#Imnotcrying

I'm up too late, but I've been playing around with this post in my head all day, wondering whether and if I'd write it and how. Tomorrow is the big day -- I'm driving with Oliver to Tucson and dropping him off at the University of Arizona. I'm not exactly dropping him off but will, of course, be helping him to move into his dorm and get settled and then perhaps I'll leave his dorm and give him a casual hug and a kiss and go straight to a realtor's office and rent myself an apartment nearby and WAIT! I don't want to live in Arizona because it's too far from the ocean, but I don't want my baby to leave home and yes, I'm excited for him, and he's ready for all of it and it's the way of the world and you have to let them fly and yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.

I am sad.

 I made the three of them pose together today for pictures. How did the entire summer go by without me taking a single picture of them all together?

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE TIME?

It's all good, right?

It's all good.

They're Getting Kool-Aid™ Jammers and Animated Movies*

Children do not belong in detention centers. "Detention centers" appears to be a more acceptable term than "concentration camps." Families belong together. This is now a popular trending hashtag. So is Close the Camps Now. Last night I attended a vigil downtown at the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center, where over 1000 men are being held. We gathered outside the facility with 4000 people, just over the 10 freeway. Some people brought Mylar blankets as a sign of solidarity, fashioning brilliant flags and scarves out of them. The incarcerated children have been given such blankets to cover themselves during detainment.

We held our flashlights, electric candles and phone lights up toward the building, and the men inside flashed their own lights through the tiny slits in the imposing walls. It felt futile to be there and powerful at once, but mostly futile.

One of Sophie's caregivers, a legal resident originally from Guatemala thanked me for going, and I felt ashamed. There is much tension in our city as families gear up for tomorrow's ICE raids.

Meanwhile, Terrible America provides snacks and movies to the thousands of children separated from their families, languishing in private facilities whose boards are stocked with profit-hungry rich men, rich men who've protected one another in the vilest of ways. Perhaps the vilest of them all, the POSPOTUS, plays golf, presides over rallies and is cheered by the most ignorant people in the country. The most powerful people in the country who continue to support him have lost whatever shreds of moral authority they might have had and will, I imagine, go down in history as spineless, lacking even a modicum of integrity.

I'm curious. I had an exchange last year with someone who objected mightily to my outrage over separating children from their parents when they sought asylum at the border. Anonymous, what do you think of the camps now? How about the children separated from their parents? How about the conditions of the camps where thousands of men, women and children are being held?

Is this who we are?

* So reported F*^king Vie President Pence after a recent "visit" to a detention camp in Texas and proceeded to blame Congress for the over-crowded conditions in the men's facilities. The photo of him and his entourage smiling their greasy smiles of paternal solicitude made me sick.

We All Know This Is Not Right

I'm beside myself about this.

It seems irredeemable, in the vein of the Native American genocide or slavery. The Holocaust. The actual conditions under which these children and people have been subjected are horrendous, but it is the people that gaslight, argue, justify and prevaricate about what is happening that freak me out the most. We all know that this is not right.

It seems like it might be the end of us.

I'm sitting on my bed typing on my fancy laptop, about 129 miles from the Mexican border. It's hard to think straight or do anything at all.

What does it mean -- this beside oneself? I think of metta -- loving kindness directed first toward oneself, then toward someone you love, then toward someone with whom you have difficulty, then toward all.

May I be well. May you be well. May all sentient beings be well.

Terrible America.

I remember the practice of tonglen.

Breathe in suffering. Breathe out love.


WHAT ELSE CAN YOU DO?

Three Ways to Stop ICE's Detention Policies

#FamiliesBelongTogether

Venice Blvd.
Los Angeles, California
June 20, 2018

Do you remember as a child getting separated from your mother in a public place? I was with my mother shopping one day and probably in a world of my own, in my head, day-dreaming as she walked through aisles of clothes racks. I can't have been more than six or seven and perhaps even younger. At some point I grabbed the hand hanging in my view and looked up simultaneously, thinking it was my mother. Except it was not. It was a stranger. I remember that moment of terror -- only a moment because the woman whose hand I'd grabbed looked kindly at me, and my own mother was in sight -- like it was yesterday. A moment of terror. At being separated from my mother.


Is there anything else to do but think about, agitate about, write about and above all, ACT ABOUT these children separated from their parents at the United States border. Despite the POSPOTUS' rescinding of the policy he and his henchman initiated and the band of thugs who have carried it out, it's unclear whether hundreds, if not thousands of these babies and children will ever be reunited with their parents.

Babies in tents.

Where are the girls?

