FYI: I originally wrote this...rant...in August, 2007, on myspace (Good Lord, who uses that anymore??) when the film version of "The Nanny Diaries" was released. This subject has come up in conversation quite a bit lately, with regard to the nanny depicted in the remake of the film "Arthur", and I promised some nanny friends I would find it and post it for them to see. So, apologies for the flashback, but it still holds true.
Okay, well maybe I don't really have a Nanny Diary, but I do have a rant or two about the movie.
Now, let me first admit that when I first read the book, oh so many years ago, I was somewhat unimpressed. This was largely because I don't work for families like the X family. I usually work for NORMAL people who want me to work WITH them, not be the parent so they don't have to be.
Since I've read the book, I have had the "good fortune" to encounter...even work for...parents rather similar to those depicted in the book. I mean, all employer families have their quirks and things to complain about. I know I've certainly found plenty to complain about. There was the family who "forgot" to pay me every week so I'd have to keep asking for my check, then the next week they'd be irritated that they had to pay me again. There are the families who are never, ever home on time and seem to think that it is no big deal to assume that I'm always available to work late because why on earth would a nanny have anything else to do? There are the families who promise me two weeks paid vacation a year and then are horrified when I actually take a few days...and then demand that *I* be the one to find their backup childcare even though they assured me at my interview that they had other options for my days off. There was the family that not only expected me to work major holidays, but to travel out of state with them for those holidays and ignore my own personal traditions. There was the family where I would come in some mornings and find liquor bottles still open on the counters in a trashed kitchen and everyone still in bed long past time to get up and ready to get out the door. There was the family where I had to handwash the mom's...personal...clothing items. There have been many families where I was given a list of rules to enforce...and then found that mom and dad didn't enforce them themselves. (And really, if you are going to insist that I only allow your children to eat organic, healthy food it really does make it difficult for me...and them...to follow that when you take them to McDonalds every time the meal prep is your responsibility. Likewise if you tell me your toddler isn't supposed to have his paci except at bedtime but you pop it in his mouth the moment you walk in the door.) There was the family that didn't tell me until the last moment (as they were walking out the door, luggage in hand) that mom and dad were going out of town for a few days and I was expected to stay with the kids that whole time. Then, of course, there was the dad who showed me his bag of sex toys and offered to share them with me.
Oh, I could go on!
But all those families had their good points, too. Like the family that offered me some free days off when I called off my wedding. Or the mom who spent hours researching digital cameras so she could surprise me for my birthday with one that had the exact features I wanted. Or the family that took me to Bali for two weeks...paid my whole way, gave me spa treatments, paid me to go...and then hardly asked me to work when we were there and spent a good part of the time buying me drinks at the pool bar. Or the mom who raced home early, without warning, on three different occasions within 4 months so I could attend the births (as the doula) of two of my nephews and the daughter of a friend. Or the many families who have invited me to spend holidays with them in their homes because I'm "family" and because they know I don't generally spend many holidays with my own family. Or the family that asked me if they could name me their children's guardian in the will.
But can I just rant for a minute about this freaking movie?
I understand that movies and their literary counterparts are bound to differ. The book is always better. But why change key ingredients of the story, particularly when some of those key ingredients are EXACTLY the POINT of the STORY?
Part of the appeal, at least among the nanny community, of The Nanny Diaries is/was that the nanny in question was a REAL NANNY. Now, granted, she was a grad student working as a nanny to help get through school, and the inherent implication was that when she graduated with her Master's that she'd move on to something different. But that's pretty accurate for a large percentage of the professional nanny population, so that's okay. At least she knew the score. She knew kids, she knew nannying, and she knew parents. Even for those of us who never worked for a family like the X family, we got the nanny thing in the book because at some point we all recognized ourselves.
But the movie? They CHANGED THAT. In the movie, she's a recent college grad with a business degree who strikes out in her first real world job interview. She stumbles into the nanny job opportunity, which she doesn't really want, and decides to take it while she figures out who she is.
She's clueless as to nannying and childcare. She learns, of course, that's the adventure of the film.
But COME ON. Couldn't we please JUST ONCE get a film about a nanny that actually depicts a REAL NANNY? Movies that center around nannies tend to have limited themes. We have movies like "Uptown Girls" and, now, "Nanny Diaries" that depict modern gals with no other option and no skills whatsoever who stumble into jobs taking care of extraordinarily wealthy children with parents who'd rather not be bothered with their offspring. These hapless girls fall in love with their charges (which, in the Nanny Diaries, is claimed to be the number one wrong thing to do!) and learn their jobs on the fly. The basic point in such films is this: Taking care of a child is so easy that any unskilled, untrained idiot can do it well, and probably better than a parent. Then we have the movies like "Mary Poppins" and "Nanny McPhee". Now, I'll admit, I LOVE these movies because they are fun and fanciful. But they kind of set the bar impossibly high. I mean, both those practically perfect nannies have magic skills. Like, real magic, with which they enchant, charm, and discipline their children. Do you have any idea how much easier my daily work would be if I could snap my fingers and thus make all the toys put themselves away??? I've tried and I still can't master that one. Plus, both those nannies stay for such a brief while and then, once things are they way they want them, they leave. The reality is that most nannies aren't going to leave unless the job SUCKS. Not when the job is finally all settled in perfectly! Then there are the charming tales a la "Sound of Music" wherein yet another inexperienced caregiver arrives to make all things well...and to fall in love with the single father. In some films, he's not even single. And, finally, my favorite (note the sarcasm), films like "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle" wherein the nanny isn't really a nanny, but some psychopath bent on causing grave harm to the parents, the children, or both.
I'm a real nanny. I deliberately and consciously chose this as my career. It's not something I fell into because I lacked any other skills, qualifications, or opportunities. It's not a stop-gap until I can find a "real job." It's no longer the way I'm paying my way through college, because I finished with college more than 11 years ago. It's not a stepping stone for experience so I can go on to "something better." I'm not magical. I can't slide up bannisters, have tea parties in midair, tap my cane and confine children to their beds, or fly sedately with my umbrella in hand. I was never a nun and I can't play the guitar. I have one, I just can't play it. I am not interested in trying to seduce any of the dads I've worked for because I find unavailability in a man HIGHLY unattractive. And, despite what some may want to think, I'm not a psychopath.
I'm a real nanny. I have almost always worked a schedule of 50+ hours a week. I change diapers and I potty train. I read stories, teach ABC's, and teach them to read on their own. I kiss owies, and apply bandaids even just as a fashion statement for a 3 year old who thinks that bandaids are cool. I can't do magic, but I can pretend we live in a magical palace and create an imaginary world in which to play for a rainy afternoon. I hear secret wishes, dreams, and fears. I turn cranky mornings into crazy dance parties full of laughter and groovy moves. I teach parents how to really baby and toddler proof their homes, and how to properly install and use their carseats. I cajole stubborn eaters into trying new foods, and I plan and prepare a nutritious well balanced diet that takes into account allergies, preferences, and mercurial toddler moods. I sing childhood favorites 50 times in a row and convincingly pretend that I am thrilled to sing it again. I organize toy rooms and convince preschoolers that cleaning up and maintaining that order is really fun. I get babies on a napping routine that helps them sleep through the night. I read parenting books and magazines by the truckload. I know how to treat/handle/identify colds, the flu, rotavirus, strep throat, pink eye, diaper rash, blocked tearducts, cradle cap, diarrhea, constipation, colic, reflux, ear infections, Fifths disease, Hand/Foot/Mouth, speech and/or language delays, developmental delays, mono, substance abuse, and teen pregnancy. I reassure parents that their infant/toddler/preschooler/grade schooler/teenager is not abnormal and that this, too, shall pass. I can tell them whether or not their baby/child is within normal developmental ranges and whether or not they need to seek a professional opinion or intervention. And, if those interventions are needed, I can...and have...helped implement those at home. I know where all the indoor play areas are...free and not free...within a 15 mile radius of where I'm working. I even know of some that are farther away. I know where all the shady playgrounds are, too, so that little legs don't get burned on sun-heated slides. I know where the best places are for swimming lessons, gymnastics, and dance classes. I know who to call to sign your kid up for soccer or baseball or swimteam or basketball or hockey. I hug, tickle, snuggle, comfort, and play. I am privy to far more private and intimate information than most people know about their bosses/employers because I work in my employers home. I know what her bad housekeeping secret is (and admit it, we all have at least one!) and I know exactly what both of them think of each others parents. And of each other, for better or worse. I hold someone else's children close in my heart and I decide that I'm willing to lay down my life for these sweet, precious little souls. I may or may not be appreciated for any of this by the parents, and frustrating as that is I also know that there is nothing that shows appreciation more than a child who trusts me to make everything alright, to make everything safe, to make their world a place full of love and fun. The baby who melts into me as she falls asleep, the baby who offers big wet slobbery grinning kisses, the little one who won't let me leave without a high five or a hug, the peanut butter kisses and jelly fingered hugs, the letter from a child that says "I wish you were my sister"...these are the usual signs of appreciation I get and I wouldn't trade those for anything. There's something very humbling when a parent entrusts their child to my care, day after day, and it is a responsibility I will never take lightly.
I'm a real nanny. I'm a member of both the Association of Professional Nannies and the National Association for Nanny Care. Someday, maybe I'll join the International Nanny Association. Yes, we have professional organizations! We even have professional training schools, professional conferences, and professional ongoing education. There's even a National Nanny Recognition Week, but Hallmark has yet to acknowledge that one.
I'm a real nanny. By choice. By profession. I don't need a "real job". I HAVE a Real Job.
Where's the movie that depicts that?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
True Detroit
When I say "Detroit", what's the first thing that comes to mind?
