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By Mama Paloma, 31/07/2011 21:30

I have been thinking a lot about horror lately. Not fun, B-movie horror, but bona-fide, can-comprehend-but-wish-I-couldn’t, awful, terrible horror.

The last ten years have somewhat inured me to horror. Not that I feel nothing about the endless wars, the shocking human rights abuses, the awfulness that is out there. Rather, these things have, sadly, become a part of my reality because they are reality. We (the US of A) declared war on terror and terror is fighting back. My mind has incorporated this into it’s map of the world. It’s not all right but it’s not a surprise.

Then came the terrorist attacks in Norway. Norway? My mind said. This guy went after kids? That can’t be right. I was horrified. Not because a bunch of affluent white kids being gunned down is any more horrific than a bunch of poor black kids dying of malnutrition or a bunch of Saudi protesters being tortured. It was just shocking, unexpected in a way that these other horrific realities are horrifically not.

A few days ago, I came across a story I would likely have heard of before if I had a TV or listened to talk radio. This guy in Michigan is on trial for the disappearance of his three sons. The story is awful. The father seems like a crazy, control-freak, scary guy. But what got me was their photo.

I am haunted.

Perhaps in part it is their wide-eyed resemblance to my son and his near-future selves, perhaps it is their apparent happiness and lack of fear, but something about this picture left me particularly horrified. More than that, though, is the realization that these boys are gone (perhaps forever) and there is nothing I can do about it. My heart goes out to their mother, who clings to the hope that they are secreted away somewhere, alive because to think anything else (until she has to) is just too much.

This has me thinking about what we do in circumstances like these, times when platitudes about ‘everything happening for a reason’ or ‘ God being in control’ just don’t cut it. There is no silver lining, nothing to be learned. There is nothing we can do.

It reminds me of working with war survivors in West Africa. Sometimes, the horror was so great, so overpowering, so incomprehensible, our approaches to ‘trauma counseling’ seemed not only inadequate but irrelevant.

These events, this terror, this awfulness is intolerable. But what are we to do? How can we help ourselves or others to cope in the face of the un-faceable?

There is a poem called The Invitation that speaks so well to the work I do. In it is the line,

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I have been thinking about this. I have been thinking that, sometimes–when we see a child starving, when we know of people imprisoned–we can and should act. We shouldn’t stop acting until something is done, something shifts. We should rail against inequity and injustice to the best of our abilities until the day we die.

Other times, after a man filled with hate and racist ideology murders scores of people, after a father is imprisoned for probably snuffing out three bright little lives, there really is nothing for us to do.

But to be with the pain. To see it and share it and let it be painful.

To honor these kids and their mothers and their memories with our tears.

And I want to know who will do that with me.

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By Mama Paloma, 17/12/2010 07:47

After watching this, I went in to look at my sleeping little boy…not yet three…and I cried for Wendy because I can imagine going through this and even imagining kills me. Sometimes, I look into those shining big blue eyes and wonder what or who will come along and dim that sparkle, how I can shore him up to endure the sure disappointments and hurts he will face. I hope and pray that he won’t be brutalized in ways that break his spirit completely.

We have to care about all kids, not just the ones who fit our mold. We moms would do anything to protect our babies but we can’t do it alone. It’s so scary to send them out into a world that doesn’t care.

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By Mama Paloma, 25/08/2010 22:31

Long ago, I embraced the identity of the horrible mom. I consciously chose not to obsess about sippy cups or apply for preschool before my child was born. I have lugged my kid to story slams and New Years Eve at the Dresden. Most of the time, I think this makes me a pretty cool mom–even if horrible by current LA-obsessed-parent standards.

Recently, though, I have been feeling like I should do more with AJ. There are so many things for kids around. I have started to feel (dare I admit it?) guilty for not showing up for story time or mid-day kids concerts at the mall.

I can’t afford full-time childcare so Wednesdays have been our day together for some time. Recently, I have been working more and my mom has been helping out. But, it’s nice to have a re-connect midweek, so I am trying to resurrect Wednesday mornings as AJ and Mommy time.

