Months 17/18

My Sweet Boo,

Again, Mama has gotten behind in her postings. Summer fell gently into fall and I was preoccupied with our family, and with my patients, and with the swirl of activity around us.

Today you were sick with a runny nose and lots of congestion. You had a temperature and were just generally ill at ease. I took the day off to care for you. Not only have your walking skills led you from room to room with ease and able to grab small objects off high shelves, I realized today how very good you are at understanding what I ask. For a long time I assumed you were merely mimicking me when you said, "Dep" or "Nooooo" to my questions, aping what you heard or saw me do, but today it was clear to me how much you grasp the English language, even though you can't speak it yet. You pointed out the bus in the pictures in your book. You hugged your doll "Red" and offered him cuddles and kisses when I suggested it. You brought me a ball when requested. You wandered over to your highchair when I hinted that I was making you some noodle soup to help with that cold of yours.

I love this new discovery in you. And...I'm learning that not unlike your Mama you have your own independent and distinct views on things.

This past week I've learned from you that...

• You'd rather NOT eat noodles from the spoon, but would prefer them placed on your tray to be picked up with your fingers.
  
• You'd rather NOT be fed applesauce, but would like to eat it on your own with a spoon, which you have not quite mastered, ergo plastering applesauce all down the front of your onesie.
• You'd rather NOT get your pajamas on after bed, preferring the au natural approach to evening feedings and nighttime romps.
• You'd rather NOT have help walking at certain times of the day, but WOULD rather have help at other times.
• You'd rather NOT dance to Indigo Girls or Tracy Chapman or Jerry Garcia, but be-bop yourself crazy to the YouTube video of SonSeed singing "Jesus is My Friend."
• You'd rather NOT have the dog anywhere near you, saying "NOOOO" in a definitive tone but would love to bathe in her waterbowl, and have even been known to lick her food bowl for extra "let-me-really-gross-Mama-out" emphasis.
• You'd rather open and close every cabinet in the house for as many hours as you are awake, but would rather NOT open the doors on the quasi-expensive puzzle we got you with various doors and locks.

In short, you're becoming a toddler.

Last night as we put you to bed you smiled at me from your daddy's arms and said, "Nigh, nigh, Mama." Today as I gave you a block you wanted you said in your own faltering English, "Dank you, Mama." Do you know how you make me melt? I'm quite confident that at nearly eighteen-months you have no idea. I simply melt into the carpet at my feet for you to crawl all over me. And I rejoice in the fact that you are ours.

I adore you, my love. More than words can say.
Mama

Bloggage

And these are the random thoughts of the Contemplative Chaplain on this rainy night.

• I'm overdue for a note to Gray on his 17 month birthday. Yep. Gotcha. And I forgot to make childcare plans for Saturday when R. and I are at a workshop at R.'s church and forgot to transfer money from the savings to checking account today and forgot that I'd purchased those 24-month Carter's sleepers last January in anticipation of this fall. Gotcha. Working on it.
  
• It is a humbling thing when someone you love tells you that when you're arguing you are "formidable." That's something which would have filled me with pride at the age of 17, and shames me at the age of 36. I need to work on that temper of mine.
• Grayson is going to be a monkey for Halloween, and not just any old monkey but one of the organ grinder monkeys which wore vests and little hats with tassles. Grammy's making his costume. I should save that for his 17 month post, but had such a delightful day with my madre and the boy that I couldn't keep the secret hidden for long.
  
• Burnout in my job comes not from the work with patients, but from the seemingly trivial details which keep being forced upon the staff (gee, thanks, Medicare for continuing to freeze funding and making us not-for-profits panic).
• I have deliberately not posted about Senator McCain's vice-presidential nomination because of how nasty and unproductive it would be. And, every time I talk about Governor Sarah Palin I get heartburn. Really. Perhaps McCain's election would be good for the antacid industry?
• And as much as I loathe what Sarah Palin stands for, I loathe more the yahoos who talk about her status as VPILF.
• I now have a new computer. Its ways are foreign to me. Vista Schmista. I'm a stranger in a strange land. Strange, and yet very fast.

