Remembering 9-11

On September 12, 2001 I was driving to work in a daze, having been up most of the night haunted and worried about my husband's cousin, and thousands of other lost people at the site of the fallen Twin Towers. On a bridge across the eastbound Long Island Expressway, somewhere near East Moriches, there was a banner made from a ripped white bed sheet. On it was written "Pray for Us" in black spray paint. The sky gray and my windshield speckled with rain, the makeshift banner looked like an abandoned movie prop from a horror film. That scene is etched in my mind forever.

Ironically, the morning before, I was teaching high school English, in the middle of a creative writing exercise that placed my students in a hypothetical emergency situation involving an act of terror when a girl in the center of the room raised her hand and quietly asked if I knew that a plane had just hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. I remember running down the hall shortly after that, meeting some of my colleagues in an empty classroom where they had turned on a television. We ate lunch staring at the screen in disbelief. The South Tower fell just before the bell rang. I pushed my lesson plans and my entire lunch into the garbage pail adjacent to the desk where I was seated, watching in silent horror. What followed were three periods of emotional paralysis as I wondered which one of my loved ones or friends might have perished in front of my eyes as I sat eating a salami sandwich.

The call came when I got home. It was my mother-in-law phoning from several states away. My husband’s first cousin, John Scharf, was missing. John, a 29 year-old electrical engineer for Ohio based Leibert Technology, wasn’t supposed to be in the South Tower of the World Trade Center on September 11th. He was there the day before for the first time ever, on a service call at Aon Corporation located on the 105th floor. John was missing a part for the job on Monday, so he came back on the morning of the 11th to finish his work.

This was the cousin who my husband viewed as a brother, who shared the same first name with him and was the same age, the one who had looked out for him when they went to grade school together. When they were both teens, John was the one who took my husband, then 16 years-old, under his wing after he lost his dad to cancer.

“This is bad. I can’t tell him,” I said, but I had to. “He cannot hear this over the phone,” my mother-in-law insisted.

As I waited for my husband to arrive home from work I couldn’t help thinking of some of the stories he had told me about growing up with John.

“We had so much fun together,” he once said. “In school, John had the market on junior high school blow-pop sales. Even when fellow students tried to compete with John, he found the larger blow-pops and was able to maintain his customer base. In eighth grade, we hid in my family's camper until my Mom went to work. We soon realized that there wasn't much to do staying home from school in the middle of the week. So we walked the four miles to the junior high.”

The good-natured teasing between cousins didn’t end in adulthood. My husband once recalled how he and John competed for years, playing one on one basketball.

“I was small, quick, and thin (with a good outside shot). John was tall and strong (with two left feet). That is how I remember it, anyway,” he’d laugh.

An hour or so after I hung up the phone, I met my husband in the middle of our backyard, which is adjacent to an old cemetery in the Village of Patchogue. He had gone straight from the driveway to the shed to get the American flag. He was clutching it in his hands when I told him. Fighter jets were flying over our house from the east.

I was not prepared for my husband’s collapse at my feet, nor was I ready with any words of comfort as I watched him break down right there on the grass. I heard the jets flying past, but I was too numb to look up. Instead I was squinting through tears toward the back of the property, half expecting to see people emerging from the crypts beyond the fence line. It felt like the world was ending.

And while I have avoided images of 9-11 for the last 10 years, this past Sunday my husband, along with 17 members of his family found himself moving toward that horrific event, on a train bound for Manhattan and the 10th Anniversary Memorial Service. My husband shared his feelings about the Ground Zero memorial.

“It was a solemn ceremony that provided families, for the first time, with a tangible place to feel connected with their loved ones, which led to a general feeling of serenity throughout the memorial park. For me, the sadness wasn’t diminished in any way. Seeing John’s fiancee and daughter side-by-side peering into the memorial pool was painful. I was thinking of what should have been and never was,” he said.

When I met John Scharf, in 1997, I was immediately introduced to his playful sense of humor. Appreciating his quick wit, I liked him right away. He was playing basketball in the driveway of his parents’ house in Manorville. My husband- then boyfriend- was shooting hoops with him when he introduced me to John saying- “This is my fiancée.” His cousin smirked, and whispered in his ear - "Get married? You sure you want to do that?" Then, without missing a beat, he turned to me and said, “Oh, hello. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands laughing.

Although I didn’t share that bond my husband had with John, I saw in him some of the same, perhaps, genetic qualities that I love most about my spouse. He was tough on one hand, being a decorated Marine, but John also had a gentle personality and a million stories about growing up with four siblings that he was always ready to share. He was the guy at the barbecue playing with all of the kids in the backyard. It was obvious that he valued his family and friends above all things.

I have little snippets of memories of who John was. I remember a dinner table debate in 2000 over which baseball team was better- Mets or Yankees. After a long historical comparison of the two teams, John argued that it was a matter of family loyalty. Grandma and Grandpa Christie were Met fans, and so everyone in the family needed to carry on that tradition. John’s speech, however convincing, did not get his cousin to convert.

It was very difficult to witness the Scharf family’s pain after the attack. John had left his life in medias res, with his parent’s house half shingled, (he was helping replace the roof) and wrapped Christmas presents stowed away in his apartment for his little daughter. At his parent’s house, the basketball net still stood in the driveway. I watched John’s sister and fiancée leave the living room repeatedly to call his cell phone number which went to voice mail. I sat quietly next to them on the sofa as heart-crushing images of celebrating terrorists flashed across the television. And the whole time I was awestruck by the strength of this family.

