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By Mama Paloma, 25/03/2013 22:42

Hey there. Where have you been?

Kidding. I know I was the one who bailed for a bit.

The thing is, about eight months ago, in the midst of some big, crazy stuff regarding my kid, my blog started sending out links that took people to some weird sites proffering eastern European get-rich-quick schemes and other unsavory opportunities. I’d been hacked or malwared or something. I spent some time trying to sort out what to do about this issue but – not having the technical knowledge, time to gain said technical knowledge,  or funds to pay someone else with such technical knowledge – I soon gave up. Put it off for a day when one of these resources magically became available.

And got really busy.

Then, yesterday, I decided to have a look-see at the old blog again…and it seemed the problem was gone. Mind you, in eight months, WordPress had more than a couple of updates. When I loaded them up, things seemed to run like a CHARM. So, I figured I’d give it a go.

So, this is a test. If you get any weirdness, please let me know. Direct Message me on Twitter @MominLACity or email me at mamapaloma at gmail dot com.

The past while has been super intense and I’ve been processing a lot. There’s a lot of good that will come out of this time and, I think, a lot of good writing. Here’s a snapshot of the past two-thirds of a year, and what they have me thinking about.

Drama with the preschool got worse (if that was possible). The little guy started in a new school which has been all right but a tough adjustment, in large degree because of how crappy the original school was about it. It was sadly comforting to see the reports of another school that was closing due to almost identical issues – because I had been painted as being over-reactive by my son’s school, which is still open, and some of those evil people are bringing their kid to my kid’s soccer team (well, it’s not ‘his’ per se but we did get there FIRST). Can’t say much more about that as there are legal issues still pending. Still thinking about making our communities safer by challenging the ‘culture of silence’ around child sexual development and abuse prevention.

This connects to my recent obsession with Zerlina Maxwell and several rape cases that have received unusual press coverage.  One blogger wrote about the night that Jane Doe was repeatedly assaulted in Stubenville, Ohio as “the saddest night that Steubenville, Ohio, has ever seen.” It was sad all right, but hardly unusual. The videos and commentary by the perpetrators’ and victim’s peers made it clear that this was nothing new in Stubenville. For those of us who have been working in the rape crisis sector for years decades (!), nothing about these situations are surprising. This kind of assault is so common, especially in High School and college social scenes (though I personally have been assaulted twice in my thirties and forties by men my age). What is awesome about this and other situations coming out is the amazing conversations going on about rape culture and how to change it, particularly about how to raise our boys to not rape or be silent bystanders.

Recently, after a long hiatus, I made a foray into dating. With a much younger guy. It was fun for a New York minute but, man, did this dude have some internal conflicts and an inability to express what he really wanted. Desire for connection and sex and commitment are so easily confused and tangled up and put in opposition to one another. This has me thinking (in parallel to/connected with the combating rape culture theme) also about boys and the mixed up messages they get and how to raise my son in a way that he can fully enjoy being affectionate and sexual and own his own longing for connection and be ethical and respectful about it. Am sure there’s more to say about that.

Hopefully, there’ll be more dating in my future as, contrary to rape apologists’ ideas, this super feminist lady does love men and is ready to get back out there.

Then, just under two weeks ago (the morning after I told the young fella to hit the bricks once and for all),  a friend finally lost her war with cancer. There had been many battles and she was a trooper and the end came abruptly for those of us who had seen her rally a dozen times before. She left two little boys, almost exactly eleven months older and younger than mine. In addition to the sadness I feel that she isn’t in the world, this has brought up a ton of stuff around our mortality, our children’s fear of losing us, my son’s father being so far away and what will happen if he never sees him again, valuing people while we are lucky enough to have them around, and honoring them when they are gone.