Today, I had planned to take him to the mommy-n-me movies which, honestly, are for mommy. We haven’t done this in a while, as he has become so much more aware much more easily frightened by violence or noise and curious about, err, certain things. So, today, Inception was out but The Kids Are All Right and Eat Pray Love (the other two films playing at our neighborhood theatre) were possible, with strategic distraction/eye covering.

Then, this morning, he was playing and enjoying himself and I realized that either of those films would be so dialogue heavy he would be miserable and miserable to deal with. I remembered hearing other moms talk about and then seeing a poster for this great kids’ museum in Pasadena. We had never been. In a moment of now-uncharacteristic spontaneity, I decided to go. We had a great time, AJ and I, right up to the end. The end, however, required a letter to the Director of Operations and Chief of Staff. I’ll let you read about that below.

In spite of this fiasco, we left in high spirits, and I am determined to be a less horrible mom at least once a week from now on.

———

Dear Ms. Earp and Ms. Maclean,

I am not sure who to address this concern to but, after looking at the staff listings, it seems most closely related to operations and overall museum planning.

Today, I brought my two and a half year old son to KidSpace for the first time. It was great! He loved exploring and interacting with the exhibits and activities. I was considering an annual membership.

As we approached the end of our visit, we needed to use the bathrooms. He had gotten very wet in the water features and needed a diaper/clothes change and I, well, I needed a loo. We used the ones by the cafe. First, we had to wait quite a while as there was only one stall with a diaper changing table. Then, when I got inside, it was filthy (likely, because it is the only one and gets overused.) Have you ever tried to change a feminine product with one hand while balancing on a toilet and holding on to your toddler because the floor is SO disgusting you don’t want them to sit down? It’s not fun. I avoid many places to avoid this experience. After a morning of encouraging my son’s curiosity, I found myself barking “Just stand up. Don’t touch anything. It’s dirty.”

Then, the pieces de resistance. After juggling our personal hygiene needs, we emerged to wash our hands. The sink area is tiny, and we had to squeeze by a woman who had tired of waiting for the changing table and was doing a ‘stand-up’ switch on her toddler. I stepped past her, up to the sink and almost fell, catching myself and twisting my right ankle as I narrowly avoided sprawling on the floor. I looked down to see what my left foot had slipped on and it was, well, poo-poo. I admit, I used a more adult term in that moment, then realized that I was surrounded by children and corrected myself.

Someone, (I think the woman who was doing the stand-up change right then, but she denied it) had seemingly dropped a nice-sized, quite green and viscous blob of feces on the floor.

Now that’s pretty disgusting. Whoever did it shouldn’t have. But, being a mom, I have some empathy for the challenges of negotiating public toilets. I couldn’t be upset with the person who gave up on waiting on the one changing table and went ahead with the stand-up change. If they were in one of the tiny stalls without a changing table, struggling to juggle such an operation, a ball of poo could easily have escaped and rolled under the stall divider, into the path of the next unsuspecting hand washer.

The problem, really is the set-up. I had a particularly unpleasant experience with the toilet facilities but overall, and unlike the rest of the museum, the toilet facilities are not at all set up for parents and young children. Also, there are very limited facilities for women, though all together in our time there I spotted exactly four men there with children…and only one who was there alone with a child. Most of the children were attended by women.

So, here’s where I get positive. While having more and more spacious facilities would be ideal, I have some concrete, possibly not-that-costly suggestions to make the bathroom situation more like the rest of the museum experience:

1. Allocate more toileting facilities to women or to be not gender specific. Do an attendee census and have bathroom facilities reflect typical usage.
2. More frequent cleaning of facilities, especially on busy days like today. Sanitation and regular stocking of diaper changing tables.
3. Install child containment seats in all stalls. This one retails for about $120 but I found it for only $72!

http://www.sustainablesupply.com/ProductDetails.asp?ProductCode=B-KB102-00

4. Clear signage in each bathroom indicating the location of other toilet/changing facilities and the procedures for reporting unsanitary conditions.