To the victims' families, or those who lost their shoes running away from the collapsed towers, for those who witnessed the carnage and walked across the Brooklyn bridge that terrible day covered in dust, ten years is the blink of an eye. Bravely, we all move forward, without closure, in an altered society, until sometime in the future when the last generation of Americans who were wounded in some way by this horrific event is finally gone. Rather than seeking to “close” what happened on 9-11, many can’t help but stand firmly in the memory of it. They wiped the emotional dust off themselves as best they could and kept walking. After all, that’s what our forefathers would have done and that spirit of survival is what makes our nation great.

Pictures:

first one is John Scharf, the rest are from the memorial at Ground Zero. His daughter, now a teenager, is pictured with Hillary Clinton. Last picture is my husband, in bottom right corner (kneeling), with his family.

This post is reprinted in the September 15th issues of Suffolk County News and Islip Bulletin. Download a copy of the Point of View here.

Loren Befriends The Ground Hog

The ground hog heard me curse him, and he was not amused. So miffed was this brown furry rodent in need of an orthodontist, that he got on his cell phone as I searched for his hole, and called Mother Nature. Yesterday, she sent a blizzard to my backyard that was big enough to name White Out 2010.

Some people climb Mount Everest for kicks. I walk to the local gym in weather conditions that CNN decides are "life threatening." As far as I'm concerned, these feats are one in the same. Besides, if I watched the news all day long I would never leave my house. It would be stockpiled with canned foods, bottled water, candles, flashlights, batteries, "borrowed" H1N1 vaccine just in case, and an invisible shield flashing the letters A D T all over the siding and roof. The news makes me crazy worried; it attempts to make me live in fear for the sake of drama, for the sake of ratings. I try to watch as little of it as possible.

So I put on my coat and walked a quarter of a mile to Ultimate Fitness. My husband was home for the day. The trek there was not so bad, since I was walking in the direction of the wind. Moving through snow is similar to walking on the sand, when there is enough of it to make your step unsure. As I trotted down the block nothing really threatened me, except maybe the idea that I almost didn't go.

I love the way snow changes the landscape of my town, and seems to throw it back in time a bit. On my way to Ultimate Fitness I passed an abandoned warehouse and peeped inside through a broken window pane. I tried to imagine the massive room restored and bustling with activity. Pretending makes me feel joyful.

The gym was open, but a ghost town nevertheless, and after an accident occurred in the parking lot, it closed early. I was able to use it for an hour, so I was happy. My journey back to the house was a bit more challenging, since I was tired from spending six miles on the treadmill and the icy snow was pelting me in the face.

It was so good to step back into a warm house after exercising in the cold. I felt renewed. The feeling reminded me of what it was like coming in from the snow as child after having played for hours. Winter isn't so bad after all. My trek to Mount Ultimate Fitness reminded me.

Today, I'm loving this ground hog. He gave my husband another snow day off from work, (he's an educator). I am so completely excited about today's little journey. I'm not going to the gym this time.

Last weekend postman Jim brought me a package, and I was so excited I could have kissed him. Before my husband gets all upset, let me explain. My enthusiasm had nothing to do with Postman Jim and everything to do with the package. I was as thrilled as the time I tried to kiss the driving test facilitator who passed me and granted me a licence. I wanted to show my appreciation because it was my third try at passing, and she looked just like Maya Angelou, (I'm a big fan). I didn't actually kiss her, nor did I kiss the postman. I just jumped around a lot in the doorway because the package contained Elizabeth Oakes Smith's letters, poems, scrapbook, and diary excerpts on microfilm. I had it copied from the New York Public Library so I could read it in full. I waited months for this package.

Today I'm going to walk to the public library, get on a microfilm machine and read. In the reading I will forget time and space and who I am will fall away for an hour. I get to step inside the life of someone else. This is the joy of reading, writing or researching.

Thank you ground hog. If I see you today on my way to library, I promise to give you a big kiss.

Pictured Above: My block in the blizzard. The old abandoned store. My house in the blizzard.

Ground Hog's Day

Where is that slippery little gerbil who is supposed to see his shadow or not, and determine my mood for the next two months? I decided this morning, while dragging my feet around the backyard securing things in preparation for the impending 15 inches of snow and 45 mile an hour winds we're supposed to get here on the south shore of Long Island tonight, that I was going to find the ground hog hole. I intended to pull the little sucker out by his ears. Then, I planned on holding him up to the sun and squeezing him until he starts speaking in tongues, saying spring is coming fast.

I don't know what's happening to me. I actually love snow, (and animals), but this winter I'm beginning to lose my mind. Last month I went on a house plant shopping spree. I needed to smell jasmine and spritz lemon ferns. I needed to surround myself with lots of green things. I needed to study that Martha Stewart Living episode on HGTV where she puts bulbs in the refrigerator and tricks them into sprouting indoors in January.

I needed some spring.

On Ground Hog's day I waited patiently for the kids to come home from school.

"What's the verdict?" I asked nervously, as my first grader stepped off the bus.

"He saw his shadow, mom. That means six more weeks of winter."

I turned to my daughter, my last chance for a different report. She sensed my disappointment.

I'm sorry mama. In preschool today, Ms. Picadilly said that gran-hog saw his shadow! Big Brother is right."

Once inside the house, I shut myself in the bathroom for a moment to mumble curses at the wall and at the damn "gran- hog."

Teaching Consequences is No Fun

I love the scene in the television show The Office where a woman asks Dwight Schrute to hold her place behind him in a long line because she has to use the restroom.

"No!" he snaps. "Did you grow up in a household without consequences?"

