A benign case of Stockholm syndrome? Some of what I've learned this summer.

Big Boys Week

We touched down on the outskirts of my hometown knowing that eager arms waited close by to ensnare the three of us in warm hugs. From within that circle of loving embrace, profuse excitement bubbled up as if we were a magic cauldron whose power only worked when none of the five was absent. After a short, familiar drive, we walked through the back door and settled in, and it was clear that no time had passed; this truly was a second home. Is a second home.

Mom, Dad, Jack, Ol, Tom and I always look forward to the annual summertime Big Boys Week in Louisiana. My parents relish unhurried time with the boys, especially in, but not because of, our absence. Pretty much every grandparent with whom I've ever spoken has said that the relationship (s)he can forge with his/her grandkids when the parental middlepeople aren't around is wonderful and different from the one enjoyed when everyone's together. I love watching my parents work as a team with the boys. They are so truly happy to be with them, delighted with their silliness and charm and interests.

And it's completely mutual. The boys and my parents have always shared a particularly close connection, a real point of satisfaction and pride for us all, especially in light of the geographic distance between Louisiana and DC as that makes visits more infrequent than we'd all like. But in all the important ways, the distance has never seemed to matter, and so the kids look forward to their Big Boys stay with such enthusiasm every year. They get to fish and swim and eat junk food and spend endless hours with people they love who sincerely want to spend endless hours right back with them. Who doesn't win in this scenario?!

Naturally, Tom and I also go bonkers over the idea of Big Boys Week because it means having a protracted (and free!!) holiday to ourselves. Usually we go away for some of it, and part of me is desperately missing the Union Square Greenmarket right now because New York is our most common destination, but this time decided to stay put because, in short, we are deeply tired. I have gotten done this week many, many things I never have time for and have so enjoyed the hours I could spend accomplishing them. Jack's room is now unrecognizable in a nicely non-hoarder way, and I bought him new sheets to celebrate all the ludicrous cleanliness happening in there. I spent some hours today setting up a fish tank in Ol's room- he's been asking, and since the dumb hermit crabs died, why not?

I really don't think the kids miss me a lick while they're in Louisiana. I've had to get used to that, but as Tom reminded me last night, "Em, they pretty much molest you at all times when you're together, so why don't you just enjoy a molestation-free week and know that it'll start up again soon." Point taken, and really, I should be and truly am very proud of how independent the kids are. They are usually completely open to new experiences and times away, and I think that's a reflection of their security in our mother-child relationship and of their own senses of self-confidence.

Mom's Experience of Big Boys Week

I, on the other hand, have missed them more this week than I usually do, seriously leading me to wonder if I'm suffering from a benign form of Stockholm syndrome. I mean, honestly, sometimes when we're apart, I don't miss them at all, so what gives? Many a parent spends a decent amount of time day-dreaming about time off and space for self, and then, when we get it, we sometimes miss our tiny captors. It's enough to make me feel like I'm slightly nuts, but I guess that's maternal love for you. A few nights back, I would have given anything to sneak into the boys' rooms and kiss their warm cheeks and slightly sweaty brows. To place my hand in theirs and feel their fingers curl gently, reflexively around mine. Instead, I put my ear plugs in and slept the night away which was pretty dreamy too, but still...

It's been harder than usual to let down and relax this past week. Don't get me wrong, I have definitely lazed about and savored every second of uninterrupted solitude and time with T and friends. But it's been a sort of effort that, in my opinion, comes from my body having to relearn how to not be so "on" all.the.time. In the absence of constant and important responsibilities and the energy and adrenalin needed to power through and on behalf of those, my body is confused: "What is this thing called free time? What do you want me to do right now?" I didn't feel this at BlogHer because that conference is a minute-to-minute ride in the best of ways. There, I'm on, but in a much different way than when at home.