I'm making all the POS folks who supported this policy irrelevant in my mind. I'm not responding to their inane, inhumane arguments.  Those who believe America to be a Christian nation. The vile human who made a joke about a child with Down Syndrome being separated from parents. I'm brushing them away.  Those who compare the people of Mexico and Central America to vermin. Be gone.

And those who invoke the great peace leaders of the world and admonish us not to be angry, that it's all about love -- step aside. The great peace leaders were plenty angry, and they used their anger in constructive ways to bring peace. You step aside, too, or step up.

Here are some things we can do:

What You Can Do Right Now to Help Immigrant Families Separated at the Border

Photo: John Moore/Getty Images

Valentine

Last night we had to unexpectedly put our beloved goofy dog Valentine to sleep. The night before last, I was up most of the night with her, but she wasn't in pain -- just acting weird and restless. Early Friday morning, I had to take Henry to get his wisdom teeth removed, and when we got home in the afternoon, Valentine was still acting weird, and her stomach was distended. I took her to the vet in the early evening and learned that her stomach had twisted or turned or distended, that surgery might be the only option with little guarantee that she'd make it through. It was so shocking and fast. I called Oliver, and he came over to the vet's office to be with her. She was really Oliver's dog. He was barely three years old when we got her.

We are so very sad.

We got Valentine as a puppy when she was six months old. She was fourteen in April and lived a long, extremely healthy life. She might have been the happiest, goofiest dog in the universe. We called her a love whore. Everyone who met her would say, "Valentine really loves me!" We didn't have the heart to tell them that she really loved everyone. She loved the Oliver the most, though.

Not much more to say than that. Or this:

Monterey Breach: A Drone Short Film

These two have been friends since preschool.

Once upon a time, a little boy named Oliver made a whole lot of money selling lemonade on the corner of our street. He worked diligently and saved nearly all of it and began bugging his mother about spending that money, all at once, on a drone. His mother declined because that's a ridiculous thing to spend money on and you need to save that for college until, years later, it was clear that Oliver actually did want a drone and intended to do great things with it. It's my money, Oliver said. You're right, she said with a sigh. He bought the drone.

Oliver and Joe have been making incredibly inventive films for years. Oliver is game for acting and doing the bidding of Joe who is a preternaturally talented filmmaker and editor. You really can't believe how good Joe is until you see his stuff.

The Bird Photographer took Oliver up to Monterey this week to do a little drone photography and some whale watching. I'm not going to say how jealous I am (for obvious reasons), but Oliver -- on his first real whale-watching trip -- saw just about everything a person could dream of seeing on a whale-watching trip. Breaching whales, lunge feeding,  Great White sharks, dolphins, etc. etc. I have yet to see a whale breach, and I've gone out about eight times which is privilege enough. I just love this state I've adopted as my home. It is truly glorious, and I'm so glad that my children are California-bred.

Oliver and Joe made this short film that they titled Monterey Breach: A Short Drone Film. It blew my mind so much that I think I'm going to have to lie about how I tried to get Oliver to buy that thing for years because I just knew he was going to make something great of himself with it. I told Joe that when he's a famous filmmaker, I'm going to tell everyone that he made short films with Oliver in my little bungalow long ago.

Make it full screen, turn up the volume and be wowed:

How to Parent, No. 659

A typical day in The Brother's bedroom

First of all, don't worry about it if things go awry.

Secondly, don't pat yourself on the back if your children are fantastic.

That's it. *

* You can very possibly bear two sons two and a half years apart who then live in the same bedroom their entire lives and are raised in pretty much the same way for nearly sixteen and nineteen years (obviously birth order is something to reckon with, but for our simple parenting advice purposes, don't worry about it), yet are so profoundly different from one another that you might question whether you did indeed bear them. One of them can be exquisitely neat and profoundly perceptive with an invisible antennae sprouting from his head,  yet drive you to distraction with questions and the pursuit of material objects, as well as constant existential anguish from the age of two onward. One of them can be a preternaturally confident and cheerful soul who charmed the ladies when he was literally two years old with his easygoing manner, yet drive you to distraction as an outrageous slob who has a floordrobe despite laundry baskets two steps away and as one of those men who leaves a cereal bowl with a film of congealed milk on his bedside table for weeks.

Here we go:

Don't let the neatness fool you. The person who maintains that level of clean has other issues, including a propensity as a young boy to say I hate everything and everybody.

Don't let the mess fool you. The person who maintains that level of slobbery is also one of the more relaxed and good-natured kids on the planet.

As a parent, my best advice is to not congratulate yourself for the good stuff or berate yourself for the bad.

It's out of your hands, and you have absolutely nothing to do with either.