These are this evening's random musings.

Over and out...

History

Grayson, my sweet,

You won't remember this night. The night you danced in your brown and white jungle print glow-in-the-dark jammies to Melissa Etheridge on YouTube singing "Give Peace a Chance," (Mommy missed C-Span's early evening coverage of the Democratic convention last night while she was driving home from work and had to catch up this evening).

In many ways, it is like so many other nights in your life. You had your bath. You ate some green beans and applesauce. You whined about the teeth which are poking their way through your bottom gum (for which we gave you ibuprofen), or the intestinal distress from eating too much cantelope (for which we gave you baby simethicone). You will have your bottle later. You will fall asleep clutching your cloth diaper. You will listen to one of your many lullaby CDs, which you will turn on by yourself because all hell breaks loose if you don't.

And, yet, the world is turning all around us and tonight will be a night, I suspect, that we will one day tell you about. Tonight Barack Obama will accept the Democratic presidential election on the night so many years ago when Martin Luther King gave an historic speech at the March on Washington. Tonight an African-American man will be nominated as president of the United States, a man with hope and vision and courage. Tonight our nation makes its own brilliant history, and while you don't know it, while you won't remember it, while the most important part of your universe consists of sisters who hang on your every syllable, two fat cats and a long skinny dog, this nation will be celebrating a milestone.

I hope that you live in a world where this simply doesn't matter, in a world where, as MLK said, "people aren't judged by the color of their skin," or where it simply is not noticed. I hope that you are racially color-blind as you grow and that the sweet toddler across the street with an African-American daddy and a white mommy is not seen as anyone different than you. I hope that one day people will be horrified that a world existed in which certain people had to sit in the back seats of buses, and certain people drank out of different water fountains. I hope that you will experience life as a minority at times, so you know that there is absolutely nothing which separates us from one another and it is hard to be seen as "the other." Mostly, I hope we are creating a new world for your generation.

Your mommy truly believes that a symbol of this new world rising happens tonight in Denver, Colorado.

I love you, and I want the world for you...and for your comrades as you grow to become the next hope for America.

Mama

Months 15/16

Dearest Boy-Boy,

Time has gotten away with your Mama. It's been a busy summer. There was your great-grandpa's death, and subsequent memorial service/family reunion time. There was the trip to visit Mamaw Amy and Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden in Texas and subsequent long-ass car ride home. And then there were the in-between days in which you continued to morph from babyhood to boyhood right in front of our eyes.

Last night you took your first steps. Your very first solo steps. You walked, with hesitancy at first and then with triumph between Grandpa and me as we sat on the floor of the parlor. You started with two steps, and moved to three, and then four, and then five, and by the time Daddy and Brynn got home from Brynn's ballet lesson, you were confident enough to venture six and seven steps on your own, grinning and laughing all the while.

I delight in this new skill. And confess that I wept a few tears in the bathtub last night after putting you to bed. It's hard for me to say goodbye to my baby. And yet, I can't wait to see who you become. I suppose this is the eternal paradox of parenting. If we do our job right, you separate from us.

No offense, Gray, but sometimes cats are easier to parent.

And speaking of cats...(notice that nice transition? I was an English major, after all...) you have become the master of all things gentle in the cat world. You are a pro at petting gently, and walking gently toward Cooper and Moses, and gently and softly saying "Caaaa" as you head in their direction. I'm hoping that you'll become one of those little old men who wear their pants pulled up beyond their navels and collect cats in their old age always naming them after Old Testament prophets.

You delight me. Even as I say goodbye to my baby, I delight in the new chapter of Grayson the boy.

I love you more than the stars.
Mama

Space Filler

This blog has not been forsaken. The blogger has just been mind-numbingly busy. And antsy. And grieving. And sort of strange overall.

But will be back here within a few days.

And didn't get attacked by wild armadillos in a whole 'nother country.