Clearly, I need to "do" this more often if possible, because I hardly think it good that R&R feels difficult. Or maybe it's just felt that way because I've had a headache the entire time. But I think that stems from the same source: when your body can let down, all it's been holding back and disallowing let's down too. It makes me think of how, after a massage, you often leave with the strict advice to "drink LOTS of water because when your muscles release, a whole bunch of toxins release too." All that bad energy or those worries or sadness or fatigue...it all comes rushing through the rarely-open floodgates, and that's part of what makes a massage a healing experience. Perhaps this migraine is just a massage aftermath in altered state.

As I often do, I think about what I might learn from times like these. What does it mean that my weekends in Richmond and San Jose (for the conferences) were so enlivening and prompted me to consider some important questions of purpose and aim? That the boys' weeks at Calleva worked so well for us all? And that this down time has, for me, felt so needed and lovely and challenging?

Some of What I've Learned This Summer

At BlogHer, because it was my second time there and so I could focus a bit beyond just immersing myself in all the opportunities, I tried to keep front and center the big questions the conference poses: What are my goals? What about my blogging endeavor is most important? Why do I continue to blog? What do I hope to accomplish by doing so? How best can I make those things happen? Who in my life is supportive? Who's not?

I came home with a number of thoughts and have since processed most and acted on some.

-For starters, I see that I desire a different sort of balance in my life. "Balance" is a tricky concept because it means something different to each of us, and often, it's influenced by external models and 'shoulds' that don't always ring true if we pay attention and are honest with ourselves. Long story short, it can be hard to both define and find.

To me, balance is shaping up to mean a responsibility to spend my time and energy and love on the activities and interests and people that/who need and appreciate it. It's also the selfishly unselfish act of realizing that taking time for myself and my interests makes me better able to mother, friend, wife, volunteer, etc, (All those should be read as verbs, y'all.) and because of that, setting limits, saying no and standing up for what I need doesn't require apology. It requires acceptance of who I am and that, in the sage words of Jenny Lawson, "I might not be for everyone."

Balance is why Calleva worked so well for the boys and me. Each day provided them the opportunity to exert themselves physically and emotionally and socially for the number of hours they really need to do those things completely. Calleva ran longer than school, was basically a fun P.E. class outside for the entire time and each week, the kids and counselors in each group changed. I learned so much about the boys as I saw how happy they were in that environment. They love school deeply, and about that I am thrilled. But there is something to the unstructured, physical stuff that is extraordinarily good for them, and I need to figure out how best to keep that going. Concurrently, I finally had enough time each day to get my stuff done in a relaxed versus harried manner. Because of that, I didn't have to race all day to fit things in between drop-off and pick-up which meant that I wasn't wiped out just as my real day began. Critically important!

-Secondly, and in response to how best I can help advance my goals, I will no longer be catering as I wish to use that time in other ways that fulfill me more. Thank you to everyone who has been a wonderful "client"- you were always much more than that.

-Thirdly, someone recently asked me a simple question that rang as profound: "If your "closest" friends aren't supportive of your having found a passion and following through on that, are they really great friends?". I love when such a basic, objectively-asked query sets me straight. Answer: No. And thank you very much. This needn't mean anything except that I need to adjust my expectations regarding some relationships; this is always good to know because it avoids both superfluous energy expended and disappointment.

-Fourth, I am working with a woman I met at BlogHer on an Em-i-lis redesign (mostly visual), believing that investing in myself is never the wrong tactic in life. Neither is investing in others in whom you believe and wish to know better (the woman I met at BlogHer who is helping with the redesign; also, many others!). Because of that, I'm spending my own money on this renovation and feel awfully proud of that. My mom always said it was important to have your own money. Another story for another time, but she was right.

And thus...

As I sit here this evening, slathered in peppermint oil which is not doing a damn thing besides smelling nice and snarfing cheese like I'm Bridget Jones, I am grateful.