If you're not from here I'm going to bet that you thought something along the lines of "murder capital", "gangster mayor who went to jail", "crime ridden", "gang violence," or even...as one online acquaintance put it years ago, "post-apocalyptic hellhole."
If you're not from here, I'm going to guess that the only reasons you'd come here are for business or to visit someone you know. You might wonder why anyone admits to being from here. You also might wonder why so many people who live in the suburbs proudly consider themselves "Detroiters" rather than specifically identifying which suburb they vote in. You wonder that because you don't know the true Detroit.
If you're from here, you know better.
Does the D have crime? Yes. Show me a city that doesn't. Show me a major metropolis that does not have a section you'd avoid at almost all costs. What's that? You can't find one to show me? Exactly. Did we have a mayor who went to jail? Yes. So did Washington DC...and they re-elected him when he was released. I highly doubt you'll see that kind of mayor reelected in Detroit. Are there gangs and violence in the D? Yes...as is true of everywhere, even in the suburbs. Post apocalyptic? Honey, I used to live in a third world country, don't tell me about post apocalyptic hellholes!
None of those negative things you might think about Detroit are unique to this city. More importantly, those things aren't what truly defines Detroit and her people.
Let me tell you what does.
What defines Detroit is the sense of community, the spirit here that says "We aren't done, and we can do better, knock us down and we'll come back stronger because we're in this together." It is evident in the community gardens in the city, in the partnerships between city and suburban schools and churches, in the countless tiny grassroots organizations that serve specific needs in the community. It is evident in the Olde English D logo of the Detroit Tigers, a logo that has taken on representing more than a baseball team, it has taken on representing pride in being from Detroit. It is the spirit that reaches out and celebrates itself among strangers who are united in only one thing: Being Detroiters.
I could list dozens of extraordinary, wonderful, special things about this city. Places to go. Organizations. People. Things that began here. Firsts that occurred here. But what spoke to me most recently, most powerfully about the true Detroit was an unexpected showing of true Detroit spirit at a Detroit Red Wings game last week.
As a nanny, I often offer my charges a choice for their birthday gift: A traditional present or a shared experience, a "just you and me" date. I have yet to have a child choose the brightly wrapped toy. This past month, when Little Litigator approached his 6th birthday, I gave him that choice and he chose the outing. He even knew what he wanted to do: Go to his first Detroit Red Wings game.
I found a coupon code for cheaper tickets, cleared a date with his parents, and made our plans. For weeks he counted down the days, checked and double checked that his Wings jersey was clean and in his drawer, ready to be worn. The day of the game, he willingly took a nap because he knew he was going to be out late on a school night. (I apologized to his kindergarten teacher in advance for the tired boy I knew she'd have the next day...) We made a poster together that read "My First Wings Game" and he insisted I decorate it with red stars and curlicues.
Of course, as the title of this blog suggests, nothing in my life goes according to normal and we had some serious snafus when it came to printing out the tickets I'd ordered online...snafus that set us back over an hour. We didn't get downtown until after the game had started and by then Little Litigator was starving. Our plan had been to park at the Fox, eat at Hockeytown Cafe, and take the shuttle to the game. When I pulled into the parking garage I asked the attendant if the shuttle was still running. She didn't think so, but then she saw my near tears frazzled self, and she saw the little boy in a carseat holding tightly to that poster and she said, "Let me call the restaurant for you and ask." She did...and, for the record, the shuttle runs continuously throughout the game. That lovely attendant then pointed me to a spot directly in front of me...one marked "Reserved"...and said, "Honey, you take that spot right up front and get that little boy to the game!" Detroit spirit, there.
Our waitress put us right where we could see the game on the big screen, advised me on dishes that were fast to fix, and made sure we got our food quickly. When we were done and paid, the hostess called the shuttle for us and told us to wait inside where it was warm, she'd watch for it for us. More spirit.
And then, we got to the game. Little Litigator carried his sign in such a way that it was easily read by people we passed as we climbed the stairs into Joe Louis Arena. If you haven't been there lately, there is a huge section of those stairs roped off for smokers. All it took was one smoker to see that poster and to read it aloud. "My First Wings Game...hey, look, it's the kid's first Wings game!" The applause began. People clapped, they cheered, they shouted "Have fun, buddy!"
Little Litigator turned to look up to me, his eyes wide with wonder, and gasped, "It's like they know I'm a rock star!"
What a way to welcome a kid to the game, eh?
That welcome continued as we entered the Joe, as we walked towards our section, and as we climbed more stairs to our seats. People high-fived him, congratulated him, some just grinned and nudged their companions as we passed by. We took our seats and inwardly I groaned at the lack of child aged people in our section and the abundance of young adult hockey fans with adult beverages in their sweaty grasps. I instantly worried about what expletives his perked little ears might overhear and how I would explain those to his parents when they came flying out of his mouth at some inopportune moment. I focused on getting a wiggly overexcited 6 year old out of his coat and hat and into his seat when a most extraordinary thing happened: Detroit spirit settled over us and wrapped us in its embrace.
A young, professional looking man sitting in front of us and several seats down saw Little Litigator's sign. "For real?" he asked him. "It is really your first game? Congratulations, I hope you have fun!" They high fived. The man spoke to his girlfriend, then they both got up. I presumed they were going to get drinks, perhaps use the restroom. Very shortly, they were back. "Here, this is for you." This stranger...this fellow Detroiter who never shared his name with us...had nothing with him but one of those giant foam fingers that fans wave in the stands.
What kind of person gets up during a game and buys a souvenir for a kid he's never met? A Detroiter, that's who.
Maybe you know a kid like the Little Litigator...but he's not shy. He is particularly not shy about sharing his delight and enthusiasm. Every molecule in him radiates his mood and his excitment is enough to make you smile...even laugh...just observing him. He's contagious. He was more fun to watch than the game was.
It's a good thing he is contagious because the Wings blew big time. REALLY big time. As the St. Louis Blues racked up goal after goal, I kept waiting for expletives to fly from the fans around us. None did. Maybe they weren't the kind of people who use that kind of language, but I suspect that much of it was in deference to the tiny little fan waving a foam finger and a poster announcing that it was his first game.
The horrific scoreboard didn't seem to bother Little Litigator. He quickly figured out that dancing kids got noticed and filmed for the jumbotron, so every timeout and every break he stood up and boogied his little heart out, waving his poster and hoping he'd see himself on the screen. I sat next to him and laughed. Another person sitting near us saw me snap a photo of him and called to me..."Let me take a picture of the two of you," she said. "You two are the cutest things I've ever seen". I am forever grateful for that fellow Detroiter...I take hundreds of photos of my charges, but have very few of me with them. I like to think that Detroit spirit whispered in that woman's heart and told her that we'd love a together photo of that night. The picture is perfect...a sparkling boy, his grinning nanny, a hug, a gifted souvenir, and a poster. Perfect.
When the ice cream vendor walked through the section next to ours, Little Litigator was inexplicably (note my sarcasm there...) ravenous. We tried...and failed...to capture the vendor's attention. So you know who flagged him down? That's right...a fellow Detroiter sitting a few rows up, moved by Detroit spirit to intervene on behalf of a hungry, sweets craving child.
The score kept getting worse, but the Little Litigator was riding high on sugar, adrenaline and the friendliness of strangers. "You know," said our gift-giving neighbor, "I think he's the only one here having any fun...but at least he's keeping the rest of us from crying!" Indeed, just before St. Louis scored their tenth (TENTH!!) and final goal of the game, a tiny irate little voice bellowed out "Hey ref! Where's the whistle?!" and triggered a wave of laughter through our section. "That's right, kid, you tell 'em!"
I suppose some would argue we just lucked into nice people. Maybe. But here's the thing...that's a lot of nice people to be a city you'd call grim, no? I don't think it was just nice people. I think it was Detroit. It wasn't just Wings fans...it was a community embracing a new young fan, a community that didn't care what suburb he might be from (or even that he was from the 'burbs), that didn't care what his parents do for a living, that didn't care what color his skin was or what religion his family practices, that didn't care what political leanings he might grow up to have, that didn't care about anything except that he was one of them, that he was a Detroiter doing a Detroit thing for his first time. And that this was enough to celebrate.
That, my friends, is truly Detroit.
After the game, as we wandered looking for the right shuttle, I hefted him onto my hip and pointed out the lights across the Detroit River. "See that? See the river? See those lights? Those lights are a whole other country, sugar bean. Those lights are Canada." He was briefly fascinated, and then replied, "But this side is still Detroit, right? And I'm from Detroit, right?" I thought about that. He wasn't born here, he was born in Chicago...a city his family still dearly loves. I reminded him of this fact. He thought for moment, then lifted his sleepy head from my shoulder and gazed across the river. "Yeah," he said, yawning. "But not anymore. I used to live in Chicago, but not anymore. I choose Detroit now."
Congratulations, Detroit. Another Detroiter.
If you're not from here I'm going to bet that you thought something along the lines of "murder capital", "gangster mayor who went to jail", "crime ridden", "gang violence," or even...as one online acquaintance put it years ago, "post-apocalyptic hellhole."
If you're not from here, I'm going to guess that the only reasons you'd come here are for business or to visit someone you know. You might wonder why anyone admits to being from here. You also might wonder why so many people who live in the suburbs proudly consider themselves "Detroiters" rather than specifically identifying which suburb they vote in. You wonder that because you don't know the true Detroit.
If you're from here, you know better.