Blowin' this Popstand

...I originally thought I'd title this one, "Blowin' this Jo*int" (notice what I've learned about "coding" search words...I'm getting pretty computer savvy) but couldn't imagine all the intriguing ways that would be misconstrued in a search engine as people were trying to learn how to smoke marij*uana (see that added asterick thing again, pretty impressive, huh?). Hell, people still find my blog because of the creative way I spelled Ernest Ainsley (it's Angeley, friends, sorry for the screw up...).

Anyway...

We're getting out of Dodge, friends. Flying the coop. Running for the border. Vamoosing. Folding up shop.

The posse is headed down to Tex-ASS for a big 'ole family lovefest (as opposed to a love feast where we'd all wash one another's feet and grow Brethren beards). It's the annual Texas trip...the interminably long car trip whereby we remark on the different states on license plates which pass us on the road, and rate public restrooms with a ten point scale, and I assume my best Snooty-Titian-Colored-Haired-Sleuth voice for dramatic reading (that would be the annual Nancy Drew book we finish on the way there and back), followed by our arrival and welcome by the kindest, most generous kin-folk west of the Mississippi.

Look for possible remote postings...or not. Depends on how much time I spend chasing a toddler, or swimming in the pool, or having good scotch offered to me in liberal amounts, or delighting in the laughter of my step-daughters, or gazing at my beloved.

I desperately need this time. I'm worn out.

So, lest you feel bereft...I attached the latest pictures of the wee ones (one of whom is taller than me, now). Grayson is celebrating his upcoming getaway with chocolate...as the picture may demonstrate.

Don't leave the light on for us...

Gratuitous Child Photos

...Because, damn, I'm a sucker for the hat. And when he asks in years to come why no one clued his parents in to the socially backward nerdiness of aforementioned blue hat, please remind him that his father picked it out. But it was his mother who grabbed it from the lake after Grayson threw it overboard.

The hat, the nerdy hat, yeah...it was a joint parental effort in eternal geekiness.

Benedictus

In your leaving
we say peace.
With the last light of you dying
we say peace.
And where there is no peace
we say peace
in the hope it will rest in our bones.

In your going
we say joy.
With the last breath of you leaving
we say joy.
And where there is no joy
we say joy
in the hope it will dwell in our flesh.

In your departing
we say love.
With the earth taking you in
we say love.
And where there is no love
we say love
in the hope it will come to our souls.

--Jan Richardson, In Wisdom's Path

Tribe

One of the hardest things about grief has to be the monumental leap you make from the bosom of your family as you return to the "real world" of work, daily routine, stopped up drains, and unweeded gardens. As our family moved through the rituals of grief, the memorial service for the family at my uncle's home, the public visitation at the funeral home, the family dinner afterward, there was a sense that we were all moving together, on some sort of boat asea in our emotions. Wholly apart from the shoreline of the real world. Our tribe was questing on their own adventure, a journey very different from the civilized world.

And so, returning home after this sort of mountain-top experience (damn if I'm not just mixing metaphors all over the place), was a bit lonely. Where were the other two babies crawling or toddling around on the floor with Grayson for the past few days? Where did I see blue eyes similar to my own sparkling at me without looking in a mirror? Who else understood the gentleness and simplicity of my grandfather? Who else could understand his prejudices and faults as products of his upbringing, and recognize the man who he became in spite of, or even because of them? Who else laughed at memories of cherry-pit spitting contests and believed in a family which was taught to be "poor but respectable?" Who else learned that "pulling Grandpa's finger" was a recipe for disaster of the most odiferous kind?

There are things I do not share with this tribe. There are ways in which they do not know me. I would imagine that my political beliefs might be deemed suspect, and that my ideas about religion might be deemed heresy by some of my Miller kin. My cousins could probably not tell you my favorite books, nor could they know exactly how to comfort me in the midst of chaos, but somehow the fierce ties of family offer sacred haven to me which continue to undergird my fragile sense of reality as I grieve.