I'm grateful for these lessons learned, and I'm grateful to the people who and experiences that helped me learn them. I'm grateful to my parents and Tom's parents for being so invested in our children's lives and for the needed breaks their love often provides us. You make us all better. I'm grateful to be getting older and just -finally!- not caring as much about some things as I used to. A giant amen to that last one, for the love. I'm grateful for clarity when it comes, even if its path to me can sometimes seem awfully inefficient and muddy. I'm grateful to my husband who may only bring me flowers spontaneously (he knows about Valentines Day, friends) every eleven years (last week; clock starts anew, T) but who is always supportive of me pursuing the things that make me tick. I am grateful to my darling boys who made me both a besotted mother and Stockholm syndrome sufferer because without them, neither this post nor its title would exist. I'm grateful to you for recognizing the sarcasm in the last part of that previous gratitude. I'm grateful for all the real deal folks out there as well as all those who pave ways and provide opportunities that the rest of us can traverse and take. I'm grateful for all the loud, funny, honest-as-shit women who inspire me daily. I'm grateful that I love the written word and have some facility with it, and I'm grateful for this platform which allows me to write and share daily.

Thanks.

#Ferguson #race #whiteprivilege

Last week, outside the gym locker rooms, I saw a friend. He’s a great guy, and I also love his wife. We met nearly four years ago when our children started kindergarten together. They are both incredibly successful professionals and their kids are the sort you meet and think, “What terrific kids!” Which of course also means, “What terrific parents.” We started catching up, and I asked if he was still travelling fairly constantly for work. He’s been on the road regularly for the past year and told me that pace hadn’t yet relented. Hopefully this fall. He must be a million-miler on all airlines by now.

Chit-chat transitioned into a powerful conversation about race in America, and for the next twenty minutes, I mostly listened, entranced and sad.

He and his wife are black. Did you have that in your mind’s eye? Or did that make you pause slightly, like the jury in A Time To Kill when Matthew McConaughey instructs them, “Now imagine that girl is black.”

We talked about what’s happening in Ferguson, the Eric Garner homicide, my friend’s own experiences as the victim of bigotry and racism since he was young. He told me about having been called the “n word” too many times to count, about having the police follow and pull him over for no reason and then question his ownership of his own car. He told me about the treatment his wife has received too; ugly, discriminatory profiling.

The albatrosses they now possess, constituted by years of these encounters, have made them think long and hard about how they need to prepare their children to be black in America. As he told me how -emphasizing perfect diction; learning how to handle being called the “n word” should that happen; teaching irreproachable behavior when in the presence of any authority, especially the police - I stood there, dumbstruck and heartbroken. We are definitely not in a post-racial U.S.

Our boys have been friends for years, and the way they walk down school halls or the baseball dugout now might be just the way they saunter through malls or towards a movie theater in another ten. My friend said that even though they (the boys) wouldn’t bat an eye, others might. Strangers may “look at them differently. If the police pass …” and something appears even the tiniest bit off, “nothing would happen to your son, but something could very easily happen to mine.” He said everything much more eloquently than that, but hopefully you get the drift. Remarkably, he didn’t sound bitter. He sounded resigned, and that crushed me.

For my heart hurt with those truths, throbbing with the painful knowledge that because I am white, I won’t have to prepare my kids in the same way. I have read and heard so much, especially lately, about black parents who are scared for their children (particularly for their sons) to simply walk down the street. Who fear for the hateful assumptions others will make for nothing more than the color of their skin. They have had to work, as will their children, harder than white peers for the same, or lesser, outcomes.

Trayvon, Michael, Eric. Black men walking on American streets one moment, dead the next. Killed. I’d be terrified too.

But those are never the worries I have for my sons. I fret about many things, but I take for granted -subconsciously; because I can- that they won’t be profiled and judged. That ability to not worry? That is white privilege and it’s despicable. That this privilege is another’s burden, too many others’ burden, enrages me and makes me cringe. It is morally indefensible.

Realizing the time, my friend and I quickly hugged and said goodbye. I thanked him profusely for the gift he gave me in this conversation, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I don’t think I will and I do hope we’ll pick up where we left off sometime soon. Discrimination is ugly and divisive, the sort of horribleness that necessarily exalts some while denigrating others. It reminds me of the caste system in India, an antiquated, racist scheme that I I suspect many Americans would condemn, despite the tragic double standard inherent in doing so.

