Welcome to 424!

It’s New Year’s Eve. I am, once again, cursing myself for getting so woefully behind on photos. Rhiannon is a joy, and I can’t stop taking photos of her. I love capturing moments, but I am not so good about sharing them (not since I became the owner of a 100 year old house, natch). Facebook isn’t the right forum to preserve for posterity, and there are moments I’d like not to cycle off in the span of a news feed…. like this one:

It was summer, and we were on our way into San Francisco, so of course we took BART.

This is Rhiannon’s train-platform interpretive dance.

Soon after this moment passed, our train arrived, we traveled, and the spontaneity of dancing was displaced for the joy of meeting up with Cheyenne and Ian –and ZOE! Chey and Ian had just picked Zoe up at SFO, and we were bringing Zoe back to spend the weekend at our house.

I am posting photos right now.

When I was a little girl I built snowmen. I have fleeting glimpses of carrot noses, charcoal briquette eyes, and scarves my mother deemed too ratty for Montessori. In my mind’s eye I can see the snowmen of decades ago standing in the middle of the Settlers Lane front yard in Connecticut, right at the gentle crest of the sloping yard, looking as if it were lording over the neighbor’s property. I remember my mom lamenting all the snow we tracked into the foyer, insisting that hats, mittens, and such got left on the knotted rug at the front door (a rug she still has, I believe) before we headed to the livingroom window to admire our carrot-nosed handiwork.

In the 2-second, fleeting movies in my head, I built snowmen.

This past March, I brought five-year-old Rhiannon to Tahoe to play in the snow and build a snowman. Thirty minutes into the task I realized the error in my memories.

Dad, thank you for building all those snowmen. Thank you for doing it so that five-year-old me thought I was Connecticut’s best snowman maker weekend after weekend. I know now that I perhaps wielded the carrot, but you packed and shoveled the snow. Rhiannon’s physical contribution to our Tahoe snowman — er, Snow Maiden, as she was adamant to point out — was to play around the growing mass of snow. Randomly she might take a small fistful of snow and press it against the snow skirt, but I shoveled and shaped. And then I realized that I never built a snowman, I simply believed I did. But what I believed when I was five — that I could built snowmen was right up there with that I was really a princess and that I could probably fly if I closed my eyes tightly enough — it helped shape my imagination.

And now Rhiannon believes she has built not only a snowman, but custom-to-her-very-own-imagination Snow Maiden.

These and a bunch of other photos from Tahoe are posted here.

For a pic of the Snow Maiden that inspired the one Rhiannon “made”, see the top left pic here. She’s knows the story, too.

The phone rang at least four times before six-thirty am. “Either one of your sisters really really really needs to get a hold of you,” Brian finally grumbled, half asleep, “or someone has died.” I stumbled up out of my warm bed into the cold warehouse to find the phone and started listening to the messages.

The first was Auntie Susan, and she sounded rushed: “Molly is okay. Her job is a few blocks away. I will call you when I have more info.” I remember blinking a few times, confused. The second message was Julie, and her voice was odd: “We are all fine. Paul is heading in to volunteer.” I was really confused. Julie and Paul were visiting Paul’s family in Westchester and Manhattan with then toddler-aged Zoe. Sleepy though I was, I picked up that something had happened in New York, but being sleepy, I wasn’t moving or thinking too sharply. And being a Californian, I thought: earthquake, and then at the same time: it couldn’t be an earthquake in New York.

The third message was Julie again, her voice a little too even: “Turn on your tv,” and her tone woke me up completely.

It was a little before 6:40 in the morning, September 11, 2001. It was going to be a big day for me. My book was was releasing that day and the big booksigning was that night, and my co-author Kelly and I were expecting several hundred of San Francisco’s web community and press for the event. Obviously the event never happened. We never even needed to send out an email that it was canceled. By the time I got the rabbit ears working on the tv (mine was not a cable-enabled house), it was just in time for the newscasters to briefly lose it as if the Hindenberg had blown up — “Oh, the humanity!” is not an understatement for the chaos on the tv as I succeeded in getting a picture just as news of the Pentagon crash was interrupting the ongoing news of the two plane crashes in New York. It was hard to piece it together, but I must have made some sort of gutteral cry because Brian was out of bed quite quickly and beside me in the living area. I tried to call back my sister in New York, but the lines were jammed. Then Abi called me. “Holy crap,” she said. “Are you watching this?” And then: “Isn’t Mom in DC?”