Does the D have crime? Yes. Show me a city that doesn't. Show me a major metropolis that does not have a section you'd avoid at almost all costs. What's that? You can't find one to show me? Exactly. Did we have a mayor who went to jail? Yes. So did Washington DC...and they re-elected him when he was released. I highly doubt you'll see that kind of mayor reelected in Detroit. Are there gangs and violence in the D? Yes...as is true of everywhere, even in the suburbs. Post apocalyptic? Honey, I used to live in a third world country, don't tell me about post apocalyptic hellholes!
None of those negative things you might think about Detroit are unique to this city. More importantly, those things aren't what truly defines Detroit and her people.
Let me tell you what does.
What defines Detroit is the sense of community, the spirit here that says "We aren't done, and we can do better, knock us down and we'll come back stronger because we're in this together." It is evident in the community gardens in the city, in the partnerships between city and suburban schools and churches, in the countless tiny grassroots organizations that serve specific needs in the community. It is evident in the Olde English D logo of the Detroit Tigers, a logo that has taken on representing more than a baseball team, it has taken on representing pride in being from Detroit. It is the spirit that reaches out and celebrates itself among strangers who are united in only one thing: Being Detroiters.
I could list dozens of extraordinary, wonderful, special things about this city. Places to go. Organizations. People. Things that began here. Firsts that occurred here. But what spoke to me most recently, most powerfully about the true Detroit was an unexpected showing of true Detroit spirit at a Detroit Red Wings game last week.
As a nanny, I often offer my charges a choice for their birthday gift: A traditional present or a shared experience, a "just you and me" date. I have yet to have a child choose the brightly wrapped toy. This past month, when Little Litigator approached his 6th birthday, I gave him that choice and he chose the outing. He even knew what he wanted to do: Go to his first Detroit Red Wings game.
I found a coupon code for cheaper tickets, cleared a date with his parents, and made our plans. For weeks he counted down the days, checked and double checked that his Wings jersey was clean and in his drawer, ready to be worn. The day of the game, he willingly took a nap because he knew he was going to be out late on a school night. (I apologized to his kindergarten teacher in advance for the tired boy I knew she'd have the next day...) We made a poster together that read "My First Wings Game" and he insisted I decorate it with red stars and curlicues.
Of course, as the title of this blog suggests, nothing in my life goes according to normal and we had some serious snafus when it came to printing out the tickets I'd ordered online...snafus that set us back over an hour. We didn't get downtown until after the game had started and by then Little Litigator was starving. Our plan had been to park at the Fox, eat at Hockeytown Cafe, and take the shuttle to the game. When I pulled into the parking garage I asked the attendant if the shuttle was still running. She didn't think so, but then she saw my near tears frazzled self, and she saw the little boy in a carseat holding tightly to that poster and she said, "Let me call the restaurant for you and ask." She did...and, for the record, the shuttle runs continuously throughout the game. That lovely attendant then pointed me to a spot directly in front of me...one marked "Reserved"...and said, "Honey, you take that spot right up front and get that little boy to the game!" Detroit spirit, there.
Our waitress put us right where we could see the game on the big screen, advised me on dishes that were fast to fix, and made sure we got our food quickly. When we were done and paid, the hostess called the shuttle for us and told us to wait inside where it was warm, she'd watch for it for us. More spirit.
And then, we got to the game. Little Litigator carried his sign in such a way that it was easily read by people we passed as we climbed the stairs into Joe Louis Arena. If you haven't been there lately, there is a huge section of those stairs roped off for smokers. All it took was one smoker to see that poster and to read it aloud. "My First Wings Game...hey, look, it's the kid's first Wings game!" The applause began. People clapped, they cheered, they shouted "Have fun, buddy!"
Little Litigator turned to look up to me, his eyes wide with wonder, and gasped, "It's like they know I'm a rock star!"
What a way to welcome a kid to the game, eh?
That welcome continued as we entered the Joe, as we walked towards our section, and as we climbed more stairs to our seats. People high-fived him, congratulated him, some just grinned and nudged their companions as we passed by. We took our seats and inwardly I groaned at the lack of child aged people in our section and the abundance of young adult hockey fans with adult beverages in their sweaty grasps. I instantly worried about what expletives his perked little ears might overhear and how I would explain those to his parents when they came flying out of his mouth at some inopportune moment. I focused on getting a wiggly overexcited 6 year old out of his coat and hat and into his seat when a most extraordinary thing happened: Detroit spirit settled over us and wrapped us in its embrace.
A young, professional looking man sitting in front of us and several seats down saw Little Litigator's sign. "For real?" he asked him. "It is really your first game? Congratulations, I hope you have fun!" They high fived. The man spoke to his girlfriend, then they both got up. I presumed they were going to get drinks, perhaps use the restroom. Very shortly, they were back. "Here, this is for you." This stranger...this fellow Detroiter who never shared his name with us...had nothing with him but one of those giant foam fingers that fans wave in the stands.
What kind of person gets up during a game and buys a souvenir for a kid he's never met? A Detroiter, that's who.
Maybe you know a kid like the Little Litigator...but he's not shy. He is particularly not shy about sharing his delight and enthusiasm. Every molecule in him radiates his mood and his excitment is enough to make you smile...even laugh...just observing him. He's contagious. He was more fun to watch than the game was.
It's a good thing he is contagious because the Wings blew big time. REALLY big time. As the St. Louis Blues racked up goal after goal, I kept waiting for expletives to fly from the fans around us. None did. Maybe they weren't the kind of people who use that kind of language, but I suspect that much of it was in deference to the tiny little fan waving a foam finger and a poster announcing that it was his first game.
The horrific scoreboard didn't seem to bother Little Litigator. He quickly figured out that dancing kids got noticed and filmed for the jumbotron, so every timeout and every break he stood up and boogied his little heart out, waving his poster and hoping he'd see himself on the screen. I sat next to him and laughed. Another person sitting near us saw me snap a photo of him and called to me..."Let me take a picture of the two of you," she said. "You two are the cutest things I've ever seen". I am forever grateful for that fellow Detroiter...I take hundreds of photos of my charges, but have very few of me with them. I like to think that Detroit spirit whispered in that woman's heart and told her that we'd love a together photo of that night. The picture is perfect...a sparkling boy, his grinning nanny, a hug, a gifted souvenir, and a poster. Perfect.
When the ice cream vendor walked through the section next to ours, Little Litigator was inexplicably (note my sarcasm there...) ravenous. We tried...and failed...to capture the vendor's attention. So you know who flagged him down? That's right...a fellow Detroiter sitting a few rows up, moved by Detroit spirit to intervene on behalf of a hungry, sweets craving child.
The score kept getting worse, but the Little Litigator was riding high on sugar, adrenaline and the friendliness of strangers. "You know," said our gift-giving neighbor, "I think he's the only one here having any fun...but at least he's keeping the rest of us from crying!" Indeed, just before St. Louis scored their tenth (TENTH!!) and final goal of the game, a tiny irate little voice bellowed out "Hey ref! Where's the whistle?!" and triggered a wave of laughter through our section. "That's right, kid, you tell 'em!"
I suppose some would argue we just lucked into nice people. Maybe. But here's the thing...that's a lot of nice people to be a city you'd call grim, no? I don't think it was just nice people. I think it was Detroit. It wasn't just Wings fans...it was a community embracing a new young fan, a community that didn't care what suburb he might be from (or even that he was from the 'burbs), that didn't care what his parents do for a living, that didn't care what color his skin was or what religion his family practices, that didn't care what political leanings he might grow up to have, that didn't care about anything except that he was one of them, that he was a Detroiter doing a Detroit thing for his first time. And that this was enough to celebrate.
That, my friends, is truly Detroit.
After the game, as we wandered looking for the right shuttle, I hefted him onto my hip and pointed out the lights across the Detroit River. "See that? See the river? See those lights? Those lights are a whole other country, sugar bean. Those lights are Canada." He was briefly fascinated, and then replied, "But this side is still Detroit, right? And I'm from Detroit, right?" I thought about that. He wasn't born here, he was born in Chicago...a city his family still dearly loves. I reminded him of this fact. He thought for moment, then lifted his sleepy head from my shoulder and gazed across the river. "Yeah," he said, yawning. "But not anymore. I used to live in Chicago, but not anymore. I choose Detroit now."
Congratulations, Detroit. Another Detroiter.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
beautiful
Makeup on little girls.
It goes against nearly everything I believe to be right for children. I don't believe in forcing gender stereotypes on children because I know that they'll find those on their own...and they will choose to fit with or to reject those molds as comfortable and enjoyable. I've watched a mom desperate for a girly girl provide her daughter with all the necessary princessy things and that lovely girly girl looking child choose, instead, trucks, swords, and sports as her childhood passions. I've watched another mom horrified as her daughter eschewed gender neutral toys and interests for everything pink and glittery. I know of one little boy who loves fairy wings and the color pink...and God bless his parents for allowing him the dignity to make his choices. No matter the reasons or influences, children know what they do and do not like. At the heart of it, I think the best we can do as parents or caregivers is to respect their passions and interests and give them healthy ways in which to pursue those.
There are some places I draw the line and it tends to be drawn right at the place between "age appropriate" and "over my dead body." I don't care, for instance, how passionately or desperately a toddler wants to wear tube tops and lipstick. Or a twelve year old, for that matter. Little girls are little girls and, at least under MY watch, they aren't going to go around looking like street whores in string bikinis and high heels. I can't bear to watch the "reality shows" that depict little girls being made up and tarted up and spray tanned all to win a $500 "beauty pageant" because, come on...if you're trying to teach your little girl that she's beautiful enough to win a beauty contest...why the hell are you putting in hair pieces and fake teeth and having her spray tanned and plastered in cosmetics? What you're really teaching her is "Here, honey, if we put all this fake stuff on you...THEN you'll be beautiful. If we don't do that, you don't stand a chance in hell of winning this thing and mommy really needs the money this brings in." Hello, future eating disorders.