I really believe that there is power in teaching both empathy and action. Last weekend, just after Denise died, my little guy had his third haircut ever at the LAPD/LAFD annual St. Baldrick’s Day event. He got sponsored (you can still chip in!) to have his head shaved to benefit children’s cancer treatment and research. Before he let them take off a year’s growth, he helped his buddies at Station 89 polish their truck before Chief Cummings showed up. The firefighters invited him to join their lineup and this photo has been making the rounds.

In other news…

My non-profit has grown and expanded projects. While we carry on developing our innovative peace-building project for Liberia and supporting transgender youth to find their social media voices, we’re getting ready to launch new collaborations with families affected by incarceration and Los Angeles area homeless people. It’s pretty awesome and terrifying – especially as our funding has not grown and expanded with the work and I am broke. Know any rich people who want to make their legacy by launching an innovative, awesome nonprofit into the stratosphere? Send ‘em my way!

Seriously, though, we are always looking for volunteers and are assembling a fundraising committee of people who love putting on events (I don’t) who will have a blast getting our work visibility and support.

So, this was meant to be far more entertaining. Sorry. This WordPress thing seems to be working, except the photo posting bit. I’ll get right on that…after I go get the laundry, tidy up, sleep a bit, get through tomorrow…OK, I’ll get to it eventually.

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By Mama Paloma, 18/07/2012 22:10

This is a tough post for me to write for a couple of reasons. The subject matter is sensitive and the situation in question has been really, really difficult for me.

It’s every parent’s nightmare…that your kid tells you that someone did something to them. You know the kind of ‘something’ I mean. In my case, it wasn’t so bad. My kid told me that another kid had introduced him to, ahem, age-inappropriate information and activity. My kid, in a very preschool manner, told me initially by acting out with me, suggesting I do to him what he was asked to do to another child. My twenty-plus years of dealing with these kinds of disclosures (had to do my first suspected child abuse report over 20 years ago while a volunteer in college), knowledge of child development, and experience helping children who have been through sexual abuse served me well. I think I’ve done okay and my kid will be okay.

But this situation has me thinking about  how damn hard it is for adults to deal with these kinds of situations on behalf of kids. This has been the worst part of the whole thing for me. In the ONE situation in my WHOLE LIFE where I should be able to just be the mom – just look after my child, just fall apart when he’s asleep and a friend is near – I have had to be an advocate, an educator, and a scapegoat.

His awesome preschool that I have loved for many reasons has flat out refused to take responsibility. Their response to my clearly articulated concerns has been to state 1) what happened was ‘nothing out of the ordinary’ (trust me, it was) and 2) that it didn’t happen.

The fact is, it did happen. My kid spontaneously described at least four interactions with two different children in three specific locations. What happened wasn’t ‘ordinary’ behavior for 4 and 5 year olds. The things that were done and said are things that a kid does and says when an adult has done and said them to the kid, or when another child who has been abused acts out with that kid. Do I know where it started? No. Do I know that it started somewhere? Yes.

Somewhere is patient zero, the child who was abused.

And this school that is otherwise so loving, so protective, so encouraging to little minds, would prefer to put their collective heads in the sand than deal with that reality. It has been made clear to me that I am the problem and that they don’t want other parents at the school to know that anything really happened.

Adult fear is understandable but can not be a reason for ignoring a problem. Kids who have been acted out with, like my son, are primed for future abuse and for acting out with other kids, perpetuating and expanding the circle of vulnerability. I can’t participate in that.

So, my son is going elsewhere and we are getting professional help to try to ensure that this stops here. There may be other ramifications for the school’s choice but I can’t control that.

Which brings me to my thought number two – what I can do. Which is why I am writing about this, my experience. Like I said, my kid is going to be okay. I have handled things remarkably well, if I do say so myself.

And I am a wreck. My eyes are constantly red and irritated from fatigue but I haven’t slept before midnight without Benadryl (hard core drug for me) in over three weeks. I get heartburn (heartburn? didn’t realize what it was for a few days…never have it) whenever I think/talk/write about it (excuse me while I get a Pepto). Mostly, I am sad. Sad, and scared. Even though I know I have done things right, that what happened was relatively minor (I have plenty of perspective on that), I worry that this will be somehow significant in his schema. I am grieving my inability to keep him protected from the seediness of the world for a little longer.

