April 19, 2010

April 19, 9:02 am, Oklahoma City

“We come here to remember those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever. May all who leave here know the impact of violence. May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.”

Photo by joevare on Flickr

In an editorial in Sunday’s Witchita Eagle, Polly Basore said what I want to say today, about where we find ourselves fifteen years after Tim McVeigh parked his truck outside the Murrah Federal Building and walked away, about lessons learned and then forgotten, about the power of rhetoric and the importance of civil discourse, about humanity and compassion and the fine line between disagreement and hatred.

I think of Baylee every April 19. I think of her, and can’t help but lay the blame not just at the feet of Timothy McVeigh, the disaffected Gulf War veteran who set off the bomb.

I remember the politicians and the opinion leaders who stoked the anti-government fires with dehumanizing rhetoric, throwing around phrases like “jack-booted government thugs” and “faceless bureaucrats.” Then 168 dead and 680 injured were pulled from the Alfred P. Murrah federal building in Oklahoma City, and we realized that the government wasn’t a bunch of faceless thugs. Instead, we saw our neighbors, our friends from church, old friends from college — and their children — in the rubble. E pluribus unum…

But then came 2001. McVeigh was executed on June 11; we know what happened three months later. The attack on the World Trade Center — with its foreign terrorists and death toll in the thousands — eclipsed what had happened in Oklahoma City, and April 19 gradually lost its significance.

Which I imagine is why we find ourselves where we are today — on the eve of the 15th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing — quite possibly on the verge of more tragedy. Politicians and opinion leaders, instead of insisting on civil discourse, are again employing angry anti-government rhetoric while the disaffected and disenfranchised look for a target. Lock and load.

Can we please do better? Can we please take our differences to the ballot box, and then honor the democratic process, even when we don’t like the outcome? Can we debate the role and nature of government without categorically dehumanizing government employees? Can we remember that government is made up of our friends, our neighbors, the people we see at church and the grocery store?

Please, let us do this, in remembrance of Baylee.

March 30, 2010

Pride and Prejudice and … bacon?

My front door flies open and Henry comes running in, yelling, “AAAAAAHHH BACON ZOMBIES!!!”

He is followed by Will and Henry, who are walking with their arms held out in front of them and their knees locked and their eyes rolled up into their heads. They are both moaning, “BAAAAACON.”

Will adds, “HEEEENRY IS NEARLY BAAAAAAACON.” And then all three of them start to laugh.

Moral: Boys are weird. The end.

March 21, 2010

unplugged

Recently, my alarm clock died. I knocked it off the nightstand one morning trying to hit the snooze button; it fell under the bed and shattered. And even though I go to Target every 72 hours, I couldn’t seem to remember to pick up a new clock, so instead I was using my iPhone as an alarm.

That was a terrible idea.

I would get into bed at night and check Twitter; I would Google things as they occurred to me. And all night long, I would hear the ping of incoming email and text messages, and the chime of eBay auctions ending.

It was driving me crazy.

Drink wine; find silence.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought a new alarm clock, the old school kind with an analog face and no snooze option. I love it; its presence on my nightstand is soothing and comforting, because all it does it tell me the time and wake me at 5:00 am. At night now I get into bed and I read, and if I find myself wondering about something, I write a little note to myself, a reminder to look it up in the morning.

I’m sleeping much better.

Last week, I read about the National Day of Unplugging, and I was intrigued. And then I read the Sabbath Manifesto and I was hooked: “The Sabbath Manifesto is a creative project designed to slow down lives in an increasingly hectic world.” This slowing down includes finding ways to connect with family and friends, with ourselves, and with the world. I need all of those things.

Light candles.

On Friday afternoon, I sent one last email, and then I logged out of our desktop computer. I turned off my laptop and put it away. I shut off all my iPhone notifications — Twitter and Facebook and eBay — and turned off my email. I set my phone to vibrate and tucked it away in my handbag.