In our case, I cleaned my shoe the best I could, went to the ticketing window and told the young man there what had happened. He called the cleaning crew and said they would help me with my shoe. I waited a few minutes but, honestly, my son was verging on a meltdown and I wasn’t far behind him. We made our way to our car, I stuck a napkin to the bottom of my shoe to keep any residual crap from getting on my car floor, and we came home.

Again, though this was a horrible way to end our time there, I really loved the museum. I hope that this message is helpful to you in improving the mommy friendliness of your facilities.

Sincerely,

Dove Pressnall

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By Mama Paloma, 28/05/2010 07:07

This past week, I have commented to several people that all I need is for someone to fall into a random coma, and maybe someone to go to prison, and I can sell my life to Telemundo as a novela. Seriously, this situation is at once a freaking soap opera and a bowl full of cliches. I know that there is a vast audience out there, waiting on the edge of your seats for the next installment, so here goes.

He called me tonight. He explained his side of things. His explanation puts him this side of the various diagnoses given by friends and family–I am pretty sure he isn’t delusional, or a sociopath–but a bit far from being a stand-up, trustworthy guy. He feels bad that AJ and I ended up in the middle of his drama, though I am not at all sure how strongly that registered in the context of all of the people he has very pissed of with him right now.

I felt better after the call. Not naively better. Just not adrift in the way I had been feeling. Mostly, I think it is because he reaffirmed his commitment to AJ and asked me to keep working with him to build that connection.

I pointed out that this situation is a bit of a setback…that I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. That I can’t think it won’t happen again. We talked for a long time about how to move forward. I suggested that step one should be that he ‘not fucking lie to me.’ Eloquent, I know.

And we will see. I have been taking this all a step at a time and will continue to do so. Maybe smaller steps. I don’t know.

Earlier this week, I posted this Nietzche quote. I really like it. And it’s where I am right now.

“I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you.”

Damn it.

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By Mama Paloma, 27/05/2010 07:25

Damn. I thought I had sorted all of this stuff out, at least the part that was about me and my feelings. I thought I was in a place to focus on AJ and his needs and am really irritated, in a way, that this whole thing is consuming so much of my energy. But it is.

Part of it is the way what has been going on evokes that very difficult time when my life was turned upside down, first by an unplanned pregnancy, then by the dishonesty and rejection of AJ’s dad. Much as I adore my son, the timing and the situation were devastating–personally, professionally, and financially. Spiritually, I was offered a lifeline in the writing of Anne Lamott, in the love and support of some amazing friends and family, in having nothing else to do but practice gentleness, compassion, and getting through each day. I had moved past that, learned and grown from it, set it aside–didn’t even feel the feelings of it, really. Couldn’t. Had to get a job, find a place to live, grow a baby.

So, this process of re-engaging with AJ’s dad, allowing him in to know his son, naturally brought some stuff up. I could make sense of that. Get through it. Look for the opportunity. But having history repeat itself like this? I feel like I was shipwrecked in 2007, but managed to fashion a raft to float along on and even figured out how to steer it a bit. Then, this past week, my raft was destroyed, thoughtlessly, and I am again treading water in what feels like an endless ocean, waiting for the next wave to crash over my head, afraid I might slip and let AJ’s head go under.

And it sucks.

Reminds me of the Nine Inch Nails song Down in It. The part that goes

I used to be so big and strong.
I used to know my right from wrong.
I used to never be afraid.
I used to be somebody.
I used to have something inside.
Now just this hole that’s open wide.
Used to want it all.
I used to be somebody.

I have always been confident, clear in my ethics and values, certain that if I upheld them, I would be all right. Now, I am not so sure. From down where I am, in the troughs between the swells, I can’t even see the horizon. I hope it’s still there.