In such an unequal system, the “exalted” must and should play an enormous role in fighting the injustice. It is additional discrimination to put the onus on the denigrated to themselves do better and overcome. Like hetero allies do in the fight for LGBTQ rights, so too must non-blacks rise up in protest of the Eric Garner and Michael Brown homicides. Garner was killed by a police officer. Killed. On a street in a chokehold, begging for breath while some ignorant idiot continued to apply pressure. And for what? Selling cigarettes when he shouldn’t have been?

So far, the officers responsible have been slapped on the wrists. They’re still employed by the NYPD. The NYPD union protested the claim -despite video evidence and the autopsy- that Garner died from the chokehold, citing instead his being overweight and in somewhat ill health. Mayor de Blasio called for dialogue. What would be different if Garner were white? I suspect much. And by the way, that officer, the one who killed Garner and still has his job? He was accused twice in 2013 of falsely arresting and abusing people. Who’s the threat here? The problem?

We all should have a problem with cops like that. We all should expect and demand more. Dialogue should prevent these sorts of deaths. It’s a largely empty suggestion afterwards.

Remember Cliven Bundy? That racist, nearly-seventy-year-old in Nevada who has refused to pay grazing fees on federal land for twenty years? Remember him sitting atop his horse, flanked by an equally crazed militia, all of them armed out the wazoo, pointing their guns directly at the Bureau of Land Management agents and screaming about their second amendment rights? Can you imagine if a group of black men sat in their place? I don’t at all think it’s exaggeration to say that at least one would have been shot dead and the rest jailed for life.

Ours is far from a fair and just society, and after all the years and decades spent fighting for equality on many fronts, it’s deeply upsetting to witness events that strongly suggest we have moved forward not an inch. American inequality plays out socioeconomically, racially, geographically, religiously, along gender lines and on and on. At times the future seems so terribly bleak: what can any of us do? What can one of us do? What can I do?

Right now, I can look microcosmically at myself as a white mother of two. I believe it is my responsibility to confront racism head-on by exposing my children to its ugly presence; as they see its injustice and are moved by it, I can try to guide them towards behavior that combats such intolerance.

It is my duty to expose them to the abject poverty in which many Americans live and foster in them desire to work towards its end. It is incumbent upon me to repeatedly remind them just how fortunate they are and to instill in them sincere generosity and eagerness to give back, not out of a sense of obligation but rather the deeply held conviction of what is just.

I want to continue to ask and listen and learn and talk. To stand up alongside and for my brothers and sisters in whose shoes I don’t walk so that I see more clearly their paths as they both converge with and diverge from my own. It is my hope that as my children see their mother walking the walk, they are inspired to do the same. And that at some point, the weights of injustice and suppression that debase the fabric of our society are weakened to the point of insignificance and true regret.

Figgy Flatbread

Last night, I had after-dinner plans with dear friend, M, to drink champagne and look at each other's wedding albums. As I had not laid eyes on mine in years and have only seen one of M's wedding pics, I knew it'd be a lovely way to spend a Monday evening. But first, migraine elimination and dinner. I pretty much gave up on the former but was determined to make a lovely meal regardless. During my writing class on Sunday, Lili told us about her son's new job as a line cook at one of John Besh's new spots in NOLA and in doing so dropped word of some ridiculously amazing pizza that included mascarpone, fresh figs and prosciutto. As I had just bought some figs and could not stop thinking about this pizza, I took a break from Jack's room yesterday afternoon to make a batch of Peter Reinhart's Neapolitan pizza dough.

After letting it rise for several hours, I pulled off about a sixth of the dough, shaped it into a thin crust and spread it with a film of mascarpone, some caramelized shallots I'd just made, sliced figs, salt, bacon (I just can't find the love for prosciutto; I do love speck but couldn't find it yesterday.) and a bit of fresh mozzarella. Once the pizza stone and grill were adequately heated, I popped this baby on until just done, spread some fresh arugula on top and dove in.

Today, my migraine is largely gone, Jack's room is finally clean, last night was so lovely and fun and I have two small wedges of figgy flatbread left!