Over the last two years our family has gotten used to going back and forth between parents. It’s a testament to the passing of time that I’m even able to admit such a difficult thing because I know it is not the ideal situation. More than anything I’ve learned that co-parenting sometimes results in an It is what it is sentiment because things are just beyond our control. I read with great interest how other people cope with the loss of a marriage through divorce, but I’m just not able to write about it. First of all, it would be one sided and that’s simply unfair. Secondly, I would have to permit entry into the hole that is left in my heart since my marriage failed. I failed. But it’s a mourning that others write about and explore far better than I could do justice.

Every week that my boys are with me they bring a few of their favorite clothes, a karate uniform, and a ton of DVDs. My sons are connoisseurs of films. Many years ago when they were quite young our family made the conscious decision to get rid of cable television because they were so impressionable and reality shows and sexual music videos began to get out of control in our society. Since it’s hard to monitor that we simply turned it off and started playing more board games, doing puzzles, and reading. After about four months when that wore off we visited our video store and rented all the movies in the Classics section because they were free. They watched Jimmy Stewart’s incredible performance in “Harvey” and learned nearly every line to Rosalind Russell’s “Auntie Mame” (my all time favorite movie ever) and then a friend let us borrow her Ealing Studios Collection of films starring Sir Alec Guinness.

We learned, watching the  Ealing Studio movies, that the older kids didn’t get much into British comedy. I asked them what they didn’t like about it and Mallory responded with “Nothing EVER turns out right for those characters, mom!” True. It’s uh…kind of like the thing about British comedy. They were very meh about the whole thing and might even tell you that they suffered through it. The youngest loved it. He was probably 6 at the time so it surprised me that he liked it as much as he did. We got through “The Ladykillers” and were well into “The Lavender Hill Mob” when he spoke up and said, “I know that guy. That actor. But not like this. I know his voice.”

Morgan, my youngest, is really good with voices. And he was absolutely right. He did know that voice. It belonged to Obi Wan Kenobi and we’d watched enough Star Wars movies to choke a tauntaun.

Tonight, when my boys got here, Morgan pulled out 8 movies (EIGHT MOVIES LIKE WE HAVE TIME FOR ALL THAT CRAP) that he’d brought over and I grieved the realization that he probably wants to watch all of them before he goes to bed. “Look here, buddy. We aren’t watching everything. Make a choice and pick ONE.” One of them is the second “Die Hard” movie and since it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that one I had to ask if it’s the one in the airport and on the plane. Mason chimed in that he’s noticed a theme with the Bruce Willis movies.

“Ok, so the first one he saves everyone in a building. The second one he saves everyone  in an area. The third one he saves a whole city. The fourth one he saves the whole United States. I’ll bet in the fifth one he’ll save the whole world. The sixth one he’ll save the universe. The seventh one he’ll probably save God.”

Mason sure does have a special way of summing things up. Speaking of summing things up, I don’t really have much in the way of tying this all together. But that’s how life is for me sharing kids. It’s really pretty messy. The point is, I have some great kids who are funny and who have managed to maintain a sense of humor. Even when it feels like nothing ever turns out right for us.

As an added bonus, I’ve included a very cute “sweded” version of “Die Hard” that I found just now. (Have you seen “Be Kind, Rewind”? Then you might know what sweded means. Great movie. Watch it. It’s super cute.)

Yippee-ki-yay. (I can’t write the last word of that popular phrase. I’m trying to be family friendly here. I don’t have to write it. You know it.)

This morning I got to sit in on an interview with a student for a story being written by a reporter after I, in what is far too normal, opened my mouth to talk about my students. It is an occurrence that happens often once you get me talking about education. There is no reason for me to keep these solid gold stories to myself about what I get to see and experience in my job and in my dealings with teenagers. If you have one (a teenager, that is) and you’ve ever wondered about how it is their brains work then I’m not the one to ask. I can’t figure them out any better than anyone else even though I’ve raised a few in my time as a mom. But I’m precariously close to having a great deal of empathy for them. So much so that I’m closer to tears some days than they realize. I’m a professional, though. I have learned to wait until I’m out of their presence before I shed a tear.

In the movie Broadcast News the character Jane Craig that is played by Holly Hunter is an empathetic reporter who does her job efficiently and effectively without letting herself get close enough to be betrayed. She has a habit of waiting until she’s along and then she weeps uncontrollably, collects herself, and goes back about her job.

I’ve learned to do that. Far too well I might add.