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By Mama Paloma, 23/05/2010 23:00

This week has been a time of adjustment, of integrating the experience of having AJ’s dad here into my world view, re-structuring my assumptions, opening to more possibility and complexity.

And then it got real.

Friday morning, I opened my email box and saw a message from Adam. He is meant to be out on assignment for some weeks, so communication will happen when it can. I smiled, thinking he would have perhaps looked at the link to a video message from AJ that I had sent him the day before.

My heart sank. For her, for me, for AJ. This was the same ‘ex-fiancee’ who turned out not to be so much an “ex” back in 2007, a fact I discovered when I was already four months pregnant.

I can see him carrying on the lie with her. If he loves her and doesn’t want to lose her, he may not have been able to come clean about the adorable two-year-old clone in America that he was only now getting to know. Still, I just don’t understand his lying to me about this now. When he first contacted me to see what might be possible in terms of a relationship with Addison, I actually assumed that they were still together and commented as much. He said, no, that they had split up after things came out about our relationship in 2007. We have had a few conversations about this. We have had more conversations about my misgivings about him and his trustworthiness and the importance of having an honest and respectful relationship if I am going to facilitate his access to Addison. He seemed totally on board with that, open and honest, answering my questions with ease.

Theories abound as to his motivations, what is really going on with her, what I should do. As far as I am concerned, that all remains to be seen, or not, and will evolve with time and more information.

More potent for me is the challenge this brings to my practices around love, good intention, and faith in possibility. I have, for the past three years, acted in good faith (with sometimes protracted moments of existential tantruming mixed in for sure), been honest and forthright, and stood against the forces that would have had me act out of anger and fear to cut Adam off from AJ forever. I have prayed with my son every night since he was an infant for his father’s safety and happiness, honestly upheld his well-being in my heart with compassion and hope.

When he indicated he was ready, I opened my mind, our lives, to him. I gave him the opportunity to step up, to treat me with respect, to build a connection with Addison. It seemed like he was doing just that.

I was deceived. Again.

Over the past couple of days, I have gone through self-recrimination (I should have seen this coming, should have asked more questions, should have…), rationalization (maybe there is an explanation that will make this all make sense), anger, and sadness.

Past all that, though, I have found an emptiness, a lack of anything meaningful to make of it all. A loss of belief in and hope for decency and goodness.

Don’t get me wrong. I know there is decency and goodness aplenty in the world. Right now, though, my personal connection to these things seems pretty frail. I want to rage, to indict, to seek and find THE TRUTH so that it can be very, very clear how wrong he has been and how in the right I am.

So, I believe that the real test in this may be the degree to which I allow acts of betrayal and cynicism to draw me over to the dark side where I can hide my hurt and shame in self-righteous indignation and harsh judgment. Certainly he deserves it, doesn’t he?

He may. I have a posse of people to back me up in that, too. But, my friends, this is just not the kind of person I want to be. More importantly, it is not the example I want to be for AJ. I still want my son “to learn that, no matter what another person does, he can choose what he brings to the table. I want him to know in his bones that he can be mad at someone, and protect himself, and be strong, and still choose to act out of compassion.”

It’s just really hard to hold on to that right now.

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By Mama Paloma, 10/03/2010 23:15

My case is, supposedly, closed. Fuck.

Over a year and a half ago, I began the process of addressing the legal issues of my son having an absent Australian father. Following instructions from my State government, I submitted about an inch thick stack of paperwork to our Child Support Agency, which in California also handles orders for paternity. Before doing this, I called to make sure I was doing the right paperwork for Australia. I waited some months before being summoned to a meeting at the County offices an hour from my home through downtown traffic where a Ms. Jiminez made me wait (with my six-month old) an hour past our appointment time then, in a session lasting less than five minutes, informed me that I needed to re-do the paperwork on Australian forms and I could come back with the paperwork. I asked if I could just do it then and she said that would be fine but that she was going to lunch and could meet me in an hour.

The paperwork took me about half an hour. It was the same information (including a form in which I had to, er, detail in detail how I know Adam is the father) as I had already done.