Over the years, I've struggled with the makeup issue and my little girl charges. Most of them are fascinated with makeup, I think mostly because they get to watch Mommy or Nanny put it on and they associate with with "being a grown up". They want to do what we do, whether it be to help prepare dinner, to help vacuum, or to put on makeup. Usually, I can pacify them by pretending to dust their faces with a makeup brush, or handing them lip balm. As a special treat, we might paint toenails together, or even go for real big girl manicures together. I struggle with what is right...is it healthy or damaging to tell them they are pretty? To fuss over their hair and put bows in it? To indulge their passion for twirly skirts and sparkly shoes? Shouldn't the focus be on inner, not outer, beauty?
I admit I am largely affected by the fact that I've never felt beautiful. Growing up, any compliment on my looks was coupled with criticism. "You have such beautiful hair, if only we could do something about that mole on your face!" "Your eyes are lovely, if it weren't for those dark circles." "You'd be so pretty if you gained weight/lost weight/cut your hair/grew your hair longer/wore skirts/put on a little makeup/smiled more..." In retaliation to my background, I am painstakingly careful when I tell my charges they are beautiful. I don't qualify it or temper it. Just "You are so beautiful." I tell them this when they are dressed in their fancy dresses, when they are in jeans...when they are picture perfect and when they are covered in sand and grime and fingerpaint and sidewalk chalk...when their sweet faces are freshly washed or covered in the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. "You are so beautiful" End of story. I tell them all the time. To be fair, I also tell them they are smart, kind, polite, creative, strong, interesting, compassionate, generous, and clever. But it delights me to have a child who, with her hair all askew and growing every which way, her face covered in breakfast, and her jeans on backwards, can look in the mirror and crow "I'm beautiful!". Much as I loathe the focus on appearance, it would shatter me for them to ever think they are anything less than beautiful, regardless of what their appearance might actually be. There's a confidence that comes with feeling pretty, the world sees you differently when you have that confidence...and treats you better. I think when you feel pretty, you probably expect to be treated well by the world and you don't tolerate people who treat you poorly because you KNOW you deserve better. Maybe that's warped, but there's alot of scientific evidence that shows that pretty people are treated better...even in school classrooms.
But makeup on a child? No. You are beautiful as you are, my little one, no matter how you are.
So, I confess, I shocked even myself when I came up with the idea to take the Twincesses to a little girl beauty salon for their birthday present. When a home has twins with a birthday exactly one month after Christmas, well, the toy room and art closet get pretty darn full this time of year. They last thing they needed was more toys or craft kits (or even books...we haven't gotten through all the new ones yet!). Plus, once they are old enough to remember I prefer to give my little ones experiences rather than toys. If a gift is about giving something you know the recipient would enjoy, then I had to suck up the few feminist principles I have and take the girls to glitter hell.
In theory, these salons are a feminist nightmare. They are pink and glittery and completely focused on traditional, stereotypically girl things. Cheerleaders. Princesses. Divas...not a doctor or chemistry set in sight. These places are entirely focused on outward beauty...nothing about being kind, or smart, or curious, or brave. Just being...pretty. And pink. A little purple, but mostly pink. Bright, bright pink. With sparkles. These places tend to look like Barbie and her friends threw up in there (probably on purpose after drinking some fattening water) and then danced on it, probably in their heels, bustiers, and fake plastic molded underwear. It can be horrifying.
As soon as we stepped in and heard the Taylor Swift CD playing over the sound system my little girly girls started twirling in their twirly skirts and giggling with pure delight. It made me pause. Am I doing the right thing? All they could chortle about all morning long was "We're getting makeup!" Am I laying a groundwork for eating disorders? Am I going to see them on Oprah in 15 years weighing 13 pounds and vomiting up anything they eat, crying about how their nanny took them to get makeovers for their 4th birthday and they've never felt pretty since then? The only thing that kept me from hauling them back out the door was their sheer delight and apparent belief that they'd discovered heaven.
They got their nails done. They got "party updos"...and bless the stylist for working with their thin, flyaway baby hair rather than slapping on fake hair pieces. They got to pick everything...their nail color, their hairstyle, the color of the flowers that got put in their hair. I almost said no to the makeup...but I couldn't resist the delight on their faces that they were being treated like real grown ups...real people. They weren't being told what to do or what not to do...just "Tell us what you like, and we'll give that to you." They weren't once told to sit still or sit up straight...they were asked "Do you want to be a rock star? A princess? A Diva? Have twisties in your hair?" and "Great choice!" no matter what their reply. Every time the stylist approached them, she asked their permission to do what she was about to do...respecting that they have the right to decide who does what to their physical selves.
The make up was light...barely noticeable eyeshadow and blush and sheer lip gloss. But oh, they felt like ladies.
As I struggled inside with it, I remembered a piece from a favorite book of mine. In her memoir, "Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress", author Susan Gilman describes her experience walking into a previously despised...but unvisited...bridal gown store to find a wedding gown for herself. As she looked around the large, nationwide chain store, she realized that it was not...as she had thought...an anti-feminist hell hole. It had dresses...beautiful dresses in every size that women come in. It had a staff that treated every woman like royalty, no matter how she looked. She realized that despite it's girly girl traditional values facade, this was a place where EVERY WOMAN was told she was beautiful and priceless and deserving of royal treatment. It was, she decided, the most feminist place she'd ever been.
Looking around this little girl salon...taking in the tiny pedicure stations set up just right for short little legs, the movie star directors chairs that lift little girl heads up to the right height for stylist hands, the runway/catwalk where every little girl can strut down to applause, I began to realize that maybe it was not such an awful place after all. This wasn't a place that said, "Here, we'll make you pretty...for once" or "With makeup you can be pretty." It was a place that said, "You are beautiful, who do you want to be today...we'll help you be who you want to be today...we will indulge your fantasies without judgement...and tomorrow you can wash it all off and change your mind...because whatever persona you want to try on today to see how it fits you, that's okay. We will not judge or comment...only applaud because you are you and that is fantastic."
I can't argue with that, can I? That's the kind of world I wish for every child!
The little rock star and the little princess spent twenty minutes twirling and floating and giggling down the modeling runway, clapping for each other, posing for the camera...then jumping off the end of it and racing as fast as their sturdy little legs would carry them backstage to emerge through the beaded curtain once again. And the next day, with all the glitter hairspray and makeup washed down the bathtub drain, my lovely, wonderful, strong, brilliant, caring, loving little charges both still danced and skipped around their world, confident in their beauty and talents, sure that no matter what they look like they are, truly, beautiful...with or without makeup.
It goes against nearly everything I believe to be right for children. I don't believe in forcing gender stereotypes on children because I know that they'll find those on their own...and they will choose to fit with or to reject those molds as comfortable and enjoyable. I've watched a mom desperate for a girly girl provide her daughter with all the necessary princessy things and that lovely girly girl looking child choose, instead, trucks, swords, and sports as her childhood passions. I've watched another mom horrified as her daughter eschewed gender neutral toys and interests for everything pink and glittery. I know of one little boy who loves fairy wings and the color pink...and God bless his parents for allowing him the dignity to make his choices. No matter the reasons or influences, children know what they do and do not like. At the heart of it, I think the best we can do as parents or caregivers is to respect their passions and interests and give them healthy ways in which to pursue those.
There are some places I draw the line and it tends to be drawn right at the place between "age appropriate" and "over my dead body." I don't care, for instance, how passionately or desperately a toddler wants to wear tube tops and lipstick. Or a twelve year old, for that matter. Little girls are little girls and, at least under MY watch, they aren't going to go around looking like street whores in string bikinis and high heels. I can't bear to watch the "reality shows" that depict little girls being made up and tarted up and spray tanned all to win a $500 "beauty pageant" because, come on...if you're trying to teach your little girl that she's beautiful enough to win a beauty contest...why the hell are you putting in hair pieces and fake teeth and having her spray tanned and plastered in cosmetics? What you're really teaching her is "Here, honey, if we put all this fake stuff on you...THEN you'll be beautiful. If we don't do that, you don't stand a chance in hell of winning this thing and mommy really needs the money this brings in." Hello, future eating disorders.
Over the years, I've struggled with the makeup issue and my little girl charges. Most of them are fascinated with makeup, I think mostly because they get to watch Mommy or Nanny put it on and they associate with with "being a grown up". They want to do what we do, whether it be to help prepare dinner, to help vacuum, or to put on makeup. Usually, I can pacify them by pretending to dust their faces with a makeup brush, or handing them lip balm. As a special treat, we might paint toenails together, or even go for real big girl manicures together. I struggle with what is right...is it healthy or damaging to tell them they are pretty? To fuss over their hair and put bows in it? To indulge their passion for twirly skirts and sparkly shoes? Shouldn't the focus be on inner, not outer, beauty?
I admit I am largely affected by the fact that I've never felt beautiful. Growing up, any compliment on my looks was coupled with criticism. "You have such beautiful hair, if only we could do something about that mole on your face!" "Your eyes are lovely, if it weren't for those dark circles." "You'd be so pretty if you gained weight/lost weight/cut your hair/grew your hair longer/wore skirts/put on a little makeup/smiled more..." In retaliation to my background, I am painstakingly careful when I tell my charges they are beautiful. I don't qualify it or temper it. Just "You are so beautiful." I tell them this when they are dressed in their fancy dresses, when they are in jeans...when they are picture perfect and when they are covered in sand and grime and fingerpaint and sidewalk chalk...when their sweet faces are freshly washed or covered in the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. "You are so beautiful" End of story. I tell them all the time. To be fair, I also tell them they are smart, kind, polite, creative, strong, interesting, compassionate, generous, and clever. But it delights me to have a child who, with her hair all askew and growing every which way, her face covered in breakfast, and her jeans on backwards, can look in the mirror and crow "I'm beautiful!". Much as I loathe the focus on appearance, it would shatter me for them to ever think they are anything less than beautiful, regardless of what their appearance might actually be. There's a confidence that comes with feeling pretty, the world sees you differently when you have that confidence...and treats you better. I think when you feel pretty, you probably expect to be treated well by the world and you don't tolerate people who treat you poorly because you KNOW you deserve better. Maybe that's warped, but there's alot of scientific evidence that shows that pretty people are treated better...even in school classrooms.