It’s not my intention to tell her story. It is my intention to tell mine. As much as I want to share things about these fantastic students in my charge I am learning to be more and more cautious. (Mostly to savor them and fully explore some of them in my book.) (Oh, have I piqued your interest? Yay! Buy my book!) (You know. Someday. When I finish writing it.)

In the years I’ve written online I have learned two things for certain: 1) everyone has a story to tell and 2) when you tell it well you work your way into the heart of the reader. How familiar you become with the author of a story depends on how much you trust them. When I sit and listen to my students tell me their story that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s all this stuff underneath that’s been building for a long time and if they don’t trust me, they don’t tell me. If they don’t tell me, I can’t help them as I so desperately wish.

Oftentimes I think, “I can’t wait to tell that story!” or “This is such a great anecdote!” It’s hard because then I feel guilty. I don’t mean to exploit them. I just mean to show people, through writing, a slice of my work. My writing is at its best when I’m doing that or when I’m trying desperately to work through how I parent. When I write about being a mom I have to be more cautious because my children aren’t unknowns or just letters. “Child M said this.” or “Child M said that.” See how dumb it was of me to give them all names that start with M’s? I must have known I was going to write a blog someday, hmm? But my students are anonymous and I tell stories that are current or ones that happened many years ago, yet the fine line is always there. I had this moment recently where I thought it was stupid to keep telling the stories about my children and my students and how I should stop completely.

Then, I stopped listening to that voice in my head. It’s not like I’m living my like Tila Tequila for crying out loud. Right?

I think I’m having another moment.

This must be what writers think like. No wonder they’re crazy.

After spending a month writing a post (read: faking it at times with no more than a simple photo) every day I’ve come to the conclusion that I write differently now from when I began and it forces me to consider what’s changed during that time. Not only have I become lactose intolerant (thanks, Mr. Tummy, you’re kinda jerky for doing that to me) but I’ve become a single woman again, found and brought home another daughter, and learned important things about myself like knowing when I’m “alone” versus when I’m “lonely”. It’s also become apparent that I will forever have issues with my hair no matter how much of it I keep cutting. It took a while but I’ve also come to the conclusion that wearing a size Transvestite in shoes (thanks for the solidarity, my sister) is not necessarily a bad thing. 

In any case, I’m taking writing more seriously and that’s why I haven’t updated on a more regular basis. And oh, the things I have to tell you! Like about how freaking tall my sons are getting and that I just look up at them in awe. (We’re closing in on 6′3 and it’s just kind of ridiculous that they were ever very small.) Or how I signed up to take kick-boxing lessons! Or even all the stories I have about my students and how the purse drive is going! You know, just basic daily happenings that no one is really interested in anyway. As is standard, I can’t talk much about the new writing project but I can say that I have an editor and do you know what goes on with having an editor? AP STYLEBOOK RULES and a whole bunch of very uninteresting guidelines by which I must follow. What happens when you start really paying attention to writing is that you read sentences like the previous one and ask yourself, “Did that make sense? by which I must follow? What the heck is wrong with me that I can’t write even a basic sentence anymore?” and then you second guess every thing and your confidence is shot and you think you’re a total dolt and that everyone from high school was right when they voted you Most Likely To Be A Beach Bum.

So, there’s a new freelance writing gig and there’s regular work and there’s my boring life but there are also new friends and old traditions and everything really is going well. I just thought it might be time to say, for myself, that I’m really happy and feeling healthy (oh, thanks to everyone’s comments about vegan foods and ways to change my eating habits and wow, that Kombucha stuff is amazing because I feel fantastic!) and that I’m in a good place. There wasn’t even a minor freak out when I was sending some writing to my editor and I wrote out the sentence, “Now that I’m nearing 40…” THAT RIGHT THERE IS QUITE A FEAT IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF. (My editor hasn’t been too subjected to my fondness for all caps. Lucky her.) Too often, I reflect when things are all wrong and when I experience bouts of WebMD-defined depression creep in and life is, generally speaking, crappy. 

But life is good. Things are good. I am good. 

That alone was worth mentioning. 

So, how are you?

This will be the first year in the history of my being a parent that I won’t be with my children on Thanksgiving day so we have decided to our meal today. It was the basic turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie (blech. I don’t eat it, but the children do – I just eat the whipped cream out of the can when no one is looking) and cheesecake. I made everybody clear their schedule so we could spend the day pretending like it was really Thursday. I watched a full 10 minutes of a college football game on tv this morning (don’t ask which one, I just wanted it to feel like Thanksgiving) and then later we sat down to view “Miracle on 34th Street” because we didn’t have the real Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade to get us through. Divorce is hard on kids and families and this was the best I could do to make my family enjoy a meal. Creating a family moment that feels right is more work than one would anticipate, but if it’s crafted just so then you can convince yourself it’s Thursday and not really Saturday.

