There are times where my life is very confusing. I can imagine that reading about it may be even more so. I have a dad, who is technically my stepdad, who is legally my actual father, because he adopted me when I was 20, after being in my life since I was 8. As the adoption announcement he sent out stated- We will be in fact what we have long been in reality, father and daughter. I love him and all his eccentricities, his quirkes, his talents, his abilities, and his nobility. Never have a met a more trustworthy, honest, decent man...and he's a lawyer. This of course, made me not understand everything that is said about lawyers until I was an adult and realized they just weren't all like my dad.
I also have a Biological father. He and I have always had a troubled relationship, due in large measure to, I think, a lack of communication. He lives close by but we don't see each other very much. I call him Biodad when I am talking about him, but I call him Daddy when I talk to him or about him with my siblings, also his children. He was once also an attorney, but a heart attack followed by a stroke followed by a series of unfortunate instances have left him unable to work for the last 10 years or so. He's not a bad person, and I know he loves me in his own way, but there have been a lot of shortcomings which I choose to blame on him, since he was the parent, and while I harbor no ill will towards him now, I doubt that we will ever be close. He's Biodad, and important in his own right...but he really isn't my "Dad".
I just got off the phone with my mom, who relayed a conversation she had with my Dad (stepdad, right? see? it's confusing sometimes) at lunch which made me basically burst straight into tears because what he said was so sweet and so loving, I was overcome by emotion. I feel so lucky to have this person in my life. So lucky to have someone so good love me so much. I often say that Michael has a lot of my dad about him...and sometimes it isn't me being very nice. They are both workaholics. It's true, and I hate it, but there is nothing I can do to change them. Either of them. But they share all of the positive traits too, and for that I am so thankful. As much as I insisted I would never marry someone like my father (adolescent frustration over the working), I kind of did. And after hearing the message from him today, I am reminded how lucky I am to have both of them in my life.
About Me
- Ariella
- I blog. I also mother, wife, create, preserve, recycle, cook, act, quilt, exercise, laugh, write, lolligag, work, volunteer, sing, and sometimes sleep.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Good Grief
The first funeral I remember attending was that of my paternal Grandmother, who passed the December of my freshman year of college. I was 17 and living at home, and I got the phone call from my uncle, letting me know that she had died. She had been sick for a long time, but as a typical teenager, it didn't occur to me that she was going to go anywhere, and so a combination of sadness over her being gone, and guilt over not seeing her more often overtook me. The service was going to be the next day and my mom, my grandma, and I would go. Later that day I got a call from my biodad telling me the news. He was annoyed his brother had beat him to the punch, but asked me how I was. I said, "I've been better" and he lost it. He started hollering at me that I didn't deserve to be sad, I didn't have the right, that it was his mother who had died, and I didn't care about anyone, and he was the only one who had the right to be sad. Shocked, I stopped crying, turned into my normal "Ariella talking to biodad emotional fetal position" and just got quiet. He calmed down and asked if I had directions to the Temple...and I made the mistake of mentioning that my mom was planning on coming and that she knew how to get there. More hollering about his ex wife and how she didn't deserve to be sad either. More quiet Ariella. That night I went out with 2 very good friends trying to cheer me up and while at the Fatburger across the street from the Beverly Center, my purse got very dramatically stolen from the counter right in front of me. The man came in, wandered, snatched my beautiful Italian purse, a gift from my exes parents, which happened to contain all of my tip money from the month, over 400 dollars in cash, which was to be turned into Christmas presents that weekend. Bummer. The funeral was pretty uneventful after all of that. I mourned under the protection of my mom and more importantly, my grandma, who no one would ever mess with.
My next 2 funerals were hard. My boyfriend was killed in a car accident. His funeral was the largest I have ever been to, but I was in such crushing grief I couldn't leave my pew I was crying so hard. Then my brother in law died, which had been expected, as he was sick, but having my sister and her 2 young boys be robbed of his life was heartbreaking.