But makeup on a child? No. You are beautiful as you are, my little one, no matter how you are.
So, I confess, I shocked even myself when I came up with the idea to take the Twincesses to a little girl beauty salon for their birthday present. When a home has twins with a birthday exactly one month after Christmas, well, the toy room and art closet get pretty darn full this time of year. They last thing they needed was more toys or craft kits (or even books...we haven't gotten through all the new ones yet!). Plus, once they are old enough to remember I prefer to give my little ones experiences rather than toys. If a gift is about giving something you know the recipient would enjoy, then I had to suck up the few feminist principles I have and take the girls to glitter hell.
In theory, these salons are a feminist nightmare. They are pink and glittery and completely focused on traditional, stereotypically girl things. Cheerleaders. Princesses. Divas...not a doctor or chemistry set in sight. These places are entirely focused on outward beauty...nothing about being kind, or smart, or curious, or brave. Just being...pretty. And pink. A little purple, but mostly pink. Bright, bright pink. With sparkles. These places tend to look like Barbie and her friends threw up in there (probably on purpose after drinking some fattening water) and then danced on it, probably in their heels, bustiers, and fake plastic molded underwear. It can be horrifying.
As soon as we stepped in and heard the Taylor Swift CD playing over the sound system my little girly girls started twirling in their twirly skirts and giggling with pure delight. It made me pause. Am I doing the right thing? All they could chortle about all morning long was "We're getting makeup!" Am I laying a groundwork for eating disorders? Am I going to see them on Oprah in 15 years weighing 13 pounds and vomiting up anything they eat, crying about how their nanny took them to get makeovers for their 4th birthday and they've never felt pretty since then? The only thing that kept me from hauling them back out the door was their sheer delight and apparent belief that they'd discovered heaven.
They got their nails done. They got "party updos"...and bless the stylist for working with their thin, flyaway baby hair rather than slapping on fake hair pieces. They got to pick everything...their nail color, their hairstyle, the color of the flowers that got put in their hair. I almost said no to the makeup...but I couldn't resist the delight on their faces that they were being treated like real grown ups...real people. They weren't being told what to do or what not to do...just "Tell us what you like, and we'll give that to you." They weren't once told to sit still or sit up straight...they were asked "Do you want to be a rock star? A princess? A Diva? Have twisties in your hair?" and "Great choice!" no matter what their reply. Every time the stylist approached them, she asked their permission to do what she was about to do...respecting that they have the right to decide who does what to their physical selves.
The make up was light...barely noticeable eyeshadow and blush and sheer lip gloss. But oh, they felt like ladies.
As I struggled inside with it, I remembered a piece from a favorite book of mine. In her memoir, "Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress", author Susan Gilman describes her experience walking into a previously despised...but unvisited...bridal gown store to find a wedding gown for herself. As she looked around the large, nationwide chain store, she realized that it was not...as she had thought...an anti-feminist hell hole. It had dresses...beautiful dresses in every size that women come in. It had a staff that treated every woman like royalty, no matter how she looked. She realized that despite it's girly girl traditional values facade, this was a place where EVERY WOMAN was told she was beautiful and priceless and deserving of royal treatment. It was, she decided, the most feminist place she'd ever been.
Looking around this little girl salon...taking in the tiny pedicure stations set up just right for short little legs, the movie star directors chairs that lift little girl heads up to the right height for stylist hands, the runway/catwalk where every little girl can strut down to applause, I began to realize that maybe it was not such an awful place after all. This wasn't a place that said, "Here, we'll make you pretty...for once" or "With makeup you can be pretty." It was a place that said, "You are beautiful, who do you want to be today...we'll help you be who you want to be today...we will indulge your fantasies without judgement...and tomorrow you can wash it all off and change your mind...because whatever persona you want to try on today to see how it fits you, that's okay. We will not judge or comment...only applaud because you are you and that is fantastic."
I can't argue with that, can I? That's the kind of world I wish for every child!
The little rock star and the little princess spent twenty minutes twirling and floating and giggling down the modeling runway, clapping for each other, posing for the camera...then jumping off the end of it and racing as fast as their sturdy little legs would carry them backstage to emerge through the beaded curtain once again. And the next day, with all the glitter hairspray and makeup washed down the bathtub drain, my lovely, wonderful, strong, brilliant, caring, loving little charges both still danced and skipped around their world, confident in their beauty and talents, sure that no matter what they look like they are, truly, beautiful...with or without makeup.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thank God for greedy, materialistic children!
If your home (or, if you're a nanny, the home where you work) is anything like the home where I work, for the past couple of months you've had tiny little hands grabbing at every catalog that comes in the mail, crayons at the ready to circle every item of fascination for Santa's list. If those tiny hands belong to tiny people who also watch TV, they can quote you verbatim every hot new your-childhood-is-incomplete-and-miserable-without-this-toy advertisement. It can get kind of wearing when young voices beg for every toy in the store and clamor to keep writing and rewriting letters for the North Pole because the last letter was not quite complete.
It is easy to get discouraged when we see all our efforts at building thoughtful, generous little people dissipate into greedy, grabby, demanding, selfish, materialistic holiday-fueled behaviour. We might start to worry that the child who is begging for every toy in creation today will grow up to be just as self-focused, greedy, and materialistic as an adult.
It can become even more of a struggle when we, as the adults, struggle ourselves with wanting to provide them every joy in the world along with the knowledge and understanding of how truly truly blessed we might be. We see a story about a family whose home just went up in flames. We hear about parents who have lost their child. A child who just lost his parents. A couple struggling, thus far unsuccessfully, to build a family. A family just given a horrific, life altering diagnosis. Families and individuals without homes, food, or love. Countries where children starve to death, daily, for lack of food. Places where physical safety is unknown. Children who only know touch to be something that brings shame, or pain.
We hear these things and it gives a new perspective, it helps us to be a little more grateful for what we have.
I recently read a comment about a newscaster reading a child's letter to Santa wherein the child asked Santa to go to heaven and give his mommy a hug for him. The comment continued...what would children ask for if they weren't brainwashed by toy companies?
I thought about that and it dawned on me: They'd probably still ask for toys, and isn't that beautiful?
A child who asks for a message to be taken to his mommy in heaven is a child who knows the loss of his mother. It is his greatest wish to see her again, to be held by her again. It is natural for him to have this wish, given his circumstances. But why on earth would we want for every child to have this wish? Or even for one more child to wish for his mother?
A child who asks for toys instead of for a meal is a child who goes to bed with a full belly, who does not know hunger. A child who asks for a gaming system over having her parent back is a child who still knows the loving presence of her parent, who has not experienced the devastation of that kind of loss. A child who wants a Transformer instead of a home is a child who has a place to feel safe and to lay his head at night, who does not know what it is like to wander the streets or live in a shelter or be bounced from foster home to foster home. When a child is desperate to possess this year's "must have" item, that child is a child who likely has his basic needs met and doesn't even comprehend what it would be like to not have those needs for food, shelter, and love met.
Isn't that an amazing, wonderful thing?
Isn't it worth celebrating?
I do not, in any way, mean to belittle or mitigate the extent of need in our world. I firmly and fully believe in the responsibility of every individual to give to, and care for, the world around them. I believe this is our responsibility every day, not just at the holidays. On the flip side of this, though, I don't know that it is appropriate to tell a child writing a letter to Santa that his desire for new toys is invalid...or shameful...because other children want a home or a mommy or food. Absolutely, give him the opportunity throughout the year to participate in making the world a better place for his fellow humans. But don't deny him his own innocence, his own experience of a safe, happy, joyful world just because not every child has what he has.
For now, while part of my heart aches for every child...every adult...every person...in pain or in need, the other part of my heart rejoices for and celebrates the fact that so many children have the love, the safety, the freedom, the peace, the opportunity, and the chance to be greedy, materialistic, selfish little elves at Christmas time.
I thank God that they don't know any differently.
It is easy to get discouraged when we see all our efforts at building thoughtful, generous little people dissipate into greedy, grabby, demanding, selfish, materialistic holiday-fueled behaviour. We might start to worry that the child who is begging for every toy in creation today will grow up to be just as self-focused, greedy, and materialistic as an adult.
It can become even more of a struggle when we, as the adults, struggle ourselves with wanting to provide them every joy in the world along with the knowledge and understanding of how truly truly blessed we might be. We see a story about a family whose home just went up in flames. We hear about parents who have lost their child. A child who just lost his parents. A couple struggling, thus far unsuccessfully, to build a family. A family just given a horrific, life altering diagnosis. Families and individuals without homes, food, or love. Countries where children starve to death, daily, for lack of food. Places where physical safety is unknown. Children who only know touch to be something that brings shame, or pain.
We hear these things and it gives a new perspective, it helps us to be a little more grateful for what we have.
I recently read a comment about a newscaster reading a child's letter to Santa wherein the child asked Santa to go to heaven and give his mommy a hug for him. The comment continued...what would children ask for if they weren't brainwashed by toy companies?