His response is in keeping with his character, an intense, silly man, and that's why it is funny. He brings up a good point, however. It's not easy for parents to teach responsibility and consequences. It is a simpler short-term choice to fix a child's problems for him. In the long term, this type of parental behavior can stunt a child's growth. As a parent I'm starting to face situations that require me to watch my kids struggle with a problem on their own, even though my instinct is to fix it myself so they avoid stress. I don't want to be a "Dwight" with my kids, and yet I know that it is necessary for me to step back and let them solve their own problems to a degree, because they need to become durable, successful adults.

Yesterday I made a mistake that caused me some embarrassment. I got caught up with something and forgot to get my son off of the school bus. The neighbors called me, and the bus driver came back around the block one more time as I ran outside. Big Brother looked shocked. After we walked into the house his eyes welled up.

"Mommy, where were you? How could you forget me?"

I had no excuse for myself. I bent down to his level and hugged him.

"I made a mistake. I'm sorry I frightened you. Forgive me?"

His little face turned red. "I was not scared. You did something naughty!" He snapped.

"Hey." I said sternly. "I know you are angry, but I'm your mommy and check how you speak to me. I made a mistake and did not mean to upset you, but you being upset with me is my consequence."

He shook his head in unenthusiastic agreement and then went inside to play. I reminded him to finish his homework. He kept playing and forgot.

This morning Big Brother was in a frenzy trying to finish his packet.

"Mommy, please can you write a note, or can I just stay home today?"

Big Brother's eyes were welling up again and he was wiping them frantically. I felt bad for him, but I said no.

"You have to hand in what you've done and take the consequences for not being finished." I said. "Now eat your breakfast."

Big Brother was not happy. It was hard to watch him upset. I know he was afraid of facing his first grade teacher.

"Listen," I said, handing him his coat. "Just be honest with her like I was with Mr. Bus driver yesterday. Tell her you forgot to finish and ask her if you can somehow make it up. Then comes the hard part of facing whatever she says. In the long run it's good to be honest and manage your time better next week. We all make mistakes sometimes. No one is perfect."

Big Brother shook his head in agreement, stuffed his partially completed homework into his school bag and we walked outside to meet the bus. As I watched his worried little face pass me in the bus window I could feel his stress in the pit of my own stomach. This boy will always be my baby. The curse of motherhood is watching him face consequences, feeling his stresses with him, and letting him handle them himself. In the long run, that is the best thing to do for him.

Here's some more of Dwight from The Office.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Forget about terrorists, the neurotoxins and carcinogens are everywhere. They're in my soap, shampoo, deodorant, make-up, dish washing liquid, laundry detergent, household cleaners, toothpaste, moisturizer, and every Johnson and Johnson made baby product. This is not news, however, I've been so busy washing kids, scrubbing pots and doing laundry that I have not paused to look at labels. Am I trying to make my family and myself sick? No. I was mid-way through drinking a glass of yummy tap water when a neighbor informed me about the toxins I use in my home. She had a list and it made me gasp. About fifty products on the list are sitting on shelves at the Christie house.

It is currently trendy to go green, but choosing products that are truly safe and natural requires homework. First you have to learn which ingredients are safe and, which are toxic. Then you have to make sure that the products you buy disclose what they are made of. If a company does not disclose ingredients, it should not be trusted. There are patents to protect "recipes" so there is no excuse for making it hard for consumers to find out ingredients.

I've been trying out a few companies. Martha Stewart has a line of natural cleaning products, laundry detergent, fabric softener, dishwasher liquid and hand soap. Imus' wife has a line of cleaning products as well, and the money you spend on them goes to their ranch, where children affected by cancer can have a real cowboy experience. Vermont Soap and Tom's of Maine are also reputable companies that explain every ingredient on their labels. Read labels thoroughly because toxins can be hidden behind general terms like "fragrances."

It may not be easy being green, but in the long run, it is worth it. It sure is empowering to make your own cleaning products. I've recently discovered the power of vinegar and I think it may be the single greatest concoction ever concocted. Studies have been done on the germ-killing power of vinegar and it turns out that it is effective. Now I'm mixing up my own cleaning products in spray bottles from the dollar store. My husband is getting worried. He liked me better when I coveted my bottle of Lysol.

Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve 2009

I made our traditional New Year's Eve pizzas yesterday. Click here for the recipe from last year's post.

Remote Control Wars

Milk Man is home from work for the holidays and that means a whole week of Redbox movies. Should I be excited? Yes. Am I? No. Here's why:

Guess who picks out the movies?

Last night I had to endure Body of Lies. Do I like Leo DiCaprio? Yes. Do I like watching him get his fingers smashed with a hammer by terrorists?

Picture me not finding that entertaining. After about five minutes of hearing him scream and covering my eyes, I shout:

"Change it!"

"No, it's just getting good." says my husband.

"Shut it off!" I yell, pulling my head into the case on my pillow.

"NO!" he insists.

So I reach for the remote, but he grabs it too and we wrestle.

God made him stronger, but He made me sly as a fox. Milk Man wins the remote. So, I throw my hands up in air dramatically and march out of the room exclaiming,

"That's enough for me. This is torture. I can't look anymore. How can you enjoy watching this?!"

I retreat to the restroom to find the tissues so I can wipe my tears over poor Leo's fingers. Milk Man is laughing at me. Then I turn mad and he turns surprised.

"It's just a movie." He says, exasperated.

"How can those bad men smash someone so cool?" I slobber the thought all over a tissue.

Milk Man frowns and switches on NBC.

As I sink back down onto my pillow with my tissue box I hear:

"The hills are alive with the sound of music!"

"Ah, a nice movie," I say smiling. (I win!)

Milk Man cringes and mumbles something.

Not even ten minutes pass and he starts rubbing his forehead in frustration. He looks up at the ceiling, over at the door, frowning and whining like a sick dog.