I was then fortunate in that the next 2 funerals were for people who had lived their lives well and for whom death was a welcome passage into the next stage. My great grandmother, who had made it an incredibly long time, finally succumbed to age. My dad had been raised by her, so it was too hard for him to say anything, and I was asked to read his eulogy, and give my own. I somehow managed, through the tears, to speak with pride and love about this incredible woman. Michael's grandma was next, after battling Alzeimers for a very long time, and I honestly cannot remember more about the service than the color of the church. Seems fitting. Alzeimers is a cruel, cruel disease.
After that I had a break, and it wasn't until a few years ago that I was touched by death again. My very good friend's mom was battling cancer and lost. I helped him clean out her apartment then hosted a reception for him at my house. It was the first time I was so involved in the process, and while I knew her, my participation was because of him. Having become a mother, and caring for my friend who had lost his own, was an intense but incredible experience. During the reception, it was discovered that one of our baby chicks had been, um, played with by our eager dog and hadn't made it. I was very upset for about 3 seconds, until I realized we were basically at a funeral, albeit without a service, and in my backyard, and that being upset about a month old chicken was perhaps insensitive. I went to tell Magnolia the news, and as a toddler, she handled it exceptionally well. Her little face got very pensive and she asked "will we bury her?" and I said yes. Her face then lit up and she said "oh good, then Marble can become a flower!". Done and done.
My father in law battled with Muscular Dystrophy for years before I met him. Once I became part of the family, he very quickly won my heart with his spirit, his sense of humor, his patience, and his kindness. When he died the day before Magnolia turned 4, my heart ached not only at my own loss, and that of the world, but for my children who would never grow up knowing this incredible man, their grandfather. His funeral service seemed to last for days, mainly because it did. There was the rosary said the night he died, the rosary/mass before the funeral, the funeral service the next day, the burial, then the reception. Everything was a flurry and there were plenty of times to talk about Tommy, about his pain in life, and his release into death and into heaven. I remember looking through tears at his very plain casket dressed in the quilt I had made for him, which he often told me was his favorite gift ever. I remember being surprised and touched at the fact that my own family and friends came to the funeral to support me and Michael, and I feel like it was my first funeral as a grown up, in a manner of speaking. I didn't consider that it would just be the beginning. Tommy was taken before his time, but was well warned. We knew it was going to happen, it was just a question of when.
I can't talk too much about my Aunt's passing yet. Last year, at this time, I had just started my musical theater class and we had the news. Pancreatic Cancer. We were expecting to have 8-24 months, and I was ready to pack my bags and go wherever Mimma wanted, as soon as she wanted. I was ready to give up everything so I could be with her for whatever time she had left. Within a week, we realized it wasn't going to be that long. Within 2 weeks, we didn't know how much longer it would be, but it was going to be quick. 5 weeks later she would be gone. After some deliberation, we had the service in my backyard a week later. It was quite beautiful, and painful, and at one point, problematic, but that passed and everyone agreed that it was a good tribute. I am still recovering from the experience as a whole, and the loss, but the funeral itself is practically no part of that.
Yesterday, I went to a funeral for a friend of mine whose dad had passed after battling cancer for several years. I didn't know him, except through the stories, but I wanted to go and be there to support my friend. It was very hard for me, as he was about the same age as my aunt, and was leaving behind a devoted wife and 2 adult children very much not ready to lose their father. I cried a lot during the service, and ended up having to meditate away from the funeral to go to my happy place so that I didn't turn into a blubbering mess. It made me think a lot about funerals, and why we have them, and why we go. I realized that now I may go to as many funerals as I go to any other kind of life event, and the importance of grief. I thought about my own funeral, and hoped that it would not come for a while. While I have every intention on living as long as I can, I recognize that with my health history, I will probably go younger than most of my friends, and I think I am ok with that. Let them plan the party. But in a very weird way, it felt good to be there. It felt good to be able to support my friend and her boyfriend and her brother, even if it was just with hugs and smiles. It felt good to cry and be sad about loss, recognizing that life does go on. I rarely say die anymore. I say pass. I am not sure what we pass into, but there is something oddly comforting about talking like a southern african american woman.