Her lunch lasted over two hours. Two hours while I sat, nursing mother with a six month old who had now been out of the house with no nap since morning.

Once she came back, the paperwork was completed and she told me ON NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that I should expect NOTHING for at least six months.

So, I waited six months and called her. No response. I called Australia and the guy I talked to said the application had been rejected. “Rejected? Why?” I asked. “Let me check,” he said. Then he came back and said he couldn’t actually talk to me because of their agreement to work with California’s Child Support Agency. I would have to go through them. Great.

I call Ms. Jiminez back, leaving a more urgent message. Maybe a week later, she calls and tells me that Australia has rejected the application because there is no proof of paternity. See, under California law, the father’s name can only be put on the birth certificate if 1) you are married, 2) he is there at the birth to sign that he is the father, 3) he signs a special form (which I had given Adam but he had not done), or 4) a DNA test is ordered. Like I said, the Child Support Agency gets those orders.  In Australia, on the other hand, the Child Support Agency has nothing to do with getting paternity ordered. My government representative told me that I would probably need to get a lawyer in Australia to file for paternity. She remarked that she had handled other cases like this and the other women just gave up.

I didn’t buy this. It didn’t make sense that the laws would be set up in a way that would make it impossible for a child of an Australian to access the system because their dad failed or refused to sign a declaration. I have friends in Australia and asked around. Ended up getting a contact for a women’s legal center in Sydney. They put me in touch with the Australian Attorney General’s office. Wonder of wonders, they called me back. Wonder of wonders, they have a department for international family issues. Wonder of wonders, within weeks, they had orders for a court hearing. They kept in touch, they tracked Adam down, they had to re-schedule the hearing and let me know, the hearing happened March 2.

How could it be, I wondered, that our own people didn’t know about this process and properly advise me? It seemed clear that this was a systemic problem, and I determined to bring this up with our Child Support Agency once my stuff was settled.

Today, my phone rang. It was a Ms. Caballero from the County office who had somehow inherited the case. She was calling to inform me that they were closing the case because, despite ALL OF THEIR EFFORTS, Australia had refused the application. I asked her for the name and contact of the person overseeing International cases, and tried to explain my concerns. She became very defensive, responding to the information I shared with an “I already know that” and, when I told her I had been in contact with the Australian Attorney General and they had not been contacted by her office, she said “I don’t know who you talked to and, frankly, I don’t care.” She refused to listen to anything else I had to say, talking over me with her dismissive script before hanging up on me as I repeatedly asked, “Are you aware that there was a hearing and DNA testing ordered March 2?”

That’s when I lost it. Dressed for a business meeting, on my way out the door to drop AJ at daycare as she called, I dissolved into a sobbing mess. AJ was scared. I was scared. I had to pull it together. I had to get work done today. How to move forward when I felt so powerless? I have been carrying a LOT the past few weeks, including the dilemmas around AJ’s developing relationship with his dad. This bureaucratic bullshit was just the last straw.

They close the case. I start over. I go back down and do the humiliating paperwork again. Eventually, it all gets done. In the meantime, I strain under it all, keep trying to put one foot in front of the other, and wonder how women who don’t have the benefit of the resources, institutional savvy, and support that I am fortunate to know ever make it.

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By Mama Paloma, 05/02/2010 02:10

Recently, I looked back at the blog I kept while in Africa, specifically to find the following post. The topic of ‘Gen X Boy Angst’ had come up in several conversations with both male and female friends. I remembered writing about this before and looked up the entry. Here it is:

Saturday, October 07, 2006

The Full Moon

I once worked for a neurologist  who would flat out refuse to be on call for the emergency room during the full moon. Apparently, the “superstition” about the effects of the moon when it is fully visible at night are validated by statistically significant increases in psychotic episodes, suicide attempts, homicide, and general silliness. My former boss knew that, were he on call, he would get no sleep.