I already knew Julie, et al, and Molly were okay (thanks be that we are a family who talk all the time — and ever since 1989 when, following the Loma Prieta earthquake,  Julie didn’t think to spread the word that she had spoken with Dad without telling anyone else for hours while we all tried to get a hold of him, no one would dare not report such findings.) But up until that moment all eyes had been focused on New York. Molly worked in the financial district then, and Paul’s father Stan had business in the World Trade Center. Julie told me later that day that it was only because Matt was going in that day with his father that Stan was delayed — otherwise Stan would have certainly been in the tower by 9am.

But my mother was in DC on a business trip. I knew, of course, that her business would not take her to the Pentagon, but on September 11, the only thing that was clear after the third plane hit was that no one really knew what was going on. Julie later told me that in the space of time after the first tower was hit but before the second, on the New York morning news it looked like a pilot flew into the World Trade Center — at first, it just looked like a terrible, tragic, stupid mistake. With the second hit it became clear it was planned, and the tone of the news changed. But once the third plane hit the news just freaked out. And while a woman working for the Colorado Health Dept was by all logic not going to be at the Pentagon, all I could think was that my mother was in DC and DC was under attack. This was before she had a cell phone, before she could have posted to Facebook that she was fine, and well, I wasn’t anticipating a text message.

That panic of mine lasted about 20 minutes. Brian and I were sitting on our couch, doing something we never did: staring at our tv (we were not a tv couple), when we watched live as the first tower fell. It was hard to believe, and I am not sure we said much. Auntie Susan called almost immediately after the first tower went down to let me know she had talked with my mom already. All family members accounted for, I felt lucky, but I had no idea how comparatively lucky I was, or how significant the magnitude of the day would end up being. It was much much bigger than me, my family or for goodness sake, my booksigning. The bravery and selflessness of so many continues to humble me. But that morning, I just sat and watched, not really connecting anything.

The day unfolded in a daze. I tried to work, I canceled the caterers, I watched the tv. My mother, now stranded in DC (all flights going anywhere were grounded), was unharmed and would eventually make her way back to Colorado via several buses over several days, but she couldn’t get a call out. Paul went into NY to volunteer with many many other medical personnel only to be turned away — hauntingly, there just weren’t victims to treat, and the hospital staff already on duty were more than enough to handle the first responders who were hurt. And for a couple of days I, like so many others, was just stunned. But then two days later, when my high school sweetheart called to tell me his mother had been on the plane that flew into the Pentagon and I remembered a pretty blond woman with a charming accent taking photos of me and her son in our junior prom finery, I finally cried… for everyone.

I don’t really remember much about airport security from before 9/11. Clearly it didn’t make that big of an impression on me. I think back to a few things about my pre-9/11 days and three events come to mind: 1) When Brian and I were dating long-distance, we’d meet each other at the gate. The airport gate used to be a place of greetings and hugs and sometimes sweeping romantic kisses. Alas, coming off the jetway is far far less exciting than it used to be. 2) When I had a connection in Colorado a few months before 9/11, my mom and Susan brought toddler Zoe to the gate so I could visit her during my short 75 minute layover — something that just can’t happen anymore. And 3) a couple of years before 9/11 on one of Paul’s returns from China, he brought back gifts for the family: excellent kitchen cleavers (I still use mine regularly). He had over ten of them in his back pack. Ten cleavers. Not just a weapon — an arsenal. And not in checked bags, in the cabin. Imagine.

Ten years on, times have changed. But I can still clearly feel the cold warehouse floor beneath my bare feet as I watched my country under attack. I can’t imagine how it must be to live in Israel or Afghanistan or Somalia, and live with this every day. But if I had to speculate, I’d guess it probably feels a little like 9/11, but after all these years of it, without the shock.

I keep re-editing the ending of this post, because I am not sure how to end it. I am realizing that there isn’t an end, and I am grateful I remain shocked. This post was 9/11 in my world. I hope that my daughter need never watch such horrors. But my understanding of history and human nature and the momentum of Guns of August forces me to admit knowing she will someday live through something indescribable. I hope I am alive to offer comfort.

