at the circus

On Halloween we decided to go to the circus, which was holding its last performance in our area. Or, I should say, my mother and daughter decided to go. I wanted to stay in and laze around, or at most, go do some grocery shopping. I'm not very ambitious on a Sunday. But I was feeling a tad guilty because I knew we wouldn't be trick-or-treating later, and I wanted everyone to have a good time, so I acquiesced.



And we did have a good time. For the first half of the show. And then I looked over at my mom and I knew something was up. She wasn't looking at me or answering my questions. It was getting scarier by the moment. I knew exactly what was up, as the tent had been wickedly hot. The same thing had happened with her once before at an outdoor event a year or so ago. She was going to faint from heatstroke any moment if I didn't do something fast. I tried to get her to sip through the straw of her lemonade but that wasn't working. Luckily a nice lady behind us saw immediately what was up and asked her companion to go for help. By the time they got there I had got some ice on her wrists and neck and got the lid off the cup and forced some lemonade down her. It was like a light going on. She responded immediately. She was back, just as the circus security guys arrived. They helped her down the bleachers and plopped her in front of a large fan—probably the only one in the entire tent—and got her an ice pack. As we were climbing down the bleachers behind them my daughter asked me if she could get a pony ride—you've got to be kidding. Kids are amazing.

She didn't want to go to the ER, and after watching her for a moment I didn't think she needed to, so they lowered a barricade so that I could drive my car right up to the tent. As I was threading my way through the field where we parked, finally managing to get the car to the side of the tent, like a scene from some crazy movie, a tiny man appeared at my car window, banging on it and yelling, "No, NO!" I just shook my head at him and kept driving while someone else called him off. There were apologies all around and free passes to future shows, but I don't think we'll be going back anytime soon.



We seemed to have dodged once again, a mini-bullet, but what a horrible mini-movie it was of what's to come. Sorry for all the minis, but I can't get the image of that security guard pounding on my car window out of my head. We moved to Florida expressly for this purpose—to be close to my mom, whose health and ability to care for herself is failing. It's not that an incident like this should or does shock me (even though it shakes me to the core). I guess I just wasn't ready—for the intensity, the speed of it. And it feels like some bad cosmic joke—what, I can't even take them to the circus? As if I needed any proof that clowns spell e-v-i-l.

She bounced back, but I think she was thrown too. She doesn't really remember anything specific about how it happened, how bad she must have felt, but how could she? She was about to pass out. I am trying not to kick myself for not "knowing better." I can't stop the inevitable decline, as much as I might like. But I can try to prevent any future episodes of this nature. I can try.

the spiral of life

I've been thinking lately about the changes I have gone through in my daughter's first five years of life. Some have been expected, and some not.

When she was first born I was thrilled to meet her, relieved that everything went well, and simultaneously excited and horrified at the reality that this little human's life was in my hands. The first few months were a getting-to-know-you period where I met this person who had been living inside my body for the past nine months. My new roommate was demanding, and I had to learn to love her amidst all the chaos, but I fell in love with her all over again pretty quickly. When I think about the rest of that first year, I mostly think of us face-to-face, with goofy grins.

The second year, which most dub the terrible twos, now seems a breeze - at least toddler behavior-wise. Milestones were met, walking and talking began in earnest. A real little person was in my life. Probably the greatest challenge for me was having to watch her get sick, or fall down and get hurt, and deal with all the worry, while trying to care for her and let her know that everything would be O.K. The rest of the year blurs with the third year and was a real struggle for me, as chilhood illness really took over, and it seemed that the two of us were sick all the time. I also started to lose who I was, my identity, and I think started to resent the whole motherhood gig. With added pressure from work from folks who aren't parents and just didn't get what it's like to be torn in two, to be wholly responsible for another's existence - well, it didn't help and tended to make a person cranky...

But we both started to get healthier, thanks to some lifestyle changes, staying out if range of some things and simply growing up and out of other things, so during the fourth year I started to find my own voice again. She became a bit more independent, and I could take some time to express myself, through my blog, or just be able to have a conversation with another adult and have her not be the only focus in the room, as four-year-olds are not as endlessly fascinating to folks as babies are.