My next 2 funerals were hard. My boyfriend was killed in a car accident. His funeral was the largest I have ever been to, but I was in such crushing grief I couldn't leave my pew I was crying so hard. Then my brother in law died, which had been expected, as he was sick, but having my sister and her 2 young boys be robbed of his life was heartbreaking.
I was then fortunate in that the next 2 funerals were for people who had lived their lives well and for whom death was a welcome passage into the next stage. My great grandmother, who had made it an incredibly long time, finally succumbed to age. My dad had been raised by her, so it was too hard for him to say anything, and I was asked to read his eulogy, and give my own. I somehow managed, through the tears, to speak with pride and love about this incredible woman. Michael's grandma was next, after battling Alzeimers for a very long time, and I honestly cannot remember more about the service than the color of the church. Seems fitting. Alzeimers is a cruel, cruel disease.
After that I had a break, and it wasn't until a few years ago that I was touched by death again. My very good friend's mom was battling cancer and lost. I helped him clean out her apartment then hosted a reception for him at my house. It was the first time I was so involved in the process, and while I knew her, my participation was because of him. Having become a mother, and caring for my friend who had lost his own, was an intense but incredible experience. During the reception, it was discovered that one of our baby chicks had been, um, played with by our eager dog and hadn't made it. I was very upset for about 3 seconds, until I realized we were basically at a funeral, albeit without a service, and in my backyard, and that being upset about a month old chicken was perhaps insensitive. I went to tell Magnolia the news, and as a toddler, she handled it exceptionally well. Her little face got very pensive and she asked "will we bury her?" and I said yes. Her face then lit up and she said "oh good, then Marble can become a flower!". Done and done.
My father in law battled with Muscular Dystrophy for years before I met him. Once I became part of the family, he very quickly won my heart with his spirit, his sense of humor, his patience, and his kindness. When he died the day before Magnolia turned 4, my heart ached not only at my own loss, and that of the world, but for my children who would never grow up knowing this incredible man, their grandfather. His funeral service seemed to last for days, mainly because it did. There was the rosary said the night he died, the rosary/mass before the funeral, the funeral service the next day, the burial, then the reception. Everything was a flurry and there were plenty of times to talk about Tommy, about his pain in life, and his release into death and into heaven. I remember looking through tears at his very plain casket dressed in the quilt I had made for him, which he often told me was his favorite gift ever. I remember being surprised and touched at the fact that my own family and friends came to the funeral to support me and Michael, and I feel like it was my first funeral as a grown up, in a manner of speaking. I didn't consider that it would just be the beginning. Tommy was taken before his time, but was well warned. We knew it was going to happen, it was just a question of when.
I can't talk too much about my Aunt's passing yet. Last year, at this time, I had just started my musical theater class and we had the news. Pancreatic Cancer. We were expecting to have 8-24 months, and I was ready to pack my bags and go wherever Mimma wanted, as soon as she wanted. I was ready to give up everything so I could be with her for whatever time she had left. Within a week, we realized it wasn't going to be that long. Within 2 weeks, we didn't know how much longer it would be, but it was going to be quick. 5 weeks later she would be gone. After some deliberation, we had the service in my backyard a week later. It was quite beautiful, and painful, and at one point, problematic, but that passed and everyone agreed that it was a good tribute. I am still recovering from the experience as a whole, and the loss, but the funeral itself is practically no part of that.
Yesterday, I went to a funeral for a friend of mine whose dad had passed after battling cancer for several years. I didn't know him, except through the stories, but I wanted to go and be there to support my friend. It was very hard for me, as he was about the same age as my aunt, and was leaving behind a devoted wife and 2 adult children very much not ready to lose their father. I cried a lot during the service, and ended up having to meditate away from the funeral to go to my happy place so that I didn't turn into a blubbering mess. It made me think a lot about funerals, and why we have them, and why we go. I realized that now I may go to as many funerals as I go to any other kind of life event, and the importance of grief. I thought about my own funeral, and hoped that it would not come for a while. While I have every intention on living as long as I can, I recognize that with my health history, I will probably go younger than most of my friends, and I think I am ok with that. Let them plan the party. But in a very weird way, it felt good to be there. It felt good to be able to support my friend and her boyfriend and her brother, even if it was just with hugs and smiles. It felt good to cry and be sad about loss, recognizing that life does go on. I rarely say die anymore. I say pass. I am not sure what we pass into, but there is something oddly comforting about talking like a southern african american woman.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
My Gun Shoots Love
I decided before having children that raising children who were impervious to societally constructed notions of gender and sexual orientation was of priority to me. I recognized before they came along that I was in for an uphill battle, and one that would not be without biological warfare, as I believe strongly in the position "nature" holds over us all. However, I refused to be a part of it. I wanted my future children to be nutured in whatever way it seemed they needed, but not to go along with society's defined roles.