Since coming to Liberia, I have noticed that I am much more susceptible to the effects of  lunar largeness. More than once, I have found myself extremely emotional (and wondering why I was so) only to notice that bright disk in the night sky…could it have to do with my relative proximity to the equator? to the sea? the amount of water in the air being tugged by its pull? I don’t know, but it has happened enough to make me a believer.

Last night’s “Harvest Moon” was no exception. Except, it did not affect me as much as those around me. There was an odd tension in the air. I went to a UN event. Men I have met in only professional settings were hitting on me. Other people were just very moody and overly reactive.

In the end, it is all good information. I do not think I will be driving down Africa’s Atlantic coast with my “friend” who announced “I don’t give a f**k about you” as I was giving him a ride from one end of town to the next. I stopped my car and let him out at that point. Can you imagine that going down somewhere in Western Sahara?

Which brings me to the next topic that is interesting me at the moment: the phenomenon of Generation W/X men stuck in adolescence. I have just known too many from too many cultural/ethnic/educational/professional/socio-economic backgrounds for it to be a fluke. Is anyone studying this?  Sorry for any of my guy friends who sees himself in this. Believe it or not, this isn’t about YOU…this is a global phenomenon…or a global cliché. For me, it has been a global pain in the a** but then, it’s not all about me, either, unless it is my blog.

In any case, I can sketch a profile for you. Generally, this 25 – 40 year old boy is highly reactive and sensitive–and overcompensates for anxiety by going to the opposite extreme. This man/child often:

• Claims that he is “different” “crazy” and “strange” even though he is none of those things—it just gives him an excuse to behave as if he is still 15 years old.
• Often aquires many/large/many large tattoos to prove his uniqueness.
• Gets drunk and acts like an idiot to prove his insanity.
• Is rude and self-absorbed to prove his eccentricity.
• Is extremely sensitive and emotional but cannot handle emotions so engages in fantasies of avoiding/suppressing all emotion by
  • joining or re-joining the military,
  • being a loner,
  • just not giving a crap about anyone else, and/or
  • making plans to go to some remote (conveniently tropical) place to live without responsibility.
• Secretly craves intimacy and a “normal” life but it scares the crap out of him so he engages in serial monogamy but freaks out when he starts to feel attached and pushes the other person away by being rude and/or abusive.
• Also distances himself from his family….often geographically….and makes great effort to seem independent from his parents/siblings while at the same time being unusually influenced by them.
• Clings to his adolescent belief of his own immortality. Proves this by making a point of engaging in absurd levels of self-neglect, as well as varying levels of risky/dangerous behavior.
• Claims that women complicate his life and are so, so difficult. Yet, repeatedly seeks out women to care for him. Projects all of his insecurities and emotions on these women who are, like the parents of adolescents, really just objects in his life. Treats them like crap and then is hurt and angry when they set limits or tell him to piss off.
• Tends toward dramatic expressions of emotion—petulant withdrawal and silence, heavy drinking and obnoxious drunken behavior, blatant testosterone-laden pissing contests when around unfamiliar men, and creating DRAMA when actually expressing emotion openly.

I know, to many of my colleagues in the mental health profession, this looks like a classic diagnosis of borderline personality disorder with a touch of narcissism. Perhaps it is. Then again, one of my past supervisors told me that I could not diagnose any adolescent as borderline because, in her words “all 15-year-olds are borderline.” It is supposed to be a developmental issue, right? Perhaps what we should be doing is looking at what the hell has happened to keep a significant portion of this generation of men seemingly stuck at this difficult and painful stage of development.

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By Mama Paloma, 16/10/2009 07:43

Tonight I started a class in jewelry casting–where you create what you want out of wax, which is then encased in plaster, and then melted metal is spun into the plaster, vaporizing the wax as it takes the form of what you created. It’s a kind of tangible magic. I have done a bit of this kind of thing before, in High School and one piece since then, but started in the beginner class to get the technical stuff.