At the scene in the gazebo where Maria and Captain von Trapp declare their love in song, Milk Man jumps up and runs out of the room.

"I can't take this movie anymore. It's torture!" He says.

And I'm left there to wonder:

How did this husband of mine ever graduate from boot camp?

It's Christmas: I'm Getting Good Again

I brace myself for a little holiday shopping. NOT on Black Friday, I protest that day every year because it tears apart the whole idea of Christmas and makes me want to choke on my undigested turkey. This year, I could have “stuffed my bag with blowout sales” at 5:30 p.m. on Thanksgiving evening.

Imagine me at the dinner table saying:

“Pass the yams, please, and my coat. Thanks, I have to get to Walmart.”

It’s disgusting. In addition to the media mockery of Christ’s birth, I seem to notice more rudeness everywhere I go, and I have to work extra hard to control my temper. It’s like God gives you a test at the holidays to see how mild and forgiving you can be.

Watch me score a B+ this year in Christmas Anger Management, Jesus! I know I can do it. (That’s a prayer, by the way, and I’m being realistic here.)

I go to the mall on a Saturday morning to buy gifts. That goes rather smoothly, until I get on line. To my right is a pile of stuff: bags of bows, wrapping paper and Christmas cards. The box of holiday cards catches my eye. On the front is the image of Mary and baby Jesus. It is one of the most beautiful Christmas cards I’ve ever seen. I pick the box up just to get a closer look. Then I hear:

“Uh, EXCUSE ME, that’s mine.”

Startled, I look up to find the owner of the voice. It’s this little woman with very tightly curled black hair. Her expression suggests that someone has pinched her. Her arms are full of things and she must have rested the cards on the pile because she was holding too much. I figure this out quickly, but I’m still processing her tone of voice, trying to understand why it sounds rude.

“Oh, they are? The picture is so beautiful." I mutter, handing the box back to her. She literally snatches it out of my hand and struggles to hold it.

“Yeah, well. There is only one box left.” She snorts.

I just stare at her. In my mind, cynical me is trying to break out of her chains and speak. I swallow and smile.

“That’s great. Enjoy them.” I say. There is no way I’m going to get into an argument with this stranger over her rude tone and an image of the Holy Family. I would not fight over any object in a store, ever, because it’s not important.

Wow, I did really well just now! I think, on my drive home. I passed the first Rude Holiday Encounter with flying colors. I’m going to be much calmer in rude public situations in 2010. In fact, I bet I will be so mild and peaceful that friends and neighbors will notice.

When I get home, I open my email. A friend of mine has sent me a question as part of a game.

“If you saw me in the back of a cop car, what would you think I did?”

I tell her I’d guess she was arrested for volunteering too much, (since this woman is pretty close to being a saint).

She writes back:

“That is a good one. In your case you would be in a cop car because someone tried to hurt one of your kids or husband and you went into mother lion mode and beat the stuffing out of that person.”


Hmmm. It’s seriously time to fix my image.

Above picture is Big Brother's gift inventory list- He bought presents at school for his family.

How Rhonda Byrnes Got Me Out of Jury Duty

It seems like the stars are against me as I attempt to adhere to a jury summons. Besides the fact that I am feeling ill, with a nagging itch in my throat and a slight fever, I am also running late because I cannot find my house key. Add to this not-funny-moment a joking spouse.

It turns out that my keys are in my husband's coat pocket, and he is currently in his car driving somewhere in Brooklyn, a good hour away from home.

"And you have to stop at the gas station to put air in the left front tire," he adds.

"Are you trying to get me jailed for not showing up for a jury summons?" I ask, holding the cell phone on speaker with one hand and stuffing a full box of tissues into my handbag with the other.

There's a pause, and then he answers, laughing, "Well, Yes."

This is how desperate he is to get rid of me when I am sick and grumpy. I snap the phone shut head to Court street.

Somehow I get to the court house on time. The jury waiting room is packed. A propaganda film starring Diane Sawyer is playing on a wall-mounted television.

"The early settlers had a barbaric, primitive justice system. Accused suspects were bound at the hands and ankles with thick rope, then thrown into the lake. It was believed that if the person sank, he was guilty."

The camera pans toward toothless peasants hurling a man into the water and grinning. I sit expressionless, silently struggling to keep my mucus in check with Halls cough drops. Thanks to the ever-present Swine Flu threat, my coughing fits clear a whole row of seats.

"Well, if it worked for them, why change it?" I mumble, in an effort to sound outlandish and unfit to serve.

My small protest goes nowhere, prompting quiet thumbs up from some people around me, rather than getting me excused. I turn on my iPod and tune out Diane Sawyer. Today I'm listening to the audio book The Secret, by Rhonda Byrnes. I know I'm probably the last person on the planet to read this bestseller from 2006, but I've been saving this magical little audio book for a day just like this.

It turns out that The Secret is very motivational. Today, with Byrnes' help I plan to harness my energy and bend the universe! I will start with getting out of this jury selection room, I think.

Byrnes says the secret to success is strongly linked to the law of attraction. The energy you send out into the universe is returned to you, and by having an awareness of the power of thought, you can control your future.

"What ever you choose to think will become your life experience," she writes.

The author suggests I start with a small undertaking. So I decide to try to move something in the room. The man seated in front of me has unusual hair, thick on the top, and thin on the sides. I imagine it is a hairpiece and closing my eyes, I try to levitate it. I visualize his hair lifting off his head for about five minutes. Nothing happens. I start to laugh which subsequently triggers a sneezing fit. Through the power of germs, I cause the very nice man to turn and offer me a tissue.