And I am mad. Mad at whatever adult started this string of acting out with some kid out there. Mad at the school for responding so poorly. Mad at our twisted up culture that links sex and shame so tidily and deeply and keeps parents and kids silent about their experiences.

It makes me appreciate how hard this is for other parents who don’t have the benefit of years of training and experience, of seeing the effects of unattended abuse and the benefits of appropriate action. Other parents who had their own weird experiences and don’t want to mess up their kids with their own ‘issues’ and so believe a school administrator when they finally get up the nerve to say something and hear “Oh, that’s normal.” Parents who are so scared to see/hear what their kid is trying to show/tell them that they hope it will just go away, that their kid will forget.

And so I am committed: to making our communities safer for kids, to expanding the circle of support for parents.

But first I am going to go about making sure my kid is all right, that he gets to learn about his body and sexuality in safe and enjoyable ways, at the times that are right for him.

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By Mama Paloma, 14/06/2012 00:06

My son is over the moon. This weekend, we get to go camping with about 30 other families from his preschool. Sounds like fun, right?

I have been preparing for weeks. This year, I decided to go ahead and buy us sleeping bags and a tent and to take the opportunity to simultaneously upgrade our emergency preparedness kit by getting things to cook with (I think my original plan was to just put the soup cans directly on the camp stove). I have lists of supplies, a menu, and a travel scrabble kit.

What I can’t prepare for is something more intangible. Can I be honest here? It is sometimes really hard being the single mom in the bunch. I should be used to it by now, I suppose, but I am not.

Occasionally, I am aware of being treated or regarded differently because of my singleness. Sometimes it’s pity, sometimes mistrust…especially on the part of other moms. This makes it hard to just hang out with other families, as there’s this weird vibe like I’m after any good dad that might be around.

Mostly, though, this discomfort is my own. I can almost hear that old Sesame Street song in my head:

One of these things is not like the others.

One of these things doesn’t belong.

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others before I finish this song?

So, the whole pack-way-too-much-in-the-car-to-go-sleep-in-the-dirt part of it aside, I should be excited to be going on this camping expedition. And I am. Really.

I am also dreading it. Other families hang out regularly and already have plans to collaborate on meals. Other families (except one with two moms) have dads who will be there for the Father’s Day activity on Sunday. Other parents will trade off for trips to the loo and showers.

And then there’ll be AJ and me. Which I actually like, in a lot of ways. Except when we’re in a crowd of “real” families. Then, whether I should or not, I can feel like the wallflower in the ugly dress at the prom.

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By Mama Paloma, 08/04/2012 00:20

Today, a friend (and writer in her own right)  posted a piece from Huffington Post entitled “Is God Angry at You?” In it, the author challenges the dominant Christian interpretation of Easter – what is referred to as the ”penal-substitution theory of atonement” – which I won’t go into here other than to say that I really enjoyed the writer’s critique of this taken-for-granted-in-many-circles understanding of God.

And it got me thinking about forgiveness.

Years ago, I wrote about saying prayers with my son. He was a tiny baby then, but this act had taken on some significance for me. Each night, as a part of our ritual, I would say “Please be with Addison’s daddy, wherever he is, keep him safe, and give him everything he needs to be happy.” You see, (and to save you the trouble of reading back for that bit of our story), this guy had dropped off the face of the earth about half-way through my pregnancy and we hadn’t heard from him since.

About three months after baby-daddy went AWOL, I was reading an Anne Lamott book in which the protagonist was facing betrayal and decided that she didn’t want bitterness to consume her – so she started praying for the betrayer. This resonated so strongly with me that I started doing the same. Every time he came to mind, every time someone else made a disparaging comment about his character or intentions, every time I thought of the pain my son would likely experience in his dad’s absence, I repeated this mantra. Well, maybe not every time, but many times, as I caught myself falling into  bitterness – mine or another’s – this little prayer pulled me back from the edge.