You can marvel, though, that they both emerged from your aching, enormous body, bloody, stunned and screaming yet intensely beautiful (that'd be them and you).

I had some big baby boys

Mother Superior and Her Kids On Sunday

Ha Ha Ha Ha!

After birthing and raising three children, now in my twentieth year, I figure I get to call myself a Mother Superior. You can, too, if you want. I'm not trying to act conceited -- just Superior. This morning, I wrangled the boys into taking down the tree and then rearranging the living room to my precise specifications. Perhaps I'm not so much a Mother Superior as the mother of Superior Sons. Despite the constant bickering and escalated shouts, the cranking up of music and the competing blares from the saxophone, the room got done. These boys even vacuumed the furniture.

Oliver then got busy making tortillas with his tortilla press. We squeezed lime juice on those little circles of corn and sprinkled salt on them, ate them hot as fast as he could make them.

And Sophie? Sophie was really happy today, less agitated, with no seizures to speak of. Knock on wood. Three times. I got a kick out of playing with her -- she loves these crazy felt mums on my slippers -- Mother Superior definitely getting some interest from one of the cloistered sisters.

Sisters and Brothers, how was your Sunday? Tell Mother Superior.

Peace, Anonymous

The positive thing about getting Anonymous comments that are -- let's say -- critical, is that they inspire some thought for me beyond caregiving and dildos and the weird Swiftian farce that is unfolding at Sony. Yesterday, a reader left a comment on my Oceanside Hustle post, suggesting in that ever so gentle tone of the righteously passive-aggressive that I should stop complaining about lacrosse and, rather, begin reveling in the blessing of having a son who can participate in sports.

Sigh.


Reader, I felt the ping of insult and the pang of hurt. I might have felt the teensiest bit righteous, myself. I left a quick and flippant lighten up reply, but I also recognized that queasy you are way too exposed kind of feeling, and then I did a little navel-gazing and figured the reason why I felt these pings and pangs is because there is always a modicum of truth to every bit of criticism that hurts us. I do complain a lot on a moon, worn as if it had been a shell, and I'm hard-pressed to feel grateful for anything on some days. I think a lot of bloggers would agree that complaining is easy to do and can be almost enjoyable, particularly if it's couched in humor or sarcasm. At risk of sounding defensive, my complaints about the trivial stuff in my life (the constant sports watching being the main one) are surely balanced by the obnoxious number of posts where I stand in awe of the two wildly accomplished, beautiful sons that grace my life and the profound and graceful presence of my amazing daughter, all three of whom are such individuals that I can't take any credit for their being other than the literal bones, tissue and flesh with which they're knit from my own and their father's bodies.

But maybe I can do better.

My gratitude for this good fortune overflows.  I'm also alive and dancing on this tired earth as fast and as best as I can.

Peace Anonymous. Now go get yourself a stiff drink and lighten up.

Happy Halloween!

Some of my favorite photos of Halloweens/costumes past:

Oliver, or Curious George and his friend Tim, or the Man with the Yellow Hat
2007

Sophie and Henry, 1998

Clarke (Clyde), Me (Bonnie) and Audrey (her sweet self), 1979 or 1980

My sister Melissa and I in 1972

Sending the treasure to hunt for it

Notice the lump with the pinecone, a slice of bread, and a leaf on it, the two boys standing over it. The lump is me, lying on my bed under blankets, not able to keep warm, feeling sick for the second day. Sophie must be coming down with something as well because she had one, two, three giant seizures this morning. I'd say good times, but that expression has grown so tired. The objects reverently laid on top of me, the lump under the blankets, were objects listed on a piece of paper with the title Treasure Hunt. In a moment of genius, when The Brothers had begun to drive me over the edge with their squabbling, I made the list and told them that I'd pay them $20 to get each item and each item needed to be acquired outside of our house.

$20 EACH? The Big O inquired.

I sighed and said no. 

$20 and a metal detector? he came back.

I sighed and said yes.

Here's the list:

1. A straw from a restaurant
2. A photo of a cat
3. A leaf from a tree
4. Something heart-shaped
5. A piece of cement
6. A coin
7. A slice of bread
8. A pinecone
9. Something sparkly
10. A Christmas-related item
11. A yellow candle
12. A recording of a dog barking
13. A picture of a neighbor

They left and I congratulated myself on my cleverness, let the lump lie.





They returned, literally, about ten minutes later with every freaking object checked off. Now I'm a lump on  a bed under blankets with twenty less dollars and whatever it costs to buy a metal detector.

Christmas is for children

And I sure do love mine. Merry Christmas, everyone!

What my friends and I are doing now that our children are all back to school

especially for Sally M.