Feeling guilty, I abandon my attempt to mentally move his hairpiece and look for other ways to pass the time in this federal meditation room. My stomach is starting to growl vowel sounds, so I get up and ask a court employee at the front of the room if I can leave to get a bite to eat.

"Not right now. Just wait a few minutes please," she says.

I could swear this moment is a case of deja vu. This same scene happened to me in 1991 in a high school study hall. I sit down and devise an escape plan. I think:

The next time last names are called, I will visualize my own disappearance. I will wish myself home like Dorothy in the movie The Wizard of Oz, or Samantha in the television show Bewitched. If that works, I'll clean every room in my house by twitching my nose (since I'll be on a role at that point).

Ten minutes later the roll call begins. People are grumbling. Lunch break is twenty minutes late and they're calling a new panel of prospective jurors. I close my eyes tightly and smile. I'm thinking positive thoughts...I'm sitting at my kitchen table drinking William Sonoma brand hot chocolate with the big square marshmallows -I don't skimp in my dreams! The role call ends and the disgruntled group files out of the room. A lawyer closes the door behind them.

My next thought is:

"Maybe we're all going to die now. Oops! I have to retract that thought from the universe, quick!" I clamp my eyes shut again and imagine myself pulling the thought up out of the ocean in a giant net.

Then I hear: "I have good news for all of you here. All the juries are selected for today. You all are excused for another six years."

People around me cheer. I open one eye slowly, then the other.

"Oh wow! The Secret works! It really works!" I shout. Bet they won't call me again ever.

Mourning the Lost Phases

The first day of preschool for the princess happens abruptly, much like her birth, when she is pulled off a waiting list. I watch her squeeze into the line of children between two boys, a placement that mirrors her position in our family. She glances over at me, with a smile that seems to convey, I've got it now Mom, it's alright for you to go.

Meanwhile, the teacher is briefing me on classroom procedures as I struggle to hold back the water pooling inside my eyelids. I hope she doesn't notice how silly I am. I'm secretly mourning the loss of my princess' babyhood. It disappeared this morning while I was combing her hair. I try to recall her first steps, or some other previous milestone, and my mind goes blank. All I can think of is her quiet, steady presence amid the chaos of boys.

A few months ago I made an observation at my parents' house that made me smile. I thought it was very sweet to see a picture of me at three years old propped up on my dad's dresser. In the image I am small and delicate, dressed in corduroy Bell Bottoms. With motherhood comes a sudden understanding of how parents never stop mourning the past phases of their children's lives.

The above picture is me at about three years old.

Loren Makes History (and sees a Broadway musical)

The strangest thing happened to me on 42nd street in NYC this weekend. For a fee of $35 at Madame Tussauds' house, I caused quite a stir!

First, inspired by the book Madame Bovary, a classic I finished reading on the train, I attempted to steal Brad Pitt's heart while my daughter watched me from her stroller. Angelina gave me a waxy glare, but it did not thwart my mischievous intentions. Unfortunately, Brad had the personality of a Yankee candle, and I soon was bored.

I completely forgot about him when I saw Harrison Ford. We were all set to run away together, but he was stuck to the floor and too heavy for me to lift.

I gave up my haughty ways and turned to public service. First I visited the Oval office and charmed President Obama. While he was posing for a photo, I got on the horn and reversed Roe vs. Wade. (Shhh!)

After that I met with Rudy Giuliani to discuss our plan to run together for President and Vice President in the next election.

I had my daughter with me the whole time, but of course she had to wait for me while I did all of this important business. There was a nice man in the hall who volunteered to watch her for me. He told me he was a world leader who could be trusted. I thought that was very cool of him.

I was so shocked to run into Pope John Paul II there. He was on a visit from heaven and said it was okay to make me a saint. That was easy!

Next I took my little daughter to see Mary Poppins at the Amsterdam Theater. It was such a good show that I cried a little because I sometimes cry when I'm happy. (girl thing) One theme was "Anything is possible if you only get out of your own way." This line hit a chord with me since I fear getting lost, and it was my first time venturing to the city alone.

My daughter thought the show was the "best-est" ever made.

On the way back to Penn Station we passed Macy's, and I showed her the statues of ancient shoppers above the door of this beautiful building.

Then we ran into Elmo and his friends, who were asking strangers for change. It was so sad! When will this economic crisis end?

What an interesting day we had! I sure got a lot done.

Our Founding Mothers Are Rolling Over In Their Graves

What would Elizabeth Oakes-Smith think of today's modern feminist and what would she say about the progress women in America have made towards equal citizenship? I don't think she'd be satisfied. As the minister Ernest Helfenstein, (which was also Oakes-Smith's pen name for several years), says in Bertha and Lilly; Or The Parsonage of Beech Glen, realizing that the parish regards him as their property:

"As these thoughts rushed through my brain, I felt what a slave I was, and walked the floor, calmly, yet with a kind of resolution such as the shackled bondman feels who has resolved to be free." (130 Oakes-Smith)

This resolution underscored every step of Elizabeth's life, and every public word she ever spoke in regard to women's rights. It was the problem of economic inequality that vexed her the most, I think. Again, the minister in the story complains,

"I had said that the system of providing for the poor made poverty, and old age, and misfortune disgraceful. That no distinction could be shown between vice and misfortune in the present system. The woman born into affluence might be married- her property, by that act of marriage, passed out of her hands into those of her husband. He became a spendthrift, and inebriate, a gambler- she had no redress. He squandered her whole estate and died a beggar. His wife, this early minion of fortune, covered with shame, and disgraced in the eyes of the world, by no act of her own, heart-broken, and overcome by the infirmities of age, is brought to the alms-house, with the hundreds who are carried thither by their vices." (129 Oakes-Smith)

Economic equality was part of the early feminist platform, but by 1900, women were settling for getting the vote, and the cause was shifting. Elizabeth Oakes-Smith died in 1893. She lived to see women obtain the right to go to college, hold, control and will property, control their own wages, and become the joint guardian to their own children. Although she spoke up publicly to bring about these changes, she did not enjoy the benefits of this legislation in its infancy.