After a while, it got to be less hard. With the baby, it was easy, because I could imagine that his dad being happy would likely create the most possibilities for him. When the guy finally called, around the time AJ was two, there was space in my mind and heart to not turn him away from knowing his son.

But then it got real. He hadn’t become a different person. He was still dishonest and manipulative.  And now he’s done it again. After a year and a half of regular correspondence, calls, and some visits, he’s dropped off the face of the earth.

And I am pissed.

It’s one thing to mess with me…and another to mess with your child. It’s heartbreaking to be told, several times a day, “I need my daddy” or “I want my daddy” and know it’s so true and know there is nothing you can do about it.

I am pissed and I am becoming bitter. I want to punish like the God of the penal-substitution theory only I don’t want a substitute. I want retribution because it must be, or maybe it is about substitution…I want him to feel the pain that our son is feeling and going to feel in the future.

Fucker.

And, at the same time, I feel the pull of my heart – the truer, better part of myself that knows what I really want – back to that place of that simple yet profound prayer.

It was easier when he wasn’t real, when I knew nothing about him. When I could imagine he’d never actually come back.

It was easier before I had spent four plus years trying to sort out some reasonable child support situation without going to court, going further and further into debt in an effort to preserve my son’s connection only to come to this place where I can accidentally notice that he is getting along quite well, thank you, with a new life and lots of partying that somehow keeps him from bothering to call or even text his four-year-old kid who remembers that the last time they talked was his birthday two months ago.

It was easier then.

It’s more important now.

For my son, for this guy I have to fight not to despise and wish ill on. For me. I have to do it. I have to keep forgiving and wishing well and holding his safety and happiness in my heart and mind. I have to forgive myself for letting him in and exposing my child to this heartache. I have to let this forgiveness and well wishing peel back my grip on the need for justice and retribution so that I can take steps forward without entirely justifiable  malice.

I have to, as someone in the Twittersphere so eloquently put it today, speak for my anger, but not from my anger. I must speak from love.

Fuck.

Perhaps those who pray can pray for me on that one…”Give her everything she needs to be loving.”

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By Mama Paloma, 14/02/2012 00:05

January 2012

So, usually, when I tell a story here, there is some conclusion to be drawn, some lesson I learned. This is not one of those stories. This is a more typical parent experience, I think…when your kid says or does something that leaves you shaking your head and you feel like you should be able to draw some lofty conclusion but all you can think is “Shit, he’s only three and already working me this way. What are the teen years going to be like? I need a drink.”  

I never intended to nurse my kid until he was four. Like most American moms these days, I had gotten the information about how nursing at least the first year has some pretty amazing health benefits. I had listened to/read about moms who are still breastfeeding their seven year olds. I thought a year or year and a half seemed good, seven a bit much. From the start, nursing came super easy for AJ and I. The day after he was born a lactation consultant came in to help me, took one look and said, “Well, he knows what he’s doing, you’re going to be fine.”

He did nurse for the first year. Exclusively. It was not the first time I felt the gaze of those who feel entitled to assess another person’s (particularly a single mom’s)  parenting. Other people would suggest different foods and try to get him to eat, even after I explained my own efforts to entice him. I could tell they thought this exclusive breastfeeding thing  was  about my need to be the most attached granola mom EVER. Eventually, he did start eating and is a ‘good eater.’

And he still wants to nurse.. He calls it ‘having babas.’ He asks for babas at night and in the morning, mostly, and when he’s upset.  Honestly, this has more to do with my general laziness than any parenting philosophy. I knew it would be work to cut him off and then I’d lose the one thing that can always calm him down.