Rhiannon, my dad, and I spend a LOT of time together when we road trip. Last April we even eschewed the more direct I-5 for 101 heading down. Thirteen hours down (including many stops), then a 6+ hour trip back up I-5 allowed for a lot of Sticker Dollies (Rh’s new absolute favorite), and some fantastic conversation. In the middle stretch of the return trip, somewhere between the Grapevine and Santa Nella the conversation turned to penguins. As luck had it, my dad had pen and paper out as the following exchange occurred (paper I just found, hence the three-month delay from mouth to post):

“Penguins live at the south pole, but not the north pole,” my father said. “Isn’t that interesting, Rhiannon?”

Really? She was instantly locked into this bit of information. We could practically hear the connections in her head zipping from neuron to neuron. Because I know–  Polar Bears– Her brain was clearly working faster than her mouth and she was tripping over herself. She literally took a breath to compose her whirring brain and then declared:

Polar bears live at the North Pole!

“That’s right!” said my dad. “But polar bears do not live at the south pole. The opposite of penguins.”

She she processed that, repeating my dad’s words:

Penguins live at the south pole, but not the north pole. Polar bears live at the north pole, but not at the south pole.

Which was followed by:

That’s because Santa is very careful about that.

On Mother’s Day Rhiannon and I field tripped into SF and went to a special museum exhibit — the ultimate in paper dolls. We had a great time. Then we came home and played and played and played in the backyard. She’s turned the lid on the fallow garden box (protecting the fecund soil from becoming a litterbox for the kitties) into a stage and all she wants to do is dance! I was an enrapt audience.

It takes a village to raise a child, and I am not alone on my path. Thank you to all the mothers out there, mine and my friends, and those I have never met but influence me as I try to do my best to raise this wonderful person who calls me Mommy. I love being a mom. I love being Rhiannon’s mom. And part of being a mom is saying the right thing and (hopefully) the right time. Here are three things I wish I had come up with on my own, but I am humble enough to simply say, “Yes, what she said.”

The first is Tina Fey’s Prayer for My Daughter (even though I am not really one for traditional prayer [see Big Questions post], the thought is dead on). The second and third are scene clips, each of which I will unabashedly poach when the time comes to talk to my teenager, are scenes from television shows from this season. The first is from Glee, where Kurt gets the Birds and the Bees sex talk from his dad, and the second is from Parenthood, where disaffected teen Amber gets some straight shooting from her grandfather about her actions prior to her car accident. I usually think tv is pretty lame, but these two scenes were keepers. And I hope when Rhiannon is a teen, she and I are close enough so I can get these understandings through what will then be a hormone-riddled head. Because as much as her Barbies creep me out, I do not want what comes afterward to come too soon. And because she matters… a lot. And because I dreamed of her long before I birthed her and I do not give her permission to mess with my dreams.

Tina Fey’s Prayer for My Daughter

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen.”

* * * *

You Matter, pt 1: The Sex Talk for Teens

Said Burt (Dad) to Kurt (son, who happens to be gay, but this applies to all teens). I have no idea how long this clip (scroll for clip) will be available, but it first aired 3/9/11. The scene starts 32m and change in. It’s an awesome scene and this is a transcript of the key part.

“When you’re intimate with someone in that way, you gotta know that you’re exposing yourself. You’re never gonna be more vulnerable, and that scares the hell out of a lot of guys…With two guys you’ve got two people who think that sex is just sex. It’s gonna be easier to come by and once you start, you aren’t gonna want to stop. You gotta know that it means something. It’s doing something to you, to your heart, to your self-esteem, even though it feels like you’re just having fun…When you’re ready, I want you to be able to do everything. But when you’re ready, I want you to use it as a way to connect to another person. Don’t throw yourself around like you don’t matter, because you matter.”

* * * *

You Matter, pt 2: Don’t Play Loose and Fast With Your Life and Body

Zeke (the grandfather) takes Amber (teenager who partied out of control and then got in a car with someone who had been drinking) to the junkyard and walks her over to the car she got wrecked in. He makes her take a look. Then tells her the only thing that got him through Vietnam was dreaming of coming home to have a family and grandchildren. Those were his dreams and then he kind of gets in Amber’s face and says “I do not give you permission to mess with my dreams.”

He knows she’s not feeling good about herself (don’t all teens get there) but quote: “Boo Frickin Hoo. Suck it up, girl.” It would have been more effective without the next, more predictable “I will kick your ass to the Golden Gate Bridge if you do this again” but it’s had its effect, and Amber gets it. And you might have had to know the backstory to accept how she breaks, but it works. And the scene ends perfectly, as Zeke mutters “Buy you a burger”.