And I know, I know in my bones, that this sense of family will take root in Grayson and his sisters and will, as trite as it sounds, nurture the soil of their being. And this is the legacy which my grandparents offer, far greater than mutual funds or property. An inheritance of shelter, and safety and home.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

May flights of angels serenade you with an off-key rendering of "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" as they sing you right smack dab into the arms of the woman whose been waiting to welcome you for over two years now.

Herman Anthony Miller
February 8, 1920-July 12, 2008

Grandpa

As I type this my grandfather lies in a hospital bed in Northern Indiana holding on to life by only the most thin thread. His heart keeps beating, his blood keeps flowing, his eyes shift and seem to rest on something beyond us.

I am a hospice chaplain. But I am a granddaughter first. And while death is no longer unfamiliar, I am still startled by its piercing impartiality when it comes to those we love.

The solace I find today is that if there is another world, if our souls do carry on, then his weary spirit is preparing for one phenomenal reunion with my Grandmother, whose death he never got over. I hope she's hovering in the other side of this thin thread, beckoning him with those blue eyes. And I hope the bluegill are plentiful there, 'cause undoubtedly Herman will be carrying a rod and reel as he crosses over to meet another fisherman.

I Mean, Really, Can There Ever Be Too Many Mothers in Your Life?!?

...Or "Sharks Ready to Gobble Up the Cuteness of the Boy Gray and his Floppy Tie-Dyed Beach Hat." Or "Fashion Mavens Searching out the Newest Look in Straw Hats as Modeled by Jim the Father."

You choose.

Or, let's play a game, shall we?

Pick what YOU think this caption should be.

Go on, internet. It'll be fun. Maybe I'll even give door prizes...

Month Fifteen

Dear Grayson,

We will, perhaps, remember this month as the month you learned to point. Pointing is in fashion here at Chez P-M, sort of the "new black" if you will. You point at everything. Lights. Cats. Windows. Air fresheners plugged into outlets. Dog. Bit of toilet paper on the floor. Residual lint left from vacuum cleaner. Dead spider. Dust mite. Who knows, really? You point and we name whatever seems to be in line with your pointer finger.

You still don't speak coherent words much of them time, but you do converse a great deal. You yammer and jabber and we all agree with you and second whatever motion you've put on the table. However, for as much as I'm not sure you're taking in, there are many more details that are connecting in your tiny brain. Today we were out for a walk in a different neighborhood where we normally wander. We turned an unfamiliar corner and you stared quacking like a duck. I corrected you, as there was no water and no pond or lake nearby, saying, "Graysie, I don't see a duck. We'll see ducks another day." You proceeded with your quacking, and lo an behold, there was one of those cheesy yard-art white ducks sitting on a porch dressed in country-western apparel. You are either the most perceptive child, or the most keen to white-trash yard-art. I'm not sure which would make me prouder.

Saturday we spent the day with your Grandpa and Great-Grandpa in the front yard of our cottage on Chapman Lake. Your Grandpa and I weren't sure it was a warm enough day for a dip in the water, but the sun shone and the gentle waves beckoned and we dipped your toes only to find that you'd prefer a full-body immersion. Grandpa and I took turns reinstilling your proper Miller Baptism in the water while your Great-Grandpa sat in his wheelchair mere feet away offering you his blessing saying to me, "He'll do just fine, Chris."

You have been given a legacy, my boy. You have great-grandparents who wanted you to grow to love the lake, to learn to catch blue gills which you might eat pan-fried in butter, and to capture tiny painted turtles to keep as pets for a few hours and then release into the channel. Your great-grandparents left this cottage, for as long as we can keep it in the family, so that you might know what it means to both rest and work, both labor and play. And your great-grandmother would have been so very proud of you, which your great-grandfather reminded me of again on Saturday. You are blessed, my sweet boy. I hope lake water runs through your blood for the rest of your life.

I just put you down to sleep, clinging to your cloth diaper. As many times as I try to thrust a sweet stuffed bear, or a soft downy lamb into your sleep-hungry arms, you continue to push the object d' amour away, content with the simple pleasure of a cloth diaper stained with milk spit-up and smelling of laundry detergent, the baby equivalent of Honda rather than Cadillac I suppose.