I hoped, as with the food, he’d just get to the point of being ‘ready’ and lose interest but that wasn’t happening.. In the months leading up to his birthday yesterday, I told him that we wouldn’t be having babas after he turned four. This wasn’t an easy concept for him. One day, he was having a total meltdown. “I need babas,” he cried, “because I can’t calm down.” As he nursed, I wondered aloud about what I might do, after he turned four, to help him calm down, since he wouldn’t be having babas any more.

“Well,” he said, “when I am four, I will still have babas. When I am a big boy, like (paused to think), maybe ten or twelve, then I’ll just stop.” He made a definitive gesture when he said the word ‘stop,’ like a smoker swearing they’ll go cold turkey right after the New Year’s party.

“Oh, honey,” I replied, “the thing is, when you turn four, you are not going to have babas any more.”

“No, mommy,” he said, “because, especially for boys, if they don’t connect, they are going to have bigger problems.”

———————————————————–

February 13

So, tonight was a rough night. Actually, the past week has been rough. For several reasons, I am re-working my entire childcare setup. Addison’s birthday brought an ever-more acute awareness of his dad not being present (a topic for another day).. He has also been testing limits and getting very upset when I, say, turn off the movie. And then, there’s the babas.

When it came time for bed,  he was  sobbing about a movie-related conflict, then about not having babas to calm down,”I just want to go back and not have my birthday and stay little. I don’t want my body to grow. I want to be a baby.” I held him and talked with him and let him cry. I talked about how hard it can be when things change but how they usually end up all right.. I told him I am happy that he is growing and learning because that means that he is healthy and no matter how much he grows how he will still be my baby. I stroked his hair, rubbed his feet and talked about how things like that might help him calm down the way babas have. Finally, he began to relax. I extricated myself from his fierce little embrace, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I love you so, so much, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, mom,” he whispered back and fell asleep.

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By Mama Paloma, 07/02/2012 22:56

I need time to wind down. Precisely two hours after my son nods off, I am ready for sleep.

I hear other parents talk about dozing off with their kids. Not me. Until his little body is still and relaxed, I am ON. Only after he is snoring to I begin to truly relax.

I noticed this when he was a baby. He was dreamy, then. I brought him home from the NICU when he was ten days old. The next day, my midwife stopped by and told me I didn’t have to wake him every three hours to feed–he was full-term, after all, and almost nine pounds. Please don’t hate me, but, after that, he slept six hours at a go. Sometimes, with a change and a snack, he’d follow that up with another couple of hours.

Ah, those were the golden days. These days, it’s different. These days, I work a lot and sometimes late, getting home just at or after his bedtime. He needs time to connect and then wind down. I get that. But I am TIRED and want to get to my winding down before too long. I get frustrated. Sometimes, I even scold him.

This doesn’t help.

Last  week, he had a new imaginary pet donkey named “Donkey.” Yes, it’s the donkey from Shrek. It also, he informed me 0ne day, came from my tummy, at the same time as him. “So he’s my brother. We’re twins.” My son’s twin clearly takes after their father. He does what he wants when he wants, without regard for others’ needs–particularly mine.

He keeps my son awake when he should be sleeping.

“Donkey,” I scolded one night, “if you don’t let Addison sleep, you’ll have to go to the living room.”

Yes, folks, I scolded an imaginary donkey out loud…

…and it worked.

I was amazed. I shouldn’t have been. The concept of ‘externalizing’ a problem is central to how I practice therapy. How brilliant that my little boy invented a naughty ‘other’ who gets him to do things he is not supposed to. We could side together in figuring out how to get donkey to relax, to sleep, to stop kicking off the blankets. Children do this externalizing so well.

