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.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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)
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Highlights from the Highlands
Just to tease you a bit, here are some highlights from the week thus far:
*Learning to live life without a flat iron...and allowing the photo's to prove it.
*Picking up pedestrians, shaking them, then smacking them back down on the street.
*Meeting a man in a tartan turban that matched his tartan tie. And his tartan trousers.
*Realizing that sightseeing alone means asking complete, non-English speaking strangers if they will take my picture here...or there...with that in the background...
*In five days, I can take over 600 pictures.
*Edinburgh was built on seven hills, but when one uses walking as a primary means of transportation one comes to believe it is built on seven THOUSAND hills.
*If your feet are wet enough long enough, you cease to feel them.
*In Scotland, even tourists are covered under the National Health. Wonder how Americans would feel if non-citizens were covered under a tax-payer funded national health scheme?
*Scotspeak rules, and I fully intend to return home speaking in Scottish, peppering my speech with words like "wee" , "car park", "haggis", and "bagpipe". I may also feel a compulsive need to refer to elevators as lifts.
*No matter how you prepare for it, when you see your great grandparent's handwritten signatures for the first time, registering their marriage to each other, you just might start to cry. You may also impulsively jump up and hug the man handing you that information.
*You may also feel inclined to hug the gravestone of your great great grandparents when you miraculously stumble upon it, amidst thousands, in a fog covered, hilltop cemetery.
*It's easy to get jaded when everything around you holds so much history...this can cause you to see a marker for something and go "Oh, that's no big deal, it's only 200 years old..."
*St. Mungo's Museum of Religious Life, in Glasgow, is an absolute MUST SEE, regardless of your religious beliefs or religious nonbeliefs. Simply spectacular.
*The best way to see any of it is with your very best friend.
*Learning to live life without a flat iron...and allowing the photo's to prove it.
*Picking up pedestrians, shaking them, then smacking them back down on the street.
*Meeting a man in a tartan turban that matched his tartan tie. And his tartan trousers.
*Realizing that sightseeing alone means asking complete, non-English speaking strangers if they will take my picture here...or there...with that in the background...
*In five days, I can take over 600 pictures.
*Edinburgh was built on seven hills, but when one uses walking as a primary means of transportation one comes to believe it is built on seven THOUSAND hills.
*If your feet are wet enough long enough, you cease to feel them.
*In Scotland, even tourists are covered under the National Health. Wonder how Americans would feel if non-citizens were covered under a tax-payer funded national health scheme?
*Scotspeak rules, and I fully intend to return home speaking in Scottish, peppering my speech with words like "wee" , "car park", "haggis", and "bagpipe". I may also feel a compulsive need to refer to elevators as lifts.
*No matter how you prepare for it, when you see your great grandparent's handwritten signatures for the first time, registering their marriage to each other, you just might start to cry. You may also impulsively jump up and hug the man handing you that information.
*You may also feel inclined to hug the gravestone of your great great grandparents when you miraculously stumble upon it, amidst thousands, in a fog covered, hilltop cemetery.
*It's easy to get jaded when everything around you holds so much history...this can cause you to see a marker for something and go "Oh, that's no big deal, it's only 200 years old..."
*St. Mungo's Museum of Religious Life, in Glasgow, is an absolute MUST SEE, regardless of your religious beliefs or religious nonbeliefs. Simply spectacular.
*The best way to see any of it is with your very best friend.
An apology
I have an apology to make.
Prior to leaving the US for my vacation in Scotland, I promised people to use this blog to keep them updated on my trip and adventures in the land of my forefathers.
I haven't done so. Part of it has been because there was an issue logging in from afar, and part of it has been that I've been running myself (and Cyndy) totally ragged trying to cram as much experience as possible into my short time here.
Thus, I am very sorry!
I will try to have at least an update or two from here, then will add stories next week.
Even with all the rain (which makes my hair frizz and curl up like a nightmare from 1985), Scotland totally rules.
Tara
Prior to leaving the US for my vacation in Scotland, I promised people to use this blog to keep them updated on my trip and adventures in the land of my forefathers.
I haven't done so. Part of it has been because there was an issue logging in from afar, and part of it has been that I've been running myself (and Cyndy) totally ragged trying to cram as much experience as possible into my short time here.
Thus, I am very sorry!
I will try to have at least an update or two from here, then will add stories next week.
Even with all the rain (which makes my hair frizz and curl up like a nightmare from 1985), Scotland totally rules.
Tara
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