I thought about that and it dawned on me: They'd probably still ask for toys, and isn't that beautiful?
A child who asks for a message to be taken to his mommy in heaven is a child who knows the loss of his mother. It is his greatest wish to see her again, to be held by her again. It is natural for him to have this wish, given his circumstances. But why on earth would we want for every child to have this wish? Or even for one more child to wish for his mother?
A child who asks for toys instead of for a meal is a child who goes to bed with a full belly, who does not know hunger. A child who asks for a gaming system over having her parent back is a child who still knows the loving presence of her parent, who has not experienced the devastation of that kind of loss. A child who wants a Transformer instead of a home is a child who has a place to feel safe and to lay his head at night, who does not know what it is like to wander the streets or live in a shelter or be bounced from foster home to foster home. When a child is desperate to possess this year's "must have" item, that child is a child who likely has his basic needs met and doesn't even comprehend what it would be like to not have those needs for food, shelter, and love met.
Isn't that an amazing, wonderful thing?
Isn't it worth celebrating?
I do not, in any way, mean to belittle or mitigate the extent of need in our world. I firmly and fully believe in the responsibility of every individual to give to, and care for, the world around them. I believe this is our responsibility every day, not just at the holidays. On the flip side of this, though, I don't know that it is appropriate to tell a child writing a letter to Santa that his desire for new toys is invalid...or shameful...because other children want a home or a mommy or food. Absolutely, give him the opportunity throughout the year to participate in making the world a better place for his fellow humans. But don't deny him his own innocence, his own experience of a safe, happy, joyful world just because not every child has what he has.
For now, while part of my heart aches for every child...every adult...every person...in pain or in need, the other part of my heart rejoices for and celebrates the fact that so many children have the love, the safety, the freedom, the peace, the opportunity, and the chance to be greedy, materialistic, selfish little elves at Christmas time.
I thank God that they don't know any differently.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
I still believe in Santa
I still believe in Santa.
I realize that may sound a bit delusional from a 37 year old woman, but it is true. I still believe in Santa. It comes in handy, as a nanny. I get to genuinely participate in the delight of my charges.
Don't get me wrong, I've had my doubts over the years. Questions. Suspiscions.
When I was three, I asked my mother why the Santa at one place had brown eyes and the Santa at another had blue eyes. She pointed out that it could be pretty hard for Santa to be in all places at one time, so sometimes his helpers dressed up and passed the news along to him about what all the kids wanted. Thirty four years later, this still makes sense to me.
When I was five, I recognized the handwriting on the gift tags as my dad's handwriting. He didn't miss a beat when he said that the elves and Santa get pretty busy so they sometimes leave the gifts for the moms and dads to wrap and tag. This, too, still makes sense to me.
I was just beginnning to truly suspect something was awry with the whole Santa spectacle at age 8, when we moved from Minnesota to southern California. We moved into our warm, sunny new home in October.
Santa lived across the street.
I'm not kidding. There he was...white beard, round belly, red pants...woodworking in his garage. He told my brother and I that it got pretty cold for old bones up in the North Pole, so he and Mrs. Claus had moved south. It was a secret, he said. To fit into society and keep an eye on people, he and Mrs. Claus called themselves Preston and Dixie. When it wasn't Christmas season, they performed as professional clowns so they could see what all the kids were up to.
It made perfect sense to us, the idea of leaving a cold and snowy land for bright California. All year long, we'd scribble out lengthy letters to Santa about what we wanted and then...because we were the luckiest kids in the world on this front...we walked our letters across the street to Santa's house.
When I started to hear ugly rumors at school, I questioned my parents about Santa again. They handled it with rare sensitivity. "Santa," I was told, "is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time." Well, I can buy into that, can't you?
Eventually, I figured out that the presents beneath the tree probably weren't made by tiny little half-humans on the polar ice cap and that they probably didn't arrive via a fat man, eight reindeer, and a sleigh. In fact, when I realized that my parents were behind the Christmas morning toy bonanza, I spent WEEKS thanking them for each individual item I could remember as a Santa gift. I felt horrifically guilty for the expense, ashamed of my own greed, and determined to keep cost in mind for every future Christmas list. Since the actual day of a holiday was usually a disaster in our home...packed chock full with rages, accusations, fights, and tantrums...I learned to focus on what I could give, rather than what I got. No matter how unhappy a Christmas got (including the one stellarly awful Christmas in college when I got thrown out of my mother's house on Christmas Day for a snarky comment), I kept in mind that one answer about who Santa REALLY is: The spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. It gives me a focus, not just for how I choose to be, but for what I choose to see in the world around me.
It would be easy to grow cynical; to bemoan the greed around me, to snark that it would be nice to see generosity all year around rather than just at the holidays. I guess I could focus more on the crazy drivers in the mall parking lot rather than the friend who politely held the door for more than 100 people at a busy restaurant last weekend. But, I remember my second Christmas in mission and being on the flip side of Toys for Tots...the side that got to hand out box after box after box after box of donated toys to weeping, grateful, shame-filled parents who just wanted their own little ones to experience a bit of magic in their impoverished lives for one, sparkly, gift filled morning.
I remember a former nannykid taking a big gulping frightened breath and asking me if could keep her secret about something. (I, of course, immediately imagined the worst and suggested she tell me first, then we'd deal with the secret part). "I don't know," she ventured, "if I believe in Santa anymore." The perk in her step and the glow in her eyes were well worth it when I told her the truth: "Well, I still believe in Santa. Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time, and I believe in that with all my heart."
I remember my first Christmas in mission, sicker than I'd ever been in my life thanks to a bout with intestinal amoebas and having had to miss the last night of posadas and a real Honduran holiday...I crawled out of bed while everyone was in the chapel to a message on our message board, "Merry Christmas, Tara...we love you, your brothers and sisters in Christ."
This year, I believe in Santa more than ever.
Three months ago, one of my own nanny babies was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, Burkitt's lymphoma. The treatment has been brutal on this little boy. He has spent more time in the hospital than at home. He is unable to attend first grade. Because of how the tumor is sitting, he has almost no sensation in his lower body save for extreme nerve pain. While I'm sure his parents must have many moments of despair, anger, and frustration, they walk this journey with their boy with humor, grace, and optimism in a way that puts me in awe every day. I know how very much I love this child and I'm just his former nanny. So, I know that how his parents love him is infinitely wider and greater than what I can imagine. I know how his suffering breaks my heart, so I know that the agony his parents experience watching him go through this has got to also be infinitely wider and greater than anything I can possibly imagine, as well.
They don't show that side much. It is extraordinarily humbling and inspiring.
Last month, as the holidays approached, I realized that he probably wouldn't get to see Santa this year at any of the local malls. His immune system is shattered from the chemo, and going to a germ-filled mall could be very risky. So I thought...Santa is magic. Soon, this child might start to not believe in the reality of Santa magic because he's getting older and getting to that questioning age. Cancer has taken so much from them these past few months, I'll be damned if it is taking Santa, too. There has to be a Santa out there, I thought, who will let me pay him to go to their house.
I mentioned this thought to a new friend. "Oh, I know just who you need to call. Santa Norm is the real Santa. He's a friend of mine, he might do it." I asked her to contact him for me and to see what he would charge. She did so delightedly. I suspect she's part Santa.
Santa Norm waved off any fee. Santa understands his magic, and understands how precious that magic can be. So this wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man...a total stranger...gave of his time and self during a very very busy time of year in order to bring Christmas to life for a family he did not know.
This afternoon, at that family's home, there was a knock at the door.
Sometimes, Santa doesn't come down the chimney, after all.
Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. And yes, I still believe in Santa.
I realize that may sound a bit delusional from a 37 year old woman, but it is true. I still believe in Santa. It comes in handy, as a nanny. I get to genuinely participate in the delight of my charges.
Don't get me wrong, I've had my doubts over the years. Questions. Suspiscions.
When I was three, I asked my mother why the Santa at one place had brown eyes and the Santa at another had blue eyes. She pointed out that it could be pretty hard for Santa to be in all places at one time, so sometimes his helpers dressed up and passed the news along to him about what all the kids wanted. Thirty four years later, this still makes sense to me.
When I was five, I recognized the handwriting on the gift tags as my dad's handwriting. He didn't miss a beat when he said that the elves and Santa get pretty busy so they sometimes leave the gifts for the moms and dads to wrap and tag. This, too, still makes sense to me.
I was just beginnning to truly suspect something was awry with the whole Santa spectacle at age 8, when we moved from Minnesota to southern California. We moved into our warm, sunny new home in October.
Santa lived across the street.
I'm not kidding. There he was...white beard, round belly, red pants...woodworking in his garage. He told my brother and I that it got pretty cold for old bones up in the North Pole, so he and Mrs. Claus had moved south. It was a secret, he said. To fit into society and keep an eye on people, he and Mrs. Claus called themselves Preston and Dixie. When it wasn't Christmas season, they performed as professional clowns so they could see what all the kids were up to.
It made perfect sense to us, the idea of leaving a cold and snowy land for bright California. All year long, we'd scribble out lengthy letters to Santa about what we wanted and then...because we were the luckiest kids in the world on this front...we walked our letters across the street to Santa's house.
When I started to hear ugly rumors at school, I questioned my parents about Santa again. They handled it with rare sensitivity. "Santa," I was told, "is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time." Well, I can buy into that, can't you?