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By Mama Paloma, 13/12/2011 10:07

My son goes to a cooperative preschool. This means that it was started (in, I think 1951–one of the first of its kind) by parents and is, to this day, in theory at least, run by parents. In a classic co-op, all parents take regular turns at teaching. But Hilltop also has a strong commitment to all kinds of diversity, and the programs have evolved to support working families who might not be able to take time off during the week to teach in their kid’s school. This has led it to be a bit of a hybrid, with a minimal number of paid staff with some parents helping teach and others, like me, showing up for the other stuff. Parents do the laundry, parents organize fundraisers, parents help keep up the facilities.

Among other things, each family has an obligation to do six hours of ‘maintenance.’ This usually happens on a Sunday. It’s not torture–a bunch of us show up, everyone takes on some tasks, people bring snacks–but it really isn’t what I want to do on the one day a week I usually try to keep free. Working two jobs, including evenings, just doesn’t leave much down time, or any kind of time, with my little guy and, I really feel that he needs more from me given his dad’s absence. It can feel like I am taking away from the little guy to head off to do anything on the weekend. Too often, though, in the non-profit world, there are must-do activities on the weekend. I am constantly torn.

But I am someone who keeps my obligations…so I do it.

AJ started late last year, in November, and very shortly after that there was a parent work day at his school. The property has a back yard area, with a hill (which has been named “The Hill”) that the kids love to run/play/fall all over. A grant had been found and a group of parents had designed and planned some significant improvements to The Hill, and we were all asked to make the vision a reality. I had work commitments that day but carved out a couple of hours to join in. Upon arrival, I was given the task of painting tires–which had been embedded in the hill to create wide, secure ‘steps’ for the kids to race up and down. Working with another mom, we turned the drab old tires into alternating bright blue and pink. When we finished, I raced off to shower and go to my next thing. When I saw AJ later, he asked what I had done and I told him. The following week, The Hill was officially opened, and event I missed because of work. AJ was very excited about the Jeep and the slide into a pit of rubber chips. It’s a cool hill.

The next Maintenance Day, a couple of months later, I put together a prefab play kitchen. It was easy. I lost some pliers out of my tool kit but they were returned. No big deal, really. Just part of being a parent.

Then, this Summer, the real importance of Maintenance Day hit home for me. In one of those quiet moments–in the car or early in the morning, I can’t recall–AJ piped up, “Hey, Mommy?” ‘Yes?’

Thank you for painting the tires on the Hill. They look really nice.

This was at least six months after the Maintenance Day in question. We had not discussed it since the day The Hill was opened. Yet, my little guy, barely three years old was sitting there, independently reflecting on and appreciating my pathetic attempt at involvement. I could imagine him telling his friends, “My mommy painted the tires on The Hill.” It’s the kind of thing he would do.

Now, of course, maintaining our school is reason enough to drag oneself out on a Sunday morning. But the real deal is this. Our kids see what we do and it matters to them when we are involved in their schools and other activities. It shows them that we think what they do is important, that they are important.

It lets them take our presence with them as they go out into the world without us. What more could a parent want?

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By Mama Paloma, 19/09/2011 00:08

Tonight, Addison John couldn’t fall asleep. He was scared. Of sounds. Of noises. He had to pee. It may be time to do away with his afternoon nap. These late nights are KILLING me.

But it was more than his not being sleepy. Something was eating at him.
“Mommy!” he called me from the bedroom.
‘Go to sleep, Addison. If I hear any more words from you, I will close the door.’
“Mommy!!!”
‘OK, I guess I need to close the door?’ I stood up and went to the room.
“But, MOMMY, I am trying to TELL you something.”
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
“Mommy, are you getting OLDER?”
Seriously? ‘Yes, I am getting older waiting for you to go to SLEEP.’
“Mommy, are you going to die?”
There was something in his tone that stopped me. This was more than preschool-child-trying-to-avoid-bedtime.
‘I am not going to die any time soon, honey, I am going to take care of you.’
“But WHEN are you going to die?”
“When is Grandma going to die?”
“Are we all going to die?”
I said something about how someday, everyone’s body stops working but it’s all right, it’s a part of life and it isn’t going to happen for a very long time.
“So, my whole family is going to die and we won’t be able to have our bodies any more!” he almost wailed.