At the Woman's Right's Convention of 1852, she spoke along with Susan B. Anthony and Lucretia Mott, trying to balance the idea of the "angel in the house" with the practical. She stressed eloquently that the right to vote was essential in being considered a full citizen, since a woman's property and wages could be taxed. She went on to say the need for women to be educated and skilled was necessary to keep them out of poverty. The role of wife and mother she emphasized as being the most vital to the success of a nation.


I can remember my mother telling me at a young age how important my education was, and how essential it was for me to go on to college and establish the ability to step into a career. It was her firm belief that economic independence would protect me from poverty and the need to depend on a husband for support. Thank you mom. Mom wasn't giving this lecture because she thought men were scoundrels, on the contrary, my father is a devoted, loving, loyal spouse. She was saying this to me because there is dignity, freedom and a feeling of wholeness in developing one's talents and skills. She wanted economic equality for me, and personal fulfillment. That's also what Elizabeth Oakes-Smith wanted for women in a time when they did not have much choice in the matter. She wrote:

"Since every human being has an individual sphere, ...no one has the right to determine the proper sphere of another." (taken from an anthology of Women's Activists of New York)

How far have we come at equal citizenship? Not far enough. What happens to a woman today, college educated or not, when she has a baby out-of-wedlock? She is at the mercy of the father of that child, economically. Paternity laws for unwed fathers vary from state to state, and there is some public confusion in regard to this issue because of the inconsistency. In New York, if an unwed father does not develop a relationship with the child and help pay for the birth expenses, he has no adoption rights.* A court in this state can force a DNA test to establish paternity, and then the father is forced to support the child financially. Still, the mother bears the responsibility of nurturing, caring for and raising a baby whether the father wants to take part or not. She is often faced with the added emotional crisis during pregnancy to "catch him," which may or may not happen. Journalist for the NY Times Lisa Belkin discusses this reality on her blog Motherlode, in the post Why Unmarried Fathers Stay. The unwed father can walk away care-free from that birth. Then the full load of consequences falls on the woman. If he does the right thing and takes responsibility, the woman's life is still the one that is drastically stressed by the birth of a baby. So the miracle of new life becomes an event that spurs depression and panic for a woman in this situation, and if she is not supported by family, the situation can become economically desperate for her and the child. The unborn child is even poorer in this case than its mother, in that as a fetus, he is at her mercy as to whether or not he will be born. We certainly still have a long way to go in regard to giving all of our citizens equality in this country!

What happens to a mother who goes through a divorce today? She also suffers economic crisis. She is at the mercy of the courts and her ex-husband in regard to child support. Why is this?

What makes women economically disadvantaged? Motherhood. Motherhood, which I believe is a blessing from God, the subject of a national holiday, also causes women to be poorer than men in this country.

If this society wants a nation full of spiritually, academically and physically sound children to take over in future generations, then people in the media and in the street have to stop devaluing motherhood and the job of parenting.

Am I saying that women who stay at home to raise their children should be given a salary by the government, and that working moms should be given a stipend for childcare as well? Well, I don't expect it, but if President Obama is giving out cash for clunkers to preserve the environment, why not consider giving mothers the respect they deserve? Won't that shift in attitude result in happier children who are higher achievers? Then perhaps we could preserve our summer vacation for family time, Mr. Obama. Seriously, what I am proposing is that in the very least, men should be forced to pay child support and actively care for the children they father, married or not. If mothers stay at home, they most certainly are working. If they are in the work place as well then they have twice the work. In her book The Price of Motherhood; Why the most important job in the world is still the least valued, Ann Crittenden argues that people say that being a mother is the hardest job in the world, but they don't really mean it. They have been taught by media messages that the job of parenting does not require skill, and it is not "real work." In reality the raising of children is the work that will be our greatest legacy as individuals, and as a nation. Instead we have been advised that "it takes a village to raise a child." Young children just want their parents, equally, but the expectation for sacrifice is more on the mother.

"It isn't fair that mothers' life -sustaining work forces women to be society's involuntary philanthropists. It isn't fair to expect mothers to make sacrifices that no one else is asked to make, or have virtues that no one else possesses, such as a dignified subordination of their personal agenda and a reliance on altruism for life's meaning. Virtues and sacrifices, when expected of one group of people and not of everyone, becomes the mark of an underclass." (9)


Our founding mothers are rolling over in their graves. Women who choose to step out of the workforce to raise children face remarks like:


"What do you do all day? Don't you get bored?"

My answer: "YES, and my work is valuable. Go away."

"Establishing a fair deal for mothers would go beyond "wages for housewives," an idea that surfaced in the 1970's; or even mother's benefits similar to veteran's benefits. What is needed is across-the-board recognition- in the workplace, in the family, in the law, and in social policy - that someone has to do the necessary work of raising children and sustaining families, and that the reward for such vital work should not be professional marginalization, a loss of status, and an increased risk of poverty." (46)

Thank God I have a loving, dependable husband. I quit my career to raise my children full-time. That leaves me relying on him solely for health benefits, pension, and insurance. I'm college educated, work just as hard as any adult I know and I am completely economically dependent in this position. It's no wonder to me why the stay-at-home mom has such a stigma in society. For me there was emotionally no other choice. I completely followed my heart in this matter and prayed that it would work out, but I'm not going to lie and say it wasn't a scary risk. Some women, especially single moms, don't have this option, because the economic and emotional responsibility of raising a child falls more heavily on women.