I'm so awed that I get to spend my life being your mama.

And, I love you.

Mama

Month Fourteen (and a half)

My boy, boy...

Mama's been delayed in her posting. Delayed with crazy work productivity schedules and the planning of management encouraged "mandatory" retreats. Delayed because Mama is quite near exhausted and grumpy as hell. Delayed because when Mama gets home mostly she wants to crawl around on all fours chasing you in a wild game of "I'm Gonna Get You" or curl up watching your daddy give you your evening bottle in a place where she can watch the faces of both her two boys.

You're not walking much yet, although I've come to believe that it's not the strength or muscle coordination as much as it is that you're a cautious guy, afraid that a fall will mean failure. You're so very careful, sometimes standing propped against the couch or your daddy's leather chair waiting for someone to help you sit down again, whining if we don't pay attention and rescue you. Lately you've started making a triangle of your tiny body with your feet on the floor and your hands a foot or so in front of them, your own interpretive dance statement, certainly, representing the tepee and in honor of the Native Americans whose land we Hoosiers invaded. You're like that, the underdog. Or perhaps you're just practicing "Downward Dog" in yoga.

You laugh crazily at the cats, your bunny book, the rooster at the farm near your baby-sitter's home, baths, and when tickle monsters come to town. You eat most everything and when introduced to coconut cream pie signed the word "More" throughout the whole experience, just in case I wasn't spooning the creamy goodness into your mouth fast enough.

You continue to enjoy yourself by busting into the recycled diaper wipes container and pulling out a plethora of baby food lids, which you then scatter haphazardly throughout the living room only to be stepped on by unsuspecting parents in the middle of the night, or to be shoved down the back of your onesie and discovered while your parents are cleaning up a poppy diaper only to find the imprint of a Gerber's chicken noodle dinner lid on your bum. You don't need much to keep you happy.

Your spiritual life develops at a rapid fire pace as you press again and again and again and again the buttons of the Precious Moments hymn audio book which somehow surfaced in our home, perhaps a remnant from some crazy fundamentalist relative who wanted to bring you to Jesus after your heathen parents have failed you. Either that or George Bush had Homeland Security send it anonymously to the homes of democratic voters in an effort to raise God-fearing children.
Occasionally the book gets "hidden" under a chair or in the bottom of your toy-basket, but the heavenly angels seem to find it again and allow you to entertain us with your index finger as the Precious Moments figurine type people with scary, big, haunted eyes serenade us once again.

You and Daddy have been luxuriating in father-son bonding this summer while Daddy watches you throughout the days when he's home for the summer. So far you've spent your manly summer fishing for blue gill and trout in the pond near our house in your father's bass boat, taken an infant kick-boxing father-son course, purchased matching camouflaged onesie/speedo sets and learned to spit. It's been quite a summer.

In reality, your adoration for your "Dada" only grows. You cling to him like ivy on a tree and say his name with almost poetic reverence, which seems only appropriate as Father's Day approaches.

Know how much you're loved, my sweet. Loved beyond your mama's poor feeble words. Loved beyond reason.

Mama

The Yelp Heard Round the World

This morning, a leisurely Saturday morning I woke early. I lay quietly next to my sleeping husband, a cat curled around my feet. I listened to the cooing of morning doves. I reveled in the quiet of the house. I reached my arms up over my head for a nice slow stretch and, YOW!

Shooting pain down my right arm. Shooting pain down my back. Shooting pain through my shoulder. Shooting pain in my neck.

Mother f*@#$ er (or "Mother Trucker" as I'm learning to say as I realize soon the truth of the little pitchers saying). Pinched nerve. Gosh Darn Mother Truck it to Bell.

Poor R. has had an absentee wife today thanks to the outpatient clinic's beloved Dr. Skinny-Man's magic muscle relaxants.

Bloggage coming when