Once my actual children came along, it proved to be difficult. My daughter, dressed in a combination of gender neutral yellows followed by the scores of much needed pink and pinker hand-me-downs from her 4 older girl cousins took to girlishness much more adeptly at first than I was comfortable with. I didn't want to be militant, I know the road of the rebel, so I allowed her to choose once she was able, always offering the more neutral (ok, honestly, the "boy") versions of items first and more excitedly. She rarely bought it. On the occasion of her 3rd Christmas, she was a few months shy of 3 years old, and what she wanted was a pink Princess Aurora(I refuse to call the character Sleeping Beauty. The woman had a name, for goodness sake) dress and I balked. There was so much pink in this dress it made Peptol Bismol look butch. And Disney? Ugh. And a Disney Princess? Double up Ugh Ugh. But I considered the fact that this is what she REALLY wanted. And wasn't raising children who were fulfilled part of my ultimate plan? *Sigh* Yes. And so I bought the dress. And there, on Christmas morning, amongst the fabric wrapping bags, and recycled/upcycled gift tags, and the learning toys, out came that pink dress. The look on her face was priceless, truly. She was thrilled and begged to put it on. As we pulled it over her head, her face aglow with delight, she asked, "Mama, am I a princess?" And I took a deep breath and replied, "Yes, darling, you're a princess. You're a princess who is strong, and brave, and smart!" And she ran her little hands down the front of her Pink Extravaganza and breathed out "And SPARKLY!".
On the other hand of the fence (tm), Mother Nature blessed me with balance in the way of a boy. And what a boy he is. Many many articles I've read on the subject made me realize that no matter how hard I try, I wouldn't be able to keep him from sometimes being aggressive and probably from loving guns and fighting and war. I'd managed to keep him away from transformers and power rangers and all things fighty until he went to preschool and caught on very fast that what these other boys were talking about was COOL. His first Christmas after preschool he was clear, he wanted a Transformer. When asked what kind, he said with much determination, "the kind that turns into a Tree!". Awesome. A hippie transformer. :) Sadly, those days have now passed and he is keen into guns and light sabers and karate. He still hasn't seen enough of these things in the way of movies and the like to truly understand, but man, he wants to.
So yesterday, we were building with this cool buildy thing my sister gave the kids. I made a paint sprayer to paint beautiful paintings, Magnolia built a food ordering device that could make 4 dishes- ice cream, noodles with pesto, grated cheese, and shrimp, and Max made a gun. After playtime came work time, and I went into the yard to prune some fruit trees. Max came along, shooting stuff in his wake, and then offered his gun to me. I took it, wanting to bond and play with him, placed the very large device over my shoulder, took careful aim, and shot, making my exceptionally pitiful shooting noises. He was impressed and asked what I was shooting. I told him I was shooting love into our garden. He looked perplexed and took the gun back. He peered at it suspiciously until his gaze focused on 4 little bolts on one of the gun crossroads. His confused look changed to understanding and said "oh, mama! Did you use the love button?" Smiling, I responded..."yes, honey, I used the love button". He looked again at the gun and pointed to the bolts, naming them. "See, mama, this button is for arrows...this one is for love...this one is for, um" ("good energy?" I offered), "Yes, good energy...and this one is for just blowing things up." Ok. That's ok. As long as sometimes the gun shoots love.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fear and Loathing
I have been thinking a bit about fear. Once, in a pre-blogging blog, I wrote about what happens when you face the people or situations which you admire (or to some degree, fear). I tried to link it here, but evidentally the source is broken. (For you long time readers, think back to the Bernadette Peters entry from my trip to Italy blog) I have had this happen to me but I don't think I have learned enough to consistently extrapolate it into life.