I have been looking forward to this, to being able to do something on a regular basis ‘just because.’ My mom recently moved here and that, combined with the return of Addison’s adopted neighborhood grandma and angel of babysitting Roberta, means that I can commit to doing something one night each week for the next month and a half. It’s a wonderful thing.

For me, jewelry is art and very symbolic. I don’t usually wear something because it is pretty. I will wear a pretty thing because it represents something, reminds me of some time, or connects me to someone. When I divorced, I couldn’t sell or dispose of my rings, so I went to a studio in Santa Monica and created a pendant out of wax that, for me, symbolizes the way that my marriage is a part of who I am and who I am becoming. The material is still there, just the shape has changed.

So, tonight, I had an idea of what I wanted to do. I have been thinking a lot about how our lives intersect and connect and disconnect. I want to create jewelry that is the clasp. The connection is the art and the beauty, rather than the afterthought. I am still going to do this.

However, tonight, the instructor wanted us to start on rings. I didn’t have an idea for a ring. Then, it came to me. I wanted to do a ring for Addison, that represents his place in my life. I decided that I would do it in a way that I could give it to him someday, maybe as he goes off to college or something, to remind him of the love I have for him and the preparation he has had to create his own life. I began imagining two bands that connect without intertwining, his starting off slim and supported by mine, and then broadening until mine is less visible.

This idea is challenging to carve out of wax. I started twice, cutting new bands of wax to work with, meditating the whole time on how to represent the experience that I have had of developing a secure attachment (for him) even as I let go (for him). I have written about this before, in “Mama’s here” and “Killing me softly.” For the better part of three hours, I was immersed in thoughts about this and how to express it in this new medium.

Class ended and one of my classmates offered to drop me home. I had walked up to Barnsdall Park for class pushing Addison in his stroller. Roberta came to meet us and took him to play for a bit before bed. I left my jacket in the stroller and it was cold-ish and late when we came out. My classmate asked me how old Addison is. “This is my baby,” she said, handing me a photo. I looked at what appeared to be a sleeping newborn. Then noticed the words at the bottom. “Rest in peace, little dude.” I looked at her. “He died,” she said, tears in her eyes.

All I could say was, “I am so sorry.”

I would have said, “I can’t imagine” but I can. I want to know that his life will go on endlessly, supported by my love. I want to make it real in wax and metal. But I know. This connection is tenuous, each moment a gift.

I wrote before that I want to be there when he dies, and I do. I don’t want him to face that alone, without his mama to help him over. Now I just have to figure out how to live with it if it does happen that way.

And tonight, my heart is with this other mother, who doesn’t get to go check to make sure her boy is still breathing, who will never get to hear her son call “mama.” My heart is with her, and it aches, and at the end of the night there is no magic.

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By Mama Paloma, 06/09/2009 16:37

Seriously? This is absolutely insane. I am now officially cranky.

This issue seems to have been settled in 1991 when Democrats tried to make a ruckus about Bush delivering a start of school speech…also lame…but non-Bush-supporting parents (i.e. the MAJORITY of Americans) didn’t get their panties all in a wad.

While this time students aren’t likely to get such brilliant insights as “I can’t understand for the life of me what’s so great about being stupid,” people really can’t think it’s going to hurt their kids to hear the President talk about personal responsibility in education.

Here’s a discussion question: What are we teaching our kids by entertaining such nonsense?

If you are an anti-Obama parent, why not listen to the speech yourself and, if you actually don’t agree with what he says, then TALK with your kids about what you disagree with and why? Allowing kids to miss school because a MINORITY of people buy the ‘socialist agenda’ crap just perpetuates the particularly American habit of walking away and not listening to people you think you disagree with.

PS: If you were one of the people who would tell anyone who even QUESTIONED the last two highly questionable and close election results, our past President’s motivations, decision making processes and capabilities, or the use of our resources for actions that transgressed US and international law that we should ‘respect the office of the President,’ I respectfully suggest that now, and for the next 4 – 7 years, you should consider just shutting the hell up!