Eventually, I figured out that the presents beneath the tree probably weren't made by tiny little half-humans on the polar ice cap and that they probably didn't arrive via a fat man, eight reindeer, and a sleigh. In fact, when I realized that my parents were behind the Christmas morning toy bonanza, I spent WEEKS thanking them for each individual item I could remember as a Santa gift. I felt horrifically guilty for the expense, ashamed of my own greed, and determined to keep cost in mind for every future Christmas list. Since the actual day of a holiday was usually a disaster in our home...packed chock full with rages, accusations, fights, and tantrums...I learned to focus on what I could give, rather than what I got. No matter how unhappy a Christmas got (including the one stellarly awful Christmas in college when I got thrown out of my mother's house on Christmas Day for a snarky comment), I kept in mind that one answer about who Santa REALLY is: The spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. It gives me a focus, not just for how I choose to be, but for what I choose to see in the world around me.
It would be easy to grow cynical; to bemoan the greed around me, to snark that it would be nice to see generosity all year around rather than just at the holidays. I guess I could focus more on the crazy drivers in the mall parking lot rather than the friend who politely held the door for more than 100 people at a busy restaurant last weekend. But, I remember my second Christmas in mission and being on the flip side of Toys for Tots...the side that got to hand out box after box after box after box of donated toys to weeping, grateful, shame-filled parents who just wanted their own little ones to experience a bit of magic in their impoverished lives for one, sparkly, gift filled morning.
I remember a former nannykid taking a big gulping frightened breath and asking me if could keep her secret about something. (I, of course, immediately imagined the worst and suggested she tell me first, then we'd deal with the secret part). "I don't know," she ventured, "if I believe in Santa anymore." The perk in her step and the glow in her eyes were well worth it when I told her the truth: "Well, I still believe in Santa. Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time, and I believe in that with all my heart."
I remember my first Christmas in mission, sicker than I'd ever been in my life thanks to a bout with intestinal amoebas and having had to miss the last night of posadas and a real Honduran holiday...I crawled out of bed while everyone was in the chapel to a message on our message board, "Merry Christmas, Tara...we love you, your brothers and sisters in Christ."
This year, I believe in Santa more than ever.
Three months ago, one of my own nanny babies was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, Burkitt's lymphoma. The treatment has been brutal on this little boy. He has spent more time in the hospital than at home. He is unable to attend first grade. Because of how the tumor is sitting, he has almost no sensation in his lower body save for extreme nerve pain. While I'm sure his parents must have many moments of despair, anger, and frustration, they walk this journey with their boy with humor, grace, and optimism in a way that puts me in awe every day. I know how very much I love this child and I'm just his former nanny. So, I know that how his parents love him is infinitely wider and greater than what I can imagine. I know how his suffering breaks my heart, so I know that the agony his parents experience watching him go through this has got to also be infinitely wider and greater than anything I can possibly imagine, as well.
They don't show that side much. It is extraordinarily humbling and inspiring.
Last month, as the holidays approached, I realized that he probably wouldn't get to see Santa this year at any of the local malls. His immune system is shattered from the chemo, and going to a germ-filled mall could be very risky. So I thought...Santa is magic. Soon, this child might start to not believe in the reality of Santa magic because he's getting older and getting to that questioning age. Cancer has taken so much from them these past few months, I'll be damned if it is taking Santa, too. There has to be a Santa out there, I thought, who will let me pay him to go to their house.
I mentioned this thought to a new friend. "Oh, I know just who you need to call. Santa Norm is the real Santa. He's a friend of mine, he might do it." I asked her to contact him for me and to see what he would charge. She did so delightedly. I suspect she's part Santa.
Santa Norm waved off any fee. Santa understands his magic, and understands how precious that magic can be. So this wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man...a total stranger...gave of his time and self during a very very busy time of year in order to bring Christmas to life for a family he did not know.
This afternoon, at that family's home, there was a knock at the door.
Sometimes, Santa doesn't come down the chimney, after all.
Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. And yes, I still believe in Santa.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
It's a Gift
I have a gift.
It is a rare and reasonably unique gift.
It is an unfortunate gift.
I wish I had gifts like some of my friends have. The gift of always knowing the right thing to say. The gift of spectacular, side splitting wit. The gift of music. The gift of organization. The gift of being able to do any physical activity well. The gift to create something brilliant and extraordinary...be it a screenplay, a book, a song, art, a child...
Me? I have a gift for crazy. Some people bring out the best in others; I bring out the crazy.
This gift manifests in two primary ways. First, it is the random stranger who sees me and sees an invisible sign on my back reading "No boundaries, bring it on!" It might be the creeper old man at a museum who trails me and my nannykids, trying to show us the stack of photos he took of Thomas the Tank Engine at a recent "Day Out with Thomas" event. It might be the older woman who starts in with how much she doesn't like her husband now that he's retired. It might be the lady behind me in line at Gymboree who tells me all about her unborn twins who died in utero six months ago. It might be the person who sits down next to me in a cafeteria and opens up a conversation by telling me how her stepfather used to come into her room at night. It might be a person I just met who asks me to throw her a birthday party and invite all my friends...who don't know her. It might be an innocent comment I make (such as a recent one about the nutritional values in a peanut butter sandwich) that triggers the crazy into a furious frenzy of argument which so riles them against me as a person that they have to block me on facebook in order to cope with my existence.
True stories, all.
And I don't mind the personal trauma stories from people I know. In fact, I am deeply honored when someone chooses to share such things with me, or when they turn to me for support or comfort. It is more than a little unnerving to be out in public, though, minding my own business, and to have a total stranger approach me with private, intimate life details. While I'd like to stop and comfort them all, I can't.
This gift for crazy also manifests in the form of customer service people. It doesn't seem to matter how polite, calm, reasonable I am. If there's a crazy person waiting to "help", that's the one I'll get. A few weeks ago it was the bartender who refused to serve me (or even hand me my bill) because I wasn't thin and pretty enough. The only way I got any kind of service was for one of my gorgeous friends to place the order for me.
This week, it was the sales associate at a superstore retailer.
I just had to pick up a few easy things. Diet Coke, toilet paper, balloons, and string. The first three were easy to find but the string left me stumped. I could have just wandered the store, aisle after aisle, to find it. Doing so would have caused me to be very very late to pick up the Twincesses and the Little Litigator from preschool and kindergarten. So, I did the normal thing: I asked for help.
It should have gone like this:
Me: Excuse me, where might I find string?
Sales Associate: String? Oh, on the back wall in hardware.
Me: Thank you so much!
SA: You're welcome, have a great day!
That is not how it went down. It should have gone down that way. In a normal world, it would have gone down that way. As we know, *my* world doesn't go according to normal, so this is how it played out:
Me: Excuse me, where might I find string?
SA: String?
pause
pause
pause
Me: Yes. String. Like...twine?
SA: (blank stare)
Me: Do you carry string?
SA: (completely baffled) What do you need string for?
Okay, does it really matter? Are there that many kinds of twine like string that would be in that many different departments of the store? Does my intended use make a difference in whether or not I am allowed to purchase the string? If I say "It's for a kindergarten science experiment" (the truth) will I get faster service than if I say "It's so I can tie up small children and see how long it takes them to gnaw free" (not the truth)?
Me: I just need string...string like twine.
SA: But like, for what?
Me: For a project.
SA: (knowingly) ohhhhh. Okay. I don't know where that is.
If you don't know where it is, then why did you need to know what it was for??
Me: Is there someone who WOULD know?
SA: um, probably? I know where everything in the store is though.
Which begs the question...
Me: So, then, where is the string?
SA: I'm going to have to ask. Do you really need it?
*blink* No, I just asked for it to test you, just for kicks and giggles. Once you tell me where it is, I'm going to walk in the opposite direction and buy hairbows instead. Of COURSE I really need it!
Me: Yes. I really do.
SA: (heaving sigh) I guess I can call for help
Me: That would be great, thank you.
SA: (muttering angrily) Although, I do know where everything is in this store. I've never had anyone ask for STRING before. What a weird thing to need. Nobody ever asks for that. String.
I had to fight the urge to ask for bungee cords, duct tape, blindfolds, and bacon.
SA: (on the phone) Yeah, there's this lady here and she needs (sideways glance at me) STRING. Do we even have that? Oh. We do. Okay. (hangs up phone, stares at me expectantly)
Me: So...the string is...where?
SA: On the wall.
Me: Which wall would that be?
SA: (exasperated with me at this point) On. The. Back. Wall. Near hardware. You have to actually go and look for it. You have to walk over there. GO. Walk over there. Go down this aisle, look at the back wall, and look for where it says "HARDWARE". Then, go to the BACK WALL. Find your STRING.
Because, obviously, I was in the wrong for asking. I mean, who the hell goes into a store and asks a customer service person for actual help? That's some kind of entitlement based crazy on my part, for sure!
If I'd had more time, at this point I might have had to mess with her, just to make a point. "Wait, the front wall?" "Did you say it was in auto supplies?" "Gosh, that's far away, can you just go get it for me while I wait here?" "Is it the flavored kind of string?" I might even have had to go look for it, failed to find it, and returned to her for more "help."
That might have set her off even more, though, and since clearly asking a simple question was a trigger I thought it wise not to push my luck.
I might hunt her down tomorrow, though, and ask her about that duct tape.
It is a rare and reasonably unique gift.
It is an unfortunate gift.
I wish I had gifts like some of my friends have. The gift of always knowing the right thing to say. The gift of spectacular, side splitting wit. The gift of music. The gift of organization. The gift of being able to do any physical activity well. The gift to create something brilliant and extraordinary...be it a screenplay, a book, a song, art, a child...
Me? I have a gift for crazy. Some people bring out the best in others; I bring out the crazy.