Even though we kept calling it Fake Turkey Day we all pretty much realized that it was important to make the effort for this day. It felt weird at first and any time we needed to go out for something we surprised ourselves with, “Wow, there are SO many stores open today on Thanksgi…OH YEAH THAT’S RIGHT IT’S SATURDAY.” It even ended like our Thanksgiving meals normally do – arguing about who will do dishes and who will put the food in the leftover containers and with everyone sitting around the television afterward with their hands in the waistband of their pants.

Actually, we pretty much do that every Saturday night. We’re doing this family thing the best we can and it’s damn near perfect.

When the first AIDS quilt was created in 1987 it took just a little time to reach me where I lived in Chicago. It was a time when sex, as a typical teenage subject, was not at all taboo. But at the time I recall my friends and I wanting to ignore what was going on in our world. For those of you who don’t know what the AIDS quilt is, you can find more information about it here. In our home, my parents had the philosophy that they wanted to expose us to every kind of culture they could. As young girls my sisters and I took tap, ballet, acting classes, and attended summer camps that allowed us to learn how to play tennis and racquetball. Later, we ran track and cross country, played softball, volleyball, and basketball. We got to take art classes and spent time at the Jewish Community Center after our Catholic schooling and we went to a Hispanic babysitter who taught us Spanish. By the time I got to high school it is safe to assume that I was exposed to a lot of fantastic things. 

So, when my mother suggested that I go with her to McCormick Place in Chicago and view the AIDS quilt, it was just another thing she wanted to reveal to me about life and humanity. By this time, I was a high school senior with a 2-year old daughter. It was, of course, unconventional. It was something that my family hadn’t expected to be in my life plans, but there it was: just a simple fact of the way things were working out for me. I had, by this time, also had a second daughter whom I placed for adoption and had, shall we say, had some experience. 

I’m not tying this into sex and AIDS or anything. These are just facts.

On this particular day my mother, Mallory and I headed out to see this quilt my mom had been going on and on about. I’ve learned about activism from my mom. Tonight, she’s out getting ready for a rally to protest some crazy, ignorant folks who are protesting “The Laramie Project”. Her church is going out in support of people who want to see it and, well… that’s just my mom for ya. On her way out the door just now she said, “When I come back home, I’ll be in full rebel mode.” She’s just the cutest darned thing, isn’t she? But back to 1989, shall we?

The AIDS quilt is incredibly enormous. It was spread out on the floor in panels and people were allowed to walk around them and look at the decorative patterns and names. People were working there to help explain what the quilt was and they each walked around holding a box of tissues. I was just in awe of the sheer number of people who had succumbed to this disease. Mallory didn’t ask me to explain anything. She just held my hand and walked along with me because my mom had wandered off on her own at this point. And I hadn’t cried. Mostly, I spent time walking around them and avoiding eye contact with anyone because this is a big thing to take in when you see it. It can consume you. People were weeping in corners and touching the fabrics and as many people as were in that place I don’t remember a single face. 

Sometime later, I happened upon one of the names. I saw the dates of his life and it said that he and his partner had both died from the virus. It was just some simple name. Nothing too memorable. Plain. No other details of his life were mentioned but that was probably what did it. The dam broke and the tears would just not stop. Someone touched my shoulder and offered me a tissue. 

Do you know how sometimes in life people ask you a question and you just answer the first thing that comes to mind and you’re glad you didn’t spend time thinking too hard about how best to answer them? After I stopped my tears a bit he asked, “Anyone in particular?”

He wanted to know if I had finally happened upon a quilt piece belonging to a friend or a loved one. He wanted to know if I recognized the name. He wanted to know what my connection was to this faceless person and I honestly didn’t even have one. So I threw my hands up and quietly answered, “Everyone in particular.”

That’s only one of the reasons I’m attending the viewing of “The Laramie Project” this weekend. This is for all of us, people. Even the ones filled enough with so much hatred that they want to yell and scream at the rest of us. But, also for the friends and family members who only want to love who they love and get unnecessarily taken to task for it. It’s what I was taught to do by parents who lovingly introduced humanity to me in a real and tangible way.

It’s for everyone.