And I just held him and told him I know it’s scary and I promise it will be all right, feeling more than a little helpless with the knowledge that my little baby has tasted that existential angst at the tender age of three and there really isn’t much I can say to help him with that.

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By Mama Paloma, 02/09/2011 22:46

Recently, there has been quite a fracas (love an excuse to use that word!) over some of the incredibly sexist marketing targeting little girls. I shared a post by pigtailpals.com because it made me sad and it makes my blood boil every time someone says that sexism isn’t an issue any more. I mean, it’s not like it was in the ’50s, is it?

It’s easy to laugh at this but, really, the only difference is that teenage girls in 1947 were encouraged to hold their sexuality to be popular where today eight year olds are being encouraged to market their sexuality and stupidity to be popular. I don’t call that progress. Yes, folks, today, little girls are bombarded with messages that they need to be cute and pampered and give up when something is hard…and then in adulthood tsold that being cute and pampered will make everything easy.

As a former girl who has dedicated a significant portion of her life to increasing women’s and girl’s human rights and equality, I take this personally. As a mom, I admit to occasionally breathing a sigh of relief that my child is a boy. I have always recognized that rigid gender roles restrict men and boys as well but at least my son isn’t being coached to sell himself short, to objectify and be objectified, right?

Cut to this morning, little AJ’s first visit to the dentist. The waiting room has a table filled with magazines and AJ notices a sports magazine and is really interested.

Anyhoo, eager to distract him from his understandable anxiety about this new experience as well as take the opportunity to make up for my slacker mommying, I started to go through the magazine with him, looking at the pictures and talking about the different sports and the equipment used and so on. I turned the page and came on an ad much like this one (had to pull this image from online, and couldn’t find the ‘latest ‘so this is another from the same campaign):

What the WHAT???

Now, I know being a boy isn’t a bed of roses. I have already seen my little three-and-a-half-year old guy absorb and try to conform to ideas of male toughness. I watched, heart breaking, as he literally stopped himself from crying when his dad cut his visit short a few weeks ago. When he talks about hitting or killing someone who does something he doesn’t like (Internal voice: “Breathe, mama, this is a part of normal development. He doesn’t know what ‘kill’ really means.”) I coach him in other ways to express disappointment, fear, frustration, or anger.

I have also come to embrace his very inborn guy-ness. He has challenged a lot of my ideas about the degree to which gender is socialized…which is to say that I now think a lot of it is not. This kid came out of the, er, box a gurgling stereotype of male energy. With infrequent male presence (my friends, family members we see every few months), he still started pushing his blocks around making ‘car’ sounds as soon as he was capable. One of his first neandertal-esque declarations, at eighteen months was “Addison, big man, fire man, pick-up truck, motorcycle.” It’s part of who he is, along with being incredibly sweet and thoughtful, observant, curious, funny, and melodramatic. I can roll with that.

But REALLY?

In a magazine ostensibly promoting teamwork, focus, commitment, excellence, my son is being coached to objectify women, to limit his own ambitions to cars, girls (not women, of course), sex, sports, and cars.

Because that’s all a real man wants, anyway, right?

God, I hope not.

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By Mama Paloma, 31/08/2011 17:46

December 27 is to be my fortieth birthday. Yep, the big four-oh. This approaching anniversary has got me considering how I have lived my last forty years and how I want to live going forward.

I have also been thinking a lot about legacy–not in a morbid, what-will-I-leave-behind-when-I-die way but more in the what-will-people-remember-about-this-tomorrow way. I have been considering the wake we leave as we move from one interaction to the next. Over the next three months, as that day approaches, I am taking steps to shift some of my habits to be more in line with the legacy I’d like to leave in my wake, the ways I would prefer to experience myself and be experienced on a day-to-day basis.