This gift manifests in two primary ways. First, it is the random stranger who sees me and sees an invisible sign on my back reading "No boundaries, bring it on!" It might be the creeper old man at a museum who trails me and my nannykids, trying to show us the stack of photos he took of Thomas the Tank Engine at a recent "Day Out with Thomas" event. It might be the older woman who starts in with how much she doesn't like her husband now that he's retired. It might be the lady behind me in line at Gymboree who tells me all about her unborn twins who died in utero six months ago. It might be the person who sits down next to me in a cafeteria and opens up a conversation by telling me how her stepfather used to come into her room at night. It might be a person I just met who asks me to throw her a birthday party and invite all my friends...who don't know her. It might be an innocent comment I make (such as a recent one about the nutritional values in a peanut butter sandwich) that triggers the crazy into a furious frenzy of argument which so riles them against me as a person that they have to block me on facebook in order to cope with my existence.
True stories, all.
And I don't mind the personal trauma stories from people I know. In fact, I am deeply honored when someone chooses to share such things with me, or when they turn to me for support or comfort. It is more than a little unnerving to be out in public, though, minding my own business, and to have a total stranger approach me with private, intimate life details. While I'd like to stop and comfort them all, I can't.
This gift for crazy also manifests in the form of customer service people. It doesn't seem to matter how polite, calm, reasonable I am. If there's a crazy person waiting to "help", that's the one I'll get. A few weeks ago it was the bartender who refused to serve me (or even hand me my bill) because I wasn't thin and pretty enough. The only way I got any kind of service was for one of my gorgeous friends to place the order for me.
This week, it was the sales associate at a superstore retailer.
I just had to pick up a few easy things. Diet Coke, toilet paper, balloons, and string. The first three were easy to find but the string left me stumped. I could have just wandered the store, aisle after aisle, to find it. Doing so would have caused me to be very very late to pick up the Twincesses and the Little Litigator from preschool and kindergarten. So, I did the normal thing: I asked for help.
It should have gone like this:
Me: Excuse me, where might I find string?
Sales Associate: String? Oh, on the back wall in hardware.
Me: Thank you so much!
SA: You're welcome, have a great day!
That is not how it went down. It should have gone down that way. In a normal world, it would have gone down that way. As we know, *my* world doesn't go according to normal, so this is how it played out:
Me: Excuse me, where might I find string?
SA: String?
pause
pause
pause
Me: Yes. String. Like...twine?
SA: (blank stare)
Me: Do you carry string?
SA: (completely baffled) What do you need string for?
Okay, does it really matter? Are there that many kinds of twine like string that would be in that many different departments of the store? Does my intended use make a difference in whether or not I am allowed to purchase the string? If I say "It's for a kindergarten science experiment" (the truth) will I get faster service than if I say "It's so I can tie up small children and see how long it takes them to gnaw free" (not the truth)?
Me: I just need string...string like twine.
SA: But like, for what?
Me: For a project.
SA: (knowingly) ohhhhh. Okay. I don't know where that is.
If you don't know where it is, then why did you need to know what it was for??
Me: Is there someone who WOULD know?
SA: um, probably? I know where everything in the store is though.
Which begs the question...
Me: So, then, where is the string?
SA: I'm going to have to ask. Do you really need it?
*blink* No, I just asked for it to test you, just for kicks and giggles. Once you tell me where it is, I'm going to walk in the opposite direction and buy hairbows instead. Of COURSE I really need it!
Me: Yes. I really do.
SA: (heaving sigh) I guess I can call for help
Me: That would be great, thank you.
SA: (muttering angrily) Although, I do know where everything is in this store. I've never had anyone ask for STRING before. What a weird thing to need. Nobody ever asks for that. String.
I had to fight the urge to ask for bungee cords, duct tape, blindfolds, and bacon.
SA: (on the phone) Yeah, there's this lady here and she needs (sideways glance at me) STRING. Do we even have that? Oh. We do. Okay. (hangs up phone, stares at me expectantly)
Me: So...the string is...where?
SA: On the wall.
Me: Which wall would that be?
SA: (exasperated with me at this point) On. The. Back. Wall. Near hardware. You have to actually go and look for it. You have to walk over there. GO. Walk over there. Go down this aisle, look at the back wall, and look for where it says "HARDWARE". Then, go to the BACK WALL. Find your STRING.
Because, obviously, I was in the wrong for asking. I mean, who the hell goes into a store and asks a customer service person for actual help? That's some kind of entitlement based crazy on my part, for sure!
If I'd had more time, at this point I might have had to mess with her, just to make a point. "Wait, the front wall?" "Did you say it was in auto supplies?" "Gosh, that's far away, can you just go get it for me while I wait here?" "Is it the flavored kind of string?" I might even have had to go look for it, failed to find it, and returned to her for more "help."
That might have set her off even more, though, and since clearly asking a simple question was a trigger I thought it wise not to push my luck.
I might hunt her down tomorrow, though, and ask her about that duct tape.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
"It's all so real now"
Today I heard two men comment that, today, their shared experience seemed "all so real now". I've never met these men before. I'll likely never meet either one of them again. But I've been in the shoes of one of them and I know exactly what he means.
Nine years and a couple of weeks ago, I recieved a letter in the mail that changed my life. It was from the National Marrow Donor Program and it informed me that I was a potential bone marrow match for a then 30 year old woman with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. It asked if I would consent to further testing to confirm the match.
I did, and I was.
I ended up donating three times for this woman I did not know. It boggled me to think that through some biological coincidence, cells from my body had the potential to save the life of a stranger. It still boggles me how being a match is something completely beyond our control, and how very very easy it is to be a marrow donor.
Nine months and six days after the first donation I was in a suburban Cleveland neighborhood, walking up a driveway, to meet my bone marrow recipient for the first time. Her name was Erin Jones, and she was a hero. Meeting Erin that July afternoon was a defining moment for me. Meeting her mother a few minutes later, however, crystallized my entire experience into something incredibly real. Up until then, I would have told you that what I'd agreed to do was a very small thing. It is, for the donor. Once you match, all you ever do is show up and sign papers and lay there. You don't have to be good at anything, you don't have to do any work for it, have any talents, demonstrate any skills...you don't even have to be a nice or decent person. All you have to do is be the match. Other people involved in the process do all the work...but as a donor, all I had to do was show up. So small. Yet, when Erin's mother, Diane, wrapped her arms around me and started to sob, "Thank you, thank you. Oh my God, thank you", it was in that moment that my "very small thing" became real to me. In that moment, I knew that what was a "very small thing" for me was not small at all for someone else. It was enormous to them. Erin wasn't just an unknown woman a couple of years older than myself: She was someone's child. She was a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend, a police officer...but first, she was someone's child.
Being able to give someone hope for a second chance at living? Not such a "very small thing" to her family. Meeting them that day moved the whole experience into a very concrete reality for me.
Today, I heard another marrow donor describe it in much the same way as he prepared to meet, for the very first time, his own marrow recipient. "Today, it is real."
In January, 2008, Dr. Wesley Hamilton (of Abilene, TX) donated his marrow for Dany Mercado of Kitchener, ONT, Canada. Dany recieved his transplant at Karmanos Cancer Center, here in Detroit, MI. Today, at Karmanos, they met each other in person.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house as those two men embraced and held on to each other.
When I heard Dany tell a reporter that "It's all so real now"...words that both Erin and I used to describe our first meeting... my heart grinned.
I know what you mean, Dany and Wes. I know what you mean.
(See Dany and Wes meeting here)
Nine years and a couple of weeks ago, I recieved a letter in the mail that changed my life. It was from the National Marrow Donor Program and it informed me that I was a potential bone marrow match for a then 30 year old woman with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. It asked if I would consent to further testing to confirm the match.
I did, and I was.
I ended up donating three times for this woman I did not know. It boggled me to think that through some biological coincidence, cells from my body had the potential to save the life of a stranger. It still boggles me how being a match is something completely beyond our control, and how very very easy it is to be a marrow donor.
Nine months and six days after the first donation I was in a suburban Cleveland neighborhood, walking up a driveway, to meet my bone marrow recipient for the first time. Her name was Erin Jones, and she was a hero. Meeting Erin that July afternoon was a defining moment for me. Meeting her mother a few minutes later, however, crystallized my entire experience into something incredibly real. Up until then, I would have told you that what I'd agreed to do was a very small thing. It is, for the donor. Once you match, all you ever do is show up and sign papers and lay there. You don't have to be good at anything, you don't have to do any work for it, have any talents, demonstrate any skills...you don't even have to be a nice or decent person. All you have to do is be the match. Other people involved in the process do all the work...but as a donor, all I had to do was show up. So small. Yet, when Erin's mother, Diane, wrapped her arms around me and started to sob, "Thank you, thank you. Oh my God, thank you", it was in that moment that my "very small thing" became real to me. In that moment, I knew that what was a "very small thing" for me was not small at all for someone else. It was enormous to them. Erin wasn't just an unknown woman a couple of years older than myself: She was someone's child. She was a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend, a police officer...but first, she was someone's child.
Being able to give someone hope for a second chance at living? Not such a "very small thing" to her family. Meeting them that day moved the whole experience into a very concrete reality for me.
Today, I heard another marrow donor describe it in much the same way as he prepared to meet, for the very first time, his own marrow recipient. "Today, it is real."
In January, 2008, Dr. Wesley Hamilton (of Abilene, TX) donated his marrow for Dany Mercado of Kitchener, ONT, Canada. Dany recieved his transplant at Karmanos Cancer Center, here in Detroit, MI. Today, at Karmanos, they met each other in person.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house as those two men embraced and held on to each other.
When I heard Dany tell a reporter that "It's all so real now"...words that both Erin and I used to describe our first meeting... my heart grinned.
I know what you mean, Dany and Wes. I know what you mean.
(See Dany and Wes meeting here)
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