And then, since the kids were outside playing, I poured a glass of wine and read this month’s Real Simple, from cover to cover. It was truly delightful.

I make my living on the Internet, and I am perpetually grateful for the opportunity to do something that engages my heart and soul and mind, every single day; I love social media, both because I am fascinated by the way it is evolving, moment by moment, at  nearly the speed of light, and because of the myriad ways in which it connects me to people I would otherwise never get to interact with. And the combination of intellectual engagement and inspiring community makes me a smarter, better person, every single day.

But I also love my family, deeply and broadly, and having two entire days of being fully in their presence — because I am just now checking in with my wired world, a full 48 hours after I unplugged –  has been relaxing and rejuvenating and inspiring in ways I never expected.

Eat bread; connect with loved ones.

My family did not totally unplug this weekend; we watched college basketball (Northern Iowa, OMG!) and movies (the second installment of “The Lord of the Rings”) together, and the boys played video games and listened to music in the playroom. We didn’t do anything unusual, in fact, just our normal weekend routine of sleeping late and cleaning house and going out for lunch on Saturday. But without the distraction of the Internet, it was a completely different weekend for me. And it made me think about other times and other ways that I could — that I can — unplug.

This weekend, I thought about work, but not in the usual panicked way that I tend to; instead of feeling like I really should be writing and not doing whatever I am doing right now, at this particular moment, I have spent two days giving myself permission to do this and only this — whatever “this” happened to be in that specific moment. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I watched a movie — or a basketball game — without my laptop and my phone balanced on the sofa with me. Instead, this weekend, I snuggled a child under my arm, or held my husband’s hand. Delightful.

How do you unplug? Could you go a day — or two — without Facebook and Twitter? What do you gain from plugging in — and what could you get from shutting down?

March 8, 2010

the monster at the end of this contest

Once upon a time, when I was younger and my kids were cuter, I used to write these “day in the life” posts — remember those? — about all the things I did during the day. Although mostly they were just about how I got through the day, if I remember correctly.

Hey let’s do that again! Ready?

4:30 am: Wake up to sound of Henry coughing, coughing, coughing.

5:00 am: Get up. Because it’s not like anyone is going back to sleep with all that coughing. Schlep downstairs, make coffee, check email, edit posts, make to do list, realize there is no way I’m going to get everything done this week. Drink coffee and catch up on the Oscars (because I went to bed at 8:00 last night, no kidding.)

6:30 am: Wade comes down and moans about how he’s been awake since 4:30; roll eyes so far back that I can see my brain. Drag kids out of bed, listen to both of them complain about not wanting to go to school. Make breakfast, make lunches, clean up after both, make my own breakfast because I’m starving. Sit at the table with the kids and eat my oatmeal while they count days until spring break (FIVE! hooray!) and make plans for each day (apparently we’re going to Greece, or so Charlie thinks). Shuttle everyone upstairs; send kids to get dressed and put on workout clothes.

7:30 am: Tie everyone’s shoes, find coats, somehow neglect to see that Charlie is wearing only a short sleeved polo shirt even though it’s only going to be 50 degrees today. Drop kids at school, drive through at the bank. Nearly have a stroke when the teller says, “I was noticing on this account ….” Breathe sigh of relief when she says that she could get me a debit card for this account (instead of saying that I’m overdrawn, again, which is totally what I’m expecting). Come home and drop my bag and go walk.

8:50 am: It rained the entire time I was walking and my iPod decided that Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” was good workout music. (Three times in 40 minutes, iPod? Really???) Towel off, check email, edit post, curse malfunctioning CMS. Share cursing with Kristen via IM. Admire Maggie Gyllenhall’s Oscar dress, again. Send more emails.

9:30 am: Shower. Consider staying in there all day; it’s warm and quiet. No makeup today because I’m going to the dermatologist. It’s a good look.

10:00 am: More work. I have no idea what I do all day. Send lots of emails, I guess.