Elizabeth Oakes-Smith suggested that a mother should work outside the home if she desires it, but she upheld the idea that a duty to children and the home takes precedence. She wanted an America where both sexes took part equally in raising children, and a government that rewards mothers and does not marginalize them. It seems to me that often the workplace is intolerant of women employees who put their children before their job.

"Inflexible workplaces guarantee that many women will have to cut back on, if not quit, their employment once they have children." (5)

Economic equality for women is part of a larger issue: human dignity. We've got the power to vote, so how about putting real feminists in office, who encourage mothers and fathers to be present caregivers, who promote the protection of unborn citizens, who reject violent means of dealing with criminals? Respect for life and human dignity is true freedom. This is the sort of shift that will make our nation better. The modern-day Republican and Democratic parties slice up the human dignity cause, backing some aspects and rejecting others. Neither party reflects the original feminist platform. In the 1860's Elizabeth Oakes-Smith was a nominee for Presidential and Vice Presidential candidate on the Women's Suffrage ticket. She was an authentic feminist, anti-Capital Punishment, pro-family, pro-life, supporting economic equality for all citizens of the United States. The early feminists are rolling over in their graves; they want us to remember who they really were and reject the modern mutation of their cause. I really want to see a woman become President, however, I've yet to see a real feminist, (one like Elizabeth Oakes-Smith), on a recent Presidential or Vice-presidential ticket.

"The United States is a society at war with itself. The policies of American business, government and the law do not reflect Americans' stated values." (5)

*For more information of the rights of Unwed Fathers in NY State, click here.

What in the World Are You Doing? Wednesday

---LOOKS LIKE THE KIDS ARE GETTING HUNGRY. GUESS IT'S TIME TO GO GROCERY SHOPPING.



--BUT MOMMY, ALL THE OTHER KIDS ARE WEARING THEM?!

Move Over, Santa

After singing two choruses of Sponge Bob's ballad, "The Best Day Ever," big brother pauses his video game, enthusiastic about beginning his homework project. No, I'm not dreaming, I just looked out the window and decided to keep him home. It's snowing...pretty hard. The princess' preschool is closed, and I can do that because as "mommy," I rule his universe right now.

The bus driver, Don, stops in front of my house anyway and waits for us. Why? Because he's under the spell of my charm, and I pick up that lucky card on the LIFE gameboard a lot,(or maybe he's just a really nice man). I throw my coat over my pajamas and run outside to wave him on.

I make a larger-than-normal breakfast for the kids, and they crown me "Greatest Mom Ever" with pink construction paper and glue. As I'm clearing the plates, I make some snow day conversation.

"So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" I ask, addressing all three children at once.

"NO!" shouts baby Bigfoot, who is obviously a "Toys R Us Kid."

"A baby doll doctor, so I can tape up all the children who break themselves," announces the princess, after some thought. We've bandaged her favorite doll Chelsea, who is made of porcelain, about six times.

Then big brother chimes in. "I want to be SANTA CLAUS!"

His younger sister looks confused. "Silly big brother, there already IS a Santa Claus."

"Yeah, but he is getting old. I will be his helper, and learn how to drive the sleigh, and I'll take over the job for him."

"The princess puts down her hard boiled egg and frowns. "Can he do that, Mommy?!"

"Those are some big plans. How about you start by just getting dressed and doing your homework for kindergarten." I say.

"Ohhh! Kindergarten is sooooooo borin'! All we do is color, and sit, and write letters, and read, and color again! Let's just skip to college like Steve from Blue's Clues."

"Just eat your eggs, Alex P. Keaton." I say.

The Way to a Man's Heart is Through a Flat Screen?!

The last minute spontaneous Christmas gift for Milk Man is a small flat screen for our bedroom. Although we've had the same television in the den for the past ten years, a great big technological dinosaur box, it is still being assaulted by crayons and finger smudges. Therefore, it will be several more years before Milk Man gets his dream come true, a den that is transformed into a mini-theatre with the biggest flat screen you've ever seen.

I've asked myself so many times the same question, and I just can not figure out the answer. What exactly is the magical fascination with a flat screen television? Do men have some kind of flat screen television sensitivity in their brains? Does it click off a happy hormone? It's a TV. You're staring at plastic and glass. ??? I say this to the salesman in Best Buy as I look at a 19" flat screen with a built-in DVD player, on sale.

"The picture is pristine, it's sleek and excellent quality for the price." He says, spontaneously sharing that his love for flat screens inspired him to take a seasonal job with Best Buy.

I shrug. "So, what. I'm all that too. It's a freaking television." I say.

The salesman laughs. He's probably younger than I, a reality I'm not sure I totally accept as I approach yet another 29th birthday.

"Um, maybe, but this baby comes with a remote control, and YOU sure don't." He says, and still makes a sale, because despite his "joke" I've already made up my mind.

I still don't understand what's so magical about a flat screen TV, but I buy one anyway for Milk Man, because he's brought home the milk diligently all year, and is an excellent 1930's husband according to an Internet poll. You should see him open it. He's pumping his fists. Then he scurries upstairs with the box, and a bunch of screwdrivers. (The tools, not the drink.) The television is installed in about three seconds, and he's all sprawled out with the remote control in hand, with a big grin on his face, channel surfing. "I'll be watching television all the time up here now." He announces to no one in particular. He might be talking to the remote.