In the last few weeks, and more importantly, hours, I have realized that my Voldemort is stupid. Really, really dim. I have feared, made life decisions, had personal image issues, and during a time of teenage melodrama and angst- tried to take my own life, based on things I was told by my own personal he-who-must-not-be-named. And even though the demon was vanquished over 2 decades ago, it was always with me...in the back of my mind, whispering those evil thoughts in the back of my brain. And if it sounds as though I am speaking in code, I am. With reason. As Voldemort has returned and as I just figured out, he is not the sharpest took in the shed, but he might just read my blog.
In related news, it turns out God is unhappy. Not your god...a different one, I guarantee. Still, he is unhappy to a degree, and very very human. Also, quite possibly as big of a dork as I am and completely fun and nice, after all. Isn't that weird? (I don't know, Ariella, because you're still talking in code and it is kind of confusing to figure out what on earth you are referring to). Well, let me assure you: it is weird!
So what is all of this about fear and loathing? Shhhhh. It means nothing. Fear of other people, loathing people, envy, holding on to what people may say or worse even, what they think, is meaningless, worthless, and really really bad for you! I am going to free myself from these chains that have held me for almost 3 decades. I am done worrying about "them". I just figured out that them is just one of us after all. And at least one of them is stupid.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Does my computer know that I'm fat?
It started with the targeted facebook ads- lose 600 pounds of belly fat in 20 days! Pictures of flabby flabby bellies turning into sculpted toned abs lined my home page. Thankfully, only I saw them. In discussing with some friends, it turned out they also were getting these ads, and so my paranoia that my computer had a secret camera to judge me via facebook ads was alleviated. Seems as though if you are over 35, they just assume you want to have less belly fat. Great. Even the Jillian Michaels ads could theoretically just be playing into (almost) every woman’s biggest fear.
So I log onto my yahoo account this morning, and I see a little picture of a heavyset woman in my ad area with the following caption: Find BBW singles in your area! Now. For those of you who don’t know (bless your heart), BBW means Big Beautiful Woman in personals codespeak. What exactly is going on here? Is it random? Is it targeted, as I think most of the ads are nowadays? And if so, upon what are they basing this particular target? I mean, surely they don’t think that I am on the hunt for a BBW based on my email content (really, not my type). So, are they gambling on the fact that as someone who would fall into that category, I might click there hoping to put up my own ad for someone to find me? It’s just weird!
Paranoia, paranoia, everybody’s coming to get me…
So I log onto my yahoo account this morning, and I see a little picture of a heavyset woman in my ad area with the following caption: Find BBW singles in your area! Now. For those of you who don’t know (bless your heart), BBW means Big Beautiful Woman in personals codespeak. What exactly is going on here? Is it random? Is it targeted, as I think most of the ads are nowadays? And if so, upon what are they basing this particular target? I mean, surely they don’t think that I am on the hunt for a BBW based on my email content (really, not my type). So, are they gambling on the fact that as someone who would fall into that category, I might click there hoping to put up my own ad for someone to find me? It’s just weird!
Paranoia, paranoia, everybody’s coming to get me…
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Fancy
We spend a lot of time in my house discussing being fancy. Capital F and ancy was the battle cry at college, but even now, “fancy” remains a favorite adjective. Perhaps it should then not be a surprise that my almost 5 year old boy is uber concerned with being fancy, whether it is about his own fanciness or the fanciness of others, fancy is where it’s at. And fancy is more than just about what you are wearing or how you look. Fancy is a state of mind.