I am starting with the concepts of attention and choice an the power we have in our choices about what we pay attention to.

This morning, I took a few minutes to watch today’s featured TED Talk TED.com

(If you love this as much as I do, please go to this link Julia Bacha: Pay Attention to Nonviolence and comment.)

this talk literally brought tears to my eyes. The impact of war, discrimination, and environmental exploitation on civilians is near to my heart and my work is driven by the same certainty that what is reported on in these situations will grow–violence or peace-making, disconnection or community. I wrote to Ms. Bacha immediately and hope to connect as colleagues and kindred spirits in this arena.

Closer to home, though, I was challenged by this statement (emphasis mine):

Parents can incentivize or dis-incentivize behavior simply by giving or withdrawing attention to their children. But that’s true of adults, too. In fact, the behavior of entire communities and countries can be influenced depending on where the international community chooses to focus its attention.

It reminded me of yesterday morning. I had just gotten up after a virtually sleepless night, the result of 1) a rather distressing email from an employee (Oh, why did I peek at work emails just before going to bed?) and 2) my son waking up in the night, vomiting. My entire day was shot, the second in a row to be thrown off by external forces and my own physical limitations, and I was, shall we say, a bit cranky. And depressed.

I opened my computer to try to get something done and immediately this comment by Marianne Williamson popped up on my Twitter feed.

There it was, my life’s work being applied to my life. I sat there for a moment, considering where I have been affirming the power of the problems. It’s not a short list. Finances, the situation with my son’s father, an untenable work-life imbalance, a non-functioning nonprofit Board, my health, three-year-old AJ’s tantruming (Terrible twos? Try tyrannical threes!)–all of these had drawn me into a focus on what isn’t working, where the problems are, how I am stuck and powerless and alone.

I was confronted with the fact that this experience is to a large degree a choice, a series of choices I am making every day. Ironic, really, isn’t it? My therapy practice is called Talking Possibilities and here I was, choosing to talk about, ruminate on, and prioritize my own problems over the actually quite rich possibilities that are available to me.

Home with a sick child, I spent the day being with this awareness, considering how to shift each of these areas. I started noticing my reactions to things and shifting the meaning I was making.

This wasn’t just ‘positive self-talk’–which I find too often to be a kind of denial of what is. I was able to be with my son and empathize as he experienced that uniquely awful sensation of knowing another bout of vomiting is to come. At the same time, I was able to–not enjoy, I don’t want to ever see him unwell–appreciate the opportunity to give him the experience of being attended to, comforted, and understood and to teach him about self-care and patience. I was able to take time to consider how to respond to my employee with empathy, to value the opportunity that this situation presents me–to simplify and take back valuable time of my own–and to choose not to respond right away but give myself space to attend to other priorities. I still haven’t sorted out what to do with the more emotional parts of the baby-daddy situation but did realize that I had been choosing to believe I had to figure out things that I can and should get help with. I decided to wait for good advice and not throw my energy at the situation until I was clear as to what I should do. I called a friend for a referral to a specialist in International Family Law. Finally, I turned my attention to my own physical and emotional state. I took stock. I have been really depleted for some time now and, remarkably, no one has come to rescue me from that. I realized that it is high time that I take ownership of my own well-being, that I have many options for balancing and enriching my experience of life, and decided that this needs to be my top priority for the next few weeks.

All of this from a choice. Had I chosen, even by default, to give my attention to all of the challenges I am facing on a day-to-day basis, I would have likely been immobilized and buried by noon. The choice, in a moment of abject discouragement, to give my attention to the possibilities, shifted my experience immediately and space almost magically opened up for solutions to emerge and for me to take steps toward them.

We give our power to what we pay attention to, whether we are talking about international peace-building, parenting, or peace of mind.

We live in a flash of light;
evening comes and it is night forever.
It’s only a flash and we waste it.
We waste it with our anxiety, our worries,
our concerns, our burdens.
~Anthony De Mello~