Baby Bigfoot talks to his toy remote. It has eyeballs that blink and it laughs like cookie monster if you press the right button. Like father, like son.

----Here I am removing the "adult-proof" packaging from toys with a hatchet and a Radial Arm Saw. (Not really, I'm just cynical.)

Very Funny, God.

In an effort to fight Global Warming, big brother takes a stand against the person in his household whom he believes to be the worst environmental offender, Mommy. I’m attempting to vacuum up the remnants of last night’s festivities in the den, when the lobbying begins. He’s spread out across the floor, blocking my machine. I turn it off.

“What are you doing? Mommy is trying to clean up. You have to get up so I can finish vacuuming.” I say.

Big Brother does not budge. His little facial muscles are locked in an expression of righteous determination.

“Mommy: You are making GLOBAL WARM’IN with your vacuum and your washing machine. It is time that you stopped ruining the Earth. If we have no Earth, then there will be no more happy family, …or sports. Now, put away the vacuum and go find a broom. Brooms do not use up energy.”

I just stand there, wondering when my first born became such a tree hugger, and feeling a pang of guilt, because in the most pure of ways, he’s right.

“Mommy is trying to clean. If vacuums were bad, then they would not be sold to mommies. As far as the washing machine is concerned, unless you want to walk around naked or stinky, I need to wash your clothes. Now, move out of my way, please.” I say, not in the mood to be corrected, because I’m right in the middle of my holiday cleaning frenzy.

Big Brother does get up, sighing, and continues his crusade on foot, following me around the house.

“I have an idea, Mommy. Get a bucket and suds, and wash all of our family clothes in the there. That will save energy!” Big Brother thinks he’s a genius.

“No.” I say. “If YOU want to wash all of our clothes in a bucket, and see how much work that is, go right ahead, little boy.”

“I can’t do that, Mommy. Washing clothes is your job. School and playing is my job. That’s why God made me a boy and you a mommy. Sorry.” He’s patting me on the back while the vacuum drowns out my grumbling.

I work as a Director of Youth Ministry in my community, and the next day I go to a local television station to participate in a taping of a Catholic talk show called “A Reason For Hope.” Four teenagers from our parish youth group and a deacon come with me. We know that the first show will be about teens doing good works in the community. The taping goes well. As we’re leaving, the next segment is about to be taped and one of the scheduled guests is sick. The producer asks me to substitute for the guest. I say yes, and go back into the studio. They duct tape the body microphone to my dress and the couch, so I can’t really move. Next thing I know, the tape is rolling and the show is about “Saving the Environment.” The host, a well-loved pastor, poses a question to me.

“Loren, as a mom of three, what do you do to conserve energy and care for the environment?”

“I bet God is having a good laugh right now.” I think. Luckily, a recent Internet test informed me that I have linguistic strength.

(The shows will be aired on Telecare in February. I’ll link them to the blog then.)

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to all my blogger friends!

My Snow Angels

"Truly wonderful the mind of a child is."
-YODA, Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones

What In the World Are You Doing? Wednesday

Princess: While you were in the bathroom (for 20 seconds) we got hungry. It's raining Cheerios, Mama!

Baby Bigfoot: I love the feeling of cereal sticking to my legs, so I unbuttoned my overalls a bit. Wow! This is fun.

Day Trip to Rockefeller Plaza, NYC

On Saturday we get nostalgic. There was a time when we could take the train into Penn Station whenever we wanted, with nothing but a small knapsack to keep track of. "Let's take the kids in to see the tree at Rockefeller Plaza." I say. Milk Man thinks it's a fine idea. After all, we went in with just Big Brother, and last year we took him and the princess to see the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular Show. Although we had a few more things to worry about, including a stroller, it went very smoothly.

Three children and an umbrella stroller on two trains, a subway and walking the crowded streets of Manhattan is, however, a whole different ball game altogether. Don't try this at home.

First we have an argument in the subway, trying to slide the kids through the turnstiles. I'm stuck between two metal bars and an alarm is sounding. "What do I do?" I ask. "Should I slide the metro card again?" Milk Man gets short with me, because the crowd is pushing past us, and I am irritable. "You have to be more flexible," he says. Whether he means figuratively or literally more flexible, I'm not sure, but nevertheless, I decide the comment warrants a Marital Cold War. I sop talking to him for blocks.

We do get to the tree, and take some pictures of the family.The crowd is so thick I suddenly understand why free range hens ARE happier. We do our best to navigate the stroller through the mob.

Eating is a blur. Then we're off to the American Girl store. How does one explain the American Girl craze? Multiply the fuss over Cabbage Patch dolls in the 1980's by one hundred, and that's what it is like. The line to get into the store, which is three floors, is all the way down the road to the Chase Manhattan building. Inside, there is a hospital for plastic people, and a hair salon, not for you, for the dolls. I'm completely serious. Employees dressed in white coats take your broken American Girl doll to the doll hospital. "These dolls better be stuffed with cash." I say, as the line inches forward toward the door. The princess is in doll glory overload, and thank goodness Grandma ordered the Biddy baby online, so it is coming for Christmas on Santa's sled. It is nice to breathe fresh air again when we exit that American Crazy Place.

It's true that Milk Man and I are ready for divorce court by the train ride home, as the day is a bit more stressful than we expected. However, the kids have a blast, despite their frazzled parents.

--on the train to Penn Station

At Rockefeller Plaza... and lunch was a blur. (As you probably realize, I don't post face shots of the kids on the blog to protect their privacy a bit.)

What in the World Are You Doing? Wednesday

---Big Brother and the Princess decide to dress themselves and wash all the dishes at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

----Baby Bigfoot makes his own bed and sleeps in it too.