Kiki di Montparnasse, Therese Treize de Caro et Lily
Brassai, 1932

via dreamdogsart

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

Last Call

You might have seen this video a while back:




For the last two years I've said here and elsewhere that I'm going to make a video of still photos of YOU, parents of children with special healthcare needs and your wise words to yourself, THE DAY BEFORE YOU KNEW YOUR CHILD'S DIAGNOSIS. These words can be simple, complex, dark, light, positive, negative, funny, serious or everything all at once. I'm going to set the photos to music and hope it'll be helpful to new parents as well as inspiring. I imagine it'll be a healing testament for all of us.

Well, I've got a bunch of photos that make my heart sing and move me to tears, but I need more. Here's what you can do:

1. Write down on a piece of white paper or poster-board advice that you would give to yourself, that long ago self, when your child was diagnosed.
2. Have someone take a picture of you holding the poster
3. Email me the picture at elsophie AT gmail DOT com
4. If you want to send more than one, feel free. I'll use them all.
5. Spread the word to your friends. MEN, please participate!
6. I'm setting a goal of finishing this by May 15th, so please help me and send yours in (if you haven't already!) as soon as possible.

LA Conversation

Maypole Dance, California, 1900s

The boys and I walked with Sophie up to our nearby Yogurtland. While standing in line, balancing Sophie and enduring the stares, I overheard two little girls talking to each other. No more than three or four years old, they had just gotten out of a nearby dance studio and were dressed in tutus and tights. The dark-haired girl had a frilly red gauze skirt that looked like a cross between Black Swan and Carmen Miranda. The blonde was dressed in a traditional pink ballet tutu. The mother of the blonde was your typical harried Los Angeles mother -- I conjectured that this was her only child, and her nanny hadn't shown up that day at work. The dark-haired girl was squired by a very handsome metro-sexual who looked faintly European. I conjectured that he was a screenwriter from Brazil, married to a studio executive.

Dark-haired girl: Hi! Did you just get out of dance class?

Blonde girl: Yes! Hip-hop?

Dark-haired girl: Yes, hip-hop! What's your name?

Blonde: Gemma. What's your name?

Dark-haired girl: Amaranth


Take this exchange wherever you want.

Friday Surf Report -- Things I Like

• There's a common theme running through many of my posts, and that is one of escape. I'm just about dying to escape, actually -- perhaps to one of the cabins featured on freecabinporn, like this one in Finland. No offense, but I don't want company. You'll have to pick your own porn.

• My friends Erika of The Flight of Our Hummingbird and Phil Dzalio of Healing, Empowering and Thriving continue the struggle with Amber, The Girl Who Would Insist on the Distinction Between Non-Persons, Humans and Persons Despite Being Admonished By Persons Old Enough to Be Her Mother, Wise Enough To Be Shamans and Angry Enough To Rip Holes in the Ozone. Erika, who is not only brilliant but incredibly funny, told me that her comments  to Amber (that were possibly the longest comments known to the blogging world) on Amber's website, where she proudly carries on the discussion using all the knowledge that her recent Bachelor's degree in Philosophy has gotten her, demonstrated her (Erika's) own commonality with the None Shall Pass Knight of Monty Python's Holy Grail. I think it's an apt comparison for many of us in the disability community who just can't give it up. Our formidable strength and resilience, though, is only as strong as our ability to not take ourselves seriously. We do have the most amazing senses of humor, if I do say so myself.

• I'm savoring the last pages of The Hare with Amber Eyes by Edmund De Waal. I've written about it before and highly recommend it.

• I love children's books. I really love vintage ones. I really, really like this blog.

Shower Caps

This is the back of Oliver's sweet neck. He got a haircut yesterday at the salon where I go. He grinned the entire time and asked Andie to put gel in his hair and make it spiky. Last night, when I insisted he take a shower, he asked whether he could put on a plastic shower cap so that the spikes would stay. I told him that we didn't have any shower caps and then he reminded me that I had bought these weird plastic covers for leftovers and that I called them shower caps. So he went to the kitchen and put on this "shower cap," all the time chattering about it and laughing and asking me to look at him and then he got into the shower and since our house is so small, I could hear the water hitting the shower cap and splattering off of it and this went on for quite some time until he got out of the shower and came into my bedroom with a towel wrapped around him and the shower cap still on his head. He took it off carefully and felt his hair even more carefully and then exclaimed Cool! It's still dry, Mom! And he was still smiling and so light and buoyant I believe he might have sailed up and out of the room or even the back door and into the night.

What my kids aren't too old to hear:

I see you when you're sleeping.
I know when you're awake.
I know when you've been bad or good
So be good, for goodness sake.