would be nice to know the community outside our front door would shoulder another part of that responsibility: to treat each other equally, in fairness, and give no right to one person that is denied to someone else.

Please share this.

(And I’ll share with you a similar post I came across from mommyhoodnextright.com: “Let’s Be Friends/Taught to Hate”)

It’s been a busy few days here in our little family.  I wish I could blame my lack of posts on President Obama – we live two miles from George Clooney – but whom am I kidding?  The closest I got was this morning at the end of our hike, walking by the party rental trucks.  I took photos of the tents and some leftover centerpieces.

No, I was busy this week breastfeeding my three children.

Kidding.  I’m kidding.  I kid.

If you live in a cave, you might not have seen the cover of Time Magazine.  There’s a hot mama on the cover breastfeeding her son who looks old enough to not only pour himself a glass of milk, but to actually milk the cow.  Needless to say, the photo and ensuing article has caused quite a kerfuffle.

It’s all so silly.  It’s not as if this kind of extreme attachment parenting has reached epidemic proportions.  I can’t even remember the last time I saw a woman breastfeeding in public.  The title of the piece “Are You Mom Enough?” is to goad us all into becoming self-flagellating dervishes, ripping out our hair wondering if we’re the best parents we can be.  It’s unkind, really.  As mothers, we already doubt ourselves in those micro moments when we’re not busy making lunches, ironing shirts, correcting homework, emptying the dishwasher, driving to Timbuktu, and wiping proverbial shit off the fan.

You can catch more of what I had to say on this subject tonight on E! News, 7pm, check your local listings.  It’s important that you watch because, really, when have you ever seen me on television?  Since it’s unclear to me at this time how they’ll cut the piece (they’ll hopefully only show my good side), I’ll repeat some of what I said at the studio yesterday:

Nobody has ever once approached me in my minivan – driving the girls around – to be on the cover of their magazine.  If the four of us drove around in a convertible, naked, and the ten-year-old was driving – maybe.  Maybe.  This Time cover was meant to be sensational so you’d buy their magazine, period.  How you feel about attachment parenting is the conversation, but mothers breastfeeding their 4-year-olds and/or chewing food to feed their child – at the end of the day has no bearing on your own family situation.  For the record, I think it’s weird.  I think if a kid can unbutton your blouse, it’s probably time to stop breastfeeding.  Also, the food I chew is the food I swallow – but whatever.

I’m tired.  After the E! taping, I went to the “Battleship” premiere to hang out with Rihanna because, you know, I’m in Los Angeles.  It’s what we do.

It was a good weekend.  By certain standards, even great.  In our sporty world, it’s possible to look at it quantitatively.  After a soccer victory on Saturday, Bun Bun joined the rest of the family for a mandatory 5K at the husband’s place of work Sunday morning.  Running Miles for Melanoma through the Universal Studios backlot was a no-brainer.  Skin cancer is a distinct possibility in a family with Celtic roots.

The gun sounded and the two youngest took off with Dad.  Up the last hill at the “Desperate Housewives” cul-de-sac, I noticed Miss T pushing it, with Bun Bun charging ahead.  She crossed the finish line in 22 minutes, Miss T in 23, the husband beaming with pride.  When Bun Bun and I hustled to the car shortly after for a soccer game in Riverside, I told her she’d likely find great success in track and field if she chose to pursue it.  Her response, “I’m too competitive.  In soccer, if you lose, you lose as a team.  With running, and it’s just me, I’d be so mad if I lost.  I’d want to win every race.”

We arrived for kick-off after a speedy one-hour drive spent avoiding the Highway Patrol.  The husband texted from Universal to inform us that Bun Bun had placed third overall among the women, Miss T first in the 14 and under division.  (Running is not Goldie’s thing.  She walks.  Her other talents are many.)  Ten minutes later, Bun Bun scored a goal off a corner kick, the team won in a shutout for the second time in as many days, and like so many weekends previous, her win column was full.

I enjoyed nearly every minute of the weekend and barely complained that I couldn’t get through more than two sections of the New York Times by Sunday evening, but something was nagging me.  The idea that we learn more from failure than success kept playing in my mind.  Also, while I’m enormously entertained by my children’s activities and prouder than proud of their accomplishments, it’s important to me that they feel loved not because of what they do, but rather who they are.

It’s not for me to play devil’s advocate, nor prepare them for failure by suggesting they aren’t as good as they think they are.  My job is to be there when they fall and convince them, in the least obnoxious way possible, that the true test of character is how we behave in adversity and defeat.  Better yet, I’ll let Michael Jordan do the work:

I’ve missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. 26 times, I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.

It’s always surprising when someone assumes I have all my ducks in a row.  I’m not sure what I convey to certain individuals that they’d think this.  Most of my friends know the truth – that I’m as scattered as the next person, happy to get through the day without spinach in my teeth, with children lucky to have clean sheets once or twice a year month.  Seriously, who are those people living with nary a dust bunny?  Whose computer cords beneath their desks are not tangled?  Whose food never gets green and hairy in the back of the fridge?  Who has never picked out a French fry from in between the car seats?  Who’s never paid a late fee?  Who’s ready at a moment’s notice to get into a swimsuit?  Who’s never worn a pair of blown-out underwear?  Who changes their wiper blades regularly?  Creases in their jeans, retirement savings, they never run out of milk.  I ask you, who are these people?!

They are not I.

I’m the type of person who encourages her nine-year-old daughter to take care of the fish and their tank but rarely insists and never threatens.  This approach often leaves me with stinky socks all over the house, backpacks left on the floor so as to break someone’s neck, lights left on, dogs that occasionally go hungry, dirty school uniforms pulled out and ironed from the hamper, burnt toast that needs scraping, shelves that need organizing, a two-car garage that only fits one, and a stinky partridge in a rotting pear tree.  The beds are made and there’s rarely a dirty dish in the sink, but I’m hardly Type-A.  I’m a B minus, tops.

From time to time I get a wild hair, which sometimes results in the appearance of ducks in a row, but it’s a smoke screen.  And honestly, my ducks are, on occasion, fish – like yesterday, when I decided to save them from an abbreviated life in the murky waters that was their home.  I even cleaned and put back their furniture.

Tell me, what’s hiding in your closet?  What remains, day after day, month after month, on the top of your to-do list?