Richard Long

This year we are circling back to where we were in year one. She's old enough to get her own breakfast on the weekends, so I can sleep in and get some me time. She is so smart and funny that we can get giddy and laugh or share a family joke. Or I can just sit and watch her in amazement as she tells a story or in delight as she dances, It's not quite the same stare at each other with goofy grins as before, but our worlds have changed, we are both older. But as I've observed before, life is not so much a circle, but a spiral, and we are in similar positions to the ones we were in five years ago, but now we are on a loop farther out on the spiral. And it's a good place to be.

"hey kid, stop jumping on my furniture!"

"It's not your furniture."

"Yes it is. I paid for it, it's mine. I just let you sit on it."

Ok. It's official. I am my dad. Yikes.

As I try to manage not losing my temper, invoking the Sicilan part of my heritage, a thought pops into my head. What would Barack Obama do? He always seems so calm, cool and collected. Will he roar at his girls if they one day, full of kid energy, tear through the Lincoln bedroom and start jumping on the heirloom historic artifacts? Will Barack lose his cool and yell, "Hey girls get off that furniture"?

It could happen to any parent.

the myth of the supermom

Women can do it all, right? That's what I was brought up to believe. And technically, I guess, every day I prove the point. But does anyone talk about what doesn't get done? What gets lost?

I'm not talking about seeing new releases weeks (or years) after everyone else has. That's nothing.

If mom is busy all day at work and busy at home later trying to feed you, bathe you, hold down the fort, etc., what is getting missed (besides hours of sleep)? Does the kid really get the amount of attention it needs and deserves? Does the mom get to spend any quality time with family, friends, love of her life? What about herself? What about trying to feed her mental and emotional needs? Or updating her blog?

The fast-paced world we live in can be quite exciting, but exhausting too. To me the most interesting thing about recent political events and the anti-Hillary is wondering why anyone, but especially a mom, would want to spread herself even thinner than she is already.

I'm not politically conservative, but I find it oxymoronic that a so-called social conservative isn't being lambasted yet by the family values groups. Is it good for a special-needs (or any) newborn to have a mom who wants to take a new 24-hour-on-call job? With a major stress level? In the most formative years of a child's life?

Just askin'...



All people are born alike - except Republicans and Democrats.
Groucho Marx

the apple needs to fall far from the tree

Helen: I can't believe you don't want to go to your own son's graduation.
Bob: It's not a graduation. He is moving from the 4th grade to the 5th grade.
Helen: It's a ceremony!
Bob: It's psychotic! They keep creating new ways to celebrate mediocrity, but if someone is genuinely exceptional...

Overachiever parents. What's with that? I swear, if I hear one more mom or dad say "Good job!" because their little angel has taken a step, slid down a slide, managed to get most of it in the toilet, etc., etc., I'm going to scream. Being a kid is not a job, and being a parent shouldn't automatically embrace a sports mentality. But it seems to, these days. How far away is this sort of praise from Jeter slapping A-Rod on the butt or giving him a high-five after he drives in a homer? Not far. That is appropriate behavior at Yankee Stadium. At the public restroom in Target, not so much.

Why should everything a kid does be congratulated? Simple day-to-day tasks that we all have to master in our formative years are being rewarded, illustrated in the fantastic scene (dialogue above) from The Incredibles, where the "super" dad sums it up.

Of course all parents want to cheer their kids on. But the pushy stage-mother is just a prescription for heavy-duty psych bills in your child's future. Let's face it, they're going to have plenty to resent you for anyway, but did the fact that you were so busy ferrying them to soccer practice and ballet class and violin lessons and god-knows-what-else really benefit them in the long run? What about just letting them have a childhood, where they play and have fun?

How much of this over-booking is the desire to expose your kids to all the great stuff that's out there or simply mimicking our own crazy schedules? Or trying to live out your 'deprived" childhood through your kid?

It's a precarious balance. Hopefully the kids won't suffer for it. Because we don't really need any more Mileys/Britneys/Lindseys.

And if everything a kid does is so darn good, how do we gauge real excellence?

Dash: You always say 'Do your best', but you don't really mean it. Why can't I do the best that I can do?
Helen: Right now, honey, the world just wants us to fit in, and to fit in, we gotta be like everyone else.
Dash: But Dad always said our powers were nothing to be ashamed of, our powers made us special.
Helen: Everyone's special, Dash.
Dash: [muttering] Which is another way of saying no one is.