We have a fancy president. I love saying that. I love not having to say “we have a stupid president”. It really makes me giddily happy. And after my experiences of the last week, I would have to say that it makes a whole ton of people giddily happy as well. The amount of Obama paraphernalia being sold and purchased within the city limits of D.C. was staggering. I saw t-shirts, sweatshirts, scarves, buttons, key chains, hats, beanies, calendars, photos, shot glasses, posters, postcards, coffee mugs, tote bags, purses, wallets, and my personal favorite- molded chocolate lollipops with his face on it. Really? Is it appropriate for me to be eating my president? (insert token Monica Lewinski joke here). It was amazing. I was sure they would run out, with that many millions of people buying stuff, how could they have enough stock? But judging by the vendors on the mall the next day, they were well prepared. He has rock star status…he is fancy…and that makes me happy.
We went to the inauguration and we were fancy. I would argue that aside from the people sitting on the capital steps themselves, we had the fanciest experience of anyone there. In fact, I would say sitting with my mimosa, watching the folks on the mall watching the folks on the steps, looking down at the canons for the 21 gun salute, we maybe had the fanciest experience including those people on the steps. This mainly happened by chance. A friend of Michael’s passed very suddenly in November. He was supposed to do something for someone which Michael took over doing as a favor. The person that Michael helped is a member of this law firm, and upon hearing of our trip, insisted on putting all of us on the guest list. We weren’t even sure we would take advantage of it, or what it would entail. We honestly had no idea. But we made it there, through the pissy purple ticket holders, through the rent-a-cops (literally) from as far away as Alabama, shivering in their uniforms, as clueless as the swarms around them, and through the once beautiful hedges which framed the building which had been ripped up, out and practically disintegrated by the overzealous crowds. We made it into the building, and Michael likes to say it was as though the heavens opened and choirs of angels sang “Ahhhhhhhhhh” in perfect harmony around us as the doors closed behind. It was fancy.
We have a fancy president. I love saying that. I love not having to say “we have a stupid president”. It really makes me giddily happy. And after my experiences of the last week, I would have to say that it makes a whole ton of people giddily happy as well. The amount of Obama paraphernalia being sold and purchased within the city limits of D.C. was staggering. I saw t-shirts, sweatshirts, scarves, buttons, key chains, hats, beanies, calendars, photos, shot glasses, posters, postcards, coffee mugs, tote bags, purses, wallets, and my personal favorite- molded chocolate lollipops with his face on it. Really? Is it appropriate for me to be eating my president? (insert token Monica Lewinski joke here). It was amazing. I was sure they would run out, with that many millions of people buying stuff, how could they have enough stock? But judging by the vendors on the mall the next day, they were well prepared. He has rock star status…he is fancy…and that makes me happy.
We went to the inauguration and we were fancy. I would argue that aside from the people sitting on the capital steps themselves, we had the fanciest experience of anyone there. In fact, I would say sitting with my mimosa, watching the folks on the mall watching the folks on the steps, looking down at the canons for the 21 gun salute, we maybe had the fanciest experience including those people on the steps. This mainly happened by chance. A friend of Michael’s passed very suddenly in November. He was supposed to do something for someone which Michael took over doing as a favor. The person that Michael helped is a member of this law firm, and upon hearing of our trip, insisted on putting all of us on the guest list. We weren’t even sure we would take advantage of it, or what it would entail. We honestly had no idea. But we made it there, through the pissy purple ticket holders, through the rent-a-cops (literally) from as far away as Alabama, shivering in their uniforms, as clueless as the swarms around them, and through the once beautiful hedges which framed the building which had been ripped up, out and practically disintegrated by the overzealous crowds. We made it into the building, and Michael likes to say it was as though the heavens opened and choirs of angels sang “Ahhhhhhhhhh” in perfect harmony around us as the doors closed behind. It was fancy.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Inauguration Organically
I have been trying to write the whole thing down for days. It's crap. It's all crap. I can't possibly bottle or recreate what the whole experience was like. I could write a (really boring) book on every last detail of the day, and from the drivel I have been coming up with, I am getting close to that.
Here is the thing. It was amazing. It was. It was cold, and crazy, and crowded. It was full of hope and patriotism and excitement in a way I have never ever felt before. And that was all by 7am. In retrospect, taking the kids held us back in a way from the "whole experience". There was no concert, no parade, no balls...we had to do things in their consideration and they really hated it anyway. They were cold and bored and uncomfortable. They were pissed we weren't actually "seeing" Obama. In the moment, they could care less that we were witnessing history. We've been working hard on the revisionist history and I wouldn't have wanted to not take them, but it did change things.