11:00 am: Rita calls to see if the boys want to play this afternoon; we wind up talking about Latisse and that time Charlie had to wear an eye patch. No idea how that happened. Hang up on her to talk to Wade, who has called to report about the lawn service. Or something. Not really listening; trying to back out of the garage without hitting anything. Thank god for Bluetooth.

11:30 am: Grocery store! Not raining when I get there; totally pouring when I come out. And because the back of my SUV cannot be opened when it is parked in the garage, I wind up unloading $200 worth of groceries in the pouring rain. And then leaving half of them on the kitchen floor all afternoon. Whoops.

1:00 pm: Eat lunch, send more emails, blah blah blah. Suddenly realize that I need to leave for the dermatologist right now or I will be late.

2:00 pm: Dermatologist appointment. He changes my topical meds, prescribes an antibiotic, and offers a cortisone shot if I have an acne-related emergency (always a possibility, you know).  I love my dermatologist. Drive to school; pick kids up just before the pouring rain starts again. Drop off prescriptions on the way home while hearing about kids’ day. Henry announces, “There were a LOT of miracles at school today!” Most of which consisted of schoolwork getting taken off the schedule, apparently. Charlie comes up with a miracle of his own: outside recess. On a rainy day, that really is a miracle.

3:30 pm: Get kids snacks, encourage them to eat up! and start their homework! Charlie is done in 30 minutes, including the made-up homework from last week that I’m using to kill time while Henry slogs through his gigantic pile of actual homework.  Send Charlie to play at Rita’s and cheer Henry on. Empty dishwasher, make beds, check email; deal with work things. Continue to encourage Henry because we cannot still be doing homework at 5:30 omg! Talk to other third grade moms on Facebook because not one of us has any idea what the hell the kids are supposed to be doing on that one math assignment. Directions would have helped, of course, but there aren’t any! Thank god for Facebook.

5:00 pm: Homework almost done. Get a glass of wine, start chopping broccoli. Wonder where Wade is; vaguely remember him saying something about being late, maybe? Wish I had been listening. As usual.

6:00 pm: Wade home from work, Charlie home from Rita’s, dinner on the table. Henry eats one cheese tortellini and does not freak out or spit it on the floor; I may have offered to buy him a Porsche. Wade makes up a superhero called Tricycle Man; Henry announces, “That is lame, Dad.” Laugh. Get Charlie to say, “Tell us more, Father.” Make Henry laugh until he coughs uncontrollably. Family dinner FTW!

6:30 pm: Clean up kitchen, find shoes, go to pharmacy. Hold up entire line with my extra complicated acne medicine. Try to figure out how it is possible that I will pay more for the generic than I would for the name brand. Come home, tuck kids into bed, collapse on couch. Remember that I’m supposed to be giving away a prize today! Listen to Wade talk about how tired he is after waking up at 4:30 am. Roll eyes so far back that I can see my brain.

And then I went to bed. Or I will in a minute. Right after I give away this cool gift bag from GoodNites!

 * * * * *

Here’s the thing about parenting: No matter how old your kids are, it’s all about getting through the day. And if you’re really lucky, at some point in your day you find yourself laughing about Tricycle Man and your nine-year-old’s successful use of lame and your seven-year-old’s great straight-man delivery.

A lot of the day, though, is about avoiding the monsters — the homework, the pharmacy line, the pouring rain. It’s about getting through, about making it to the good moments. But it’s entirely worth it, every single day.

 * * * * *

So who won the last GoodNites gift bag? Cara, whose favorite book is “The Monster at the End of this Book!” I love that book, and so do my kids. Congratulations, Cara!

If you didn’t win, take heart! You can still write your own Iggy and his Wiggy bed story and enter it for a chance to win $2,500 at the Bedtime Theater site. The odds are totally in your favor, too, so enter today! Because who doesn’t want to win $2,500?

Disclaimer: I have partnered with GoodNites® for this series of posts and giveaways; I am being compensated for my participation in the Bedtime Theater program and for hosting these giveaways, not for promoting a product. Just so we’re all clear.