C.J. Jung,*** Praying Mantis, and Car Pondering

C.J. Jung fills a kettle in his workshop

We were about halfway to school when Noah, who was sitting in the front seat, put his finger on the windshield and said, Look it's a praying mantis without a head! 

I said, Really? and Oliver, sitting in the back seat, said, Yeah, you're right, Noah. And did you know, Mom, that after mating the female bites the head off the male? Maybe she does it so he can't eat the babies.

I seem to remember something like that, Oliver. I said, but who the hell knows? I'm fifty and haven't picked up a science text in a quarter of a century. There is always much to ponder in the car with children, especially when there's a headless male insect on your windshield, so that's what I did, the rest of the way to school --  'Bye, have a great day! -- and then when I dropped off mail at the post office and still later when I went to pick up some dry-cleaning. I have a lot to ponder right now in my life and would guess that most of us do have much to ponder. Most of it isn't bloggable, but it's definitely ponderable. My clothes weren't ready, so I sat in the car and read email for a bit, closed my eyes and opened them to see what appeared to be a praying mantis, a pale green and delicate creature, scamper up the top of the windshield and out of my sight.

This one definitely had a head.






***The photo of C.J. Jung has been sitting on my desk for months. I like it and thought it fit in some weird way with this post. Go with it the way you will.

Boy Conversation, Number 2,349,671

I picked up The Brothers and My Carpool Kid this afternoon early from school because it's Tuesday, and for some reason that I don't yet understand despite having been a part of the almighty LAUSD in some capacity or another for nearly fifteen years, there's always one day a week in the LAUSD where the kids are dismissed early so that the teachers can work.

Anyhoo.

The Brothers and My Carpool Kid were in a jolly mood, given that it was an early out day and summer is just ahead. They launched into their usual scintillating conversation during which I stay silent, behind sunglasses, and act as cool as a nearing fifty years old, moderately over-weight and slightly bittersweet woman can.

That means I'm silent. Totally silent.

Younger Brother: Did you know that they found a mermaid for real?

Older Brother: Who did?

Younger Brother: THEY did. I don't know who they is, but we heard about it. A real mermaid.

Older Brother: That's stupid.

Carpool Boy: Cool. I guess a fish mated with a human.

Younger Brother: So, a fish and a human humped?

Older Brother: That's impossible. Gross.

Younger Brother: Nope. It can happen. All you need is a hole.

Here's what I looked like:

Cool, right?

My grandegg Mulan - an update

This is where Mulan spends most of her day, nestled in a soft bed made of a cigar box, cotton material and an upside-down strawberry crate. Henry got into the car yesterday in a grumpy mood, tired and unwilling to share what had happened that day. Henry is almost never in a bad mood, so when I gently probed, I learned that not only was he tired of dealing with his egg, but the whole project was getting boring and hard.


Tell me about it, I said, trying not to sound smug. Henry slumped further down in his seat, clutching Mulan's box. The money thing is just hard, he said, I'm tired of it. I just raised my eyebrows and murmured

The other night, at the school's fundraiser, I had commiserated with Henry's in-laws about the project. The father thought it was too negative as did a haughty French woman I'd met earlier in the day who I rather ineffectively argued with about being a thirteen year old parent. She was impossibly French, inferring confidently in the usual never-disappearing-French-accent-despite-years-and-years-of-living-in-the-United-States that with the proper amour, a baby can be a beautiful thing. She disapproved of making the whole baby thing so negative. When I pointed out that I was the loving mother of three and the only mother in the room, actually, and that I would of course, support, a baby if Henry were to have one, but that it would be an unequivocal disaster, as far as I'm concerned. Frankly, I wanted to say that if Henry were to have a baby, I would be hard put to not say Your life is fucked.


Oh la la.


So, the ride home in the car was pretty silent. Moods were grumpy enough that Oliver's pleas to play music from the station that rotates about six songs were ignored, and when we pulled up to Noah's house to drop him off, I cheerfully asked whether I could take a photo of Baby Brooklyn. Noah, who is a quiet guy and probably the sweetest kid on the planet, cheerfully uncovered Baby Brooklyn for his first photo:

Noah, I might remind you, is a single parent, and while I'm a little bit in debt, he told me, everything is pretty good.


Reader, I'll let you take that where you will.

Mulan, Part One
Mulan, Part Two

Noah, Henry, Black and White and Canadian All Over

Henry and Noah

This is the way my brain works and, perhaps, my soul, if a soul were to work.

There's a whole lot of hoopla in the disability world about what some call mercy killing and others call euthanasia, still others call murder and still others genocide, with the invocation of the Nazi's Action T-4. Most of the hoopla stems from recent stories in the news of mothers who have either killed their children with severe disabilities and themselves or advocate for such killing when they deem the circumstances desperate enough. I'm not going to give you my opinion on all of this outside of my firm belief that while I'm in no position to judge what leads people to such tragic acts, I can certainly hold understanding in my mind and soul for how it happens. And I think I'm sticking to that despite despite, I imagine, people's belief that I'm immoral for doing so.

I read a Canadian blogger today who took a loud stance on this issue and that led me to a few other bloggers (curiously, also Canadian) and lots of condemnation and drawing of parallel lines to being disabled oneself and there was some talk of racism and disability advocacy and very, very righteous anger. I'm no stranger to the righteous anger stance (wince), but this particular topic gives me so much pause that I am, effectively, on pause.

[                                                                             ]

So.

I drove Henry and Noah home from school today and thought I'd ask them about it and see what they thought.

Me: So, guys. I've been reading on the internet about some pretty disturbing stuff and I'd like to hear what you think about it. What do you think of a person who has taken care of her severely disabled child for over thirty years and decides to kill that child and herself because she can't take it anymore? The adult child has very serious issues, including physical suffering and the mother has been doing this for many, many years without the proper support. She is also afraid that when she is unable to do so, her child will not be taken care of properly and might even be put in an institution. We also don't know what her mental state is, whether she's depressed or isolated -- what her upbringing might be -- you know.

Silence.

Noah, aged 13, only child: That's so awful. I feel bad for her and the disabled person. I wouldn't do that; I wouldn't kill the child, I couldn't kill him, but it's just so awful.

Henry, aged 13, sibling to a 17 year old with severe disabilities: That's so awful. I feel so bad for that mother. I mean, killing is wrong, but I sort of get it. I don't think I could do it, but I sort of get it. Mom, is this a true story?

Reader, I don't know about you, but these thirteen year old responses spoke more honestly and clearly to me than all the words of the bright, impassioned minds of the internet, those in the trenches and out.

And that's perhaps all I'm going to say about that.