We did luck out though. Michael getting us into the fancy party at the law firm was a stroke of luck that I would have never imagined. Watching the proceedings with a heater, a catered breakfast and lunch, an ice scuplture (actually 2), an open bar, Katie Couric within shouting distance and a bunch of (really wealthy) very nice people was a very different experience than we expected. They looked at me a bit strangely when I burst into "Ding Dong The Witch is Dead", as soon as Bush's helicopter flew away...but they were all waving goodbye with glee, so I thought it would be appropriate.
We got the steerage ambiance for a couple of hours downstairs in the streets jammed with people. I loved it, I loved having the crowd burst into Of Thee I Sing and America the Beautiful, I loved seeing all the excited people in their giant fur coats and fur hats next to all the excited people wrapped up in blankets and aluminum foil, everyone thrilled to be there. There was a moment of slight panic for the safety of my children, when the crowd surged...but we huddled together and felt like the rock in the middle of the stream while the salmon swam madly around us. And as much as I loved all of that, being able to exit it into comparable paradise was pretty amazing. Exiting the building back into the street after was like being in a post apoctolypic movie. I think each and every flier that had been handed out, each "free" newpaper which had been printed, were all strewn and tossed into the street...much to the children's chagrin. It seems hope includes hope that someone else will clean up our trash. Although, to be fair, as much as the city planned for the bodily funtions of the millions of people descending, it didn't seem that any extra trash receptacles had been set out.
We tried to hold out for the parade, but then the wind picked up, the temp dropped, and the whining of the children got to me, so we had to head back. It was a long day for all of us. A fantastic, wonderful, hopeful, inspirational, beautiful long day.
If I can find the voice to discuss details, I will...but I needed to get something down for the meantime.
Here is the thing. It was amazing. It was. It was cold, and crazy, and crowded. It was full of hope and patriotism and excitement in a way I have never ever felt before. And that was all by 7am. In retrospect, taking the kids held us back in a way from the "whole experience". There was no concert, no parade, no balls...we had to do things in their consideration and they really hated it anyway. They were cold and bored and uncomfortable. They were pissed we weren't actually "seeing" Obama. In the moment, they could care less that we were witnessing history. We've been working hard on the revisionist history and I wouldn't have wanted to not take them, but it did change things.
We did luck out though. Michael getting us into the fancy party at the law firm was a stroke of luck that I would have never imagined. Watching the proceedings with a heater, a catered breakfast and lunch, an ice scuplture (actually 2), an open bar, Katie Couric within shouting distance and a bunch of (really wealthy) very nice people was a very different experience than we expected. They looked at me a bit strangely when I burst into "Ding Dong The Witch is Dead", as soon as Bush's helicopter flew away...but they were all waving goodbye with glee, so I thought it would be appropriate.
We got the steerage ambiance for a couple of hours downstairs in the streets jammed with people. I loved it, I loved having the crowd burst into Of Thee I Sing and America the Beautiful, I loved seeing all the excited people in their giant fur coats and fur hats next to all the excited people wrapped up in blankets and aluminum foil, everyone thrilled to be there. There was a moment of slight panic for the safety of my children, when the crowd surged...but we huddled together and felt like the rock in the middle of the stream while the salmon swam madly around us. And as much as I loved all of that, being able to exit it into comparable paradise was pretty amazing. Exiting the building back into the street after was like being in a post apoctolypic movie. I think each and every flier that had been handed out, each "free" newpaper which had been printed, were all strewn and tossed into the street...much to the children's chagrin. It seems hope includes hope that someone else will clean up our trash. Although, to be fair, as much as the city planned for the bodily funtions of the millions of people descending, it didn't seem that any extra trash receptacles had been set out.
We tried to hold out for the parade, but then the wind picked up, the temp dropped, and the whining of the children got to me, so we had to head back. It was a long day for all of us. A fantastic, wonderful, hopeful, inspirational, beautiful long day.
If I can find the voice to discuss details, I will...but I needed to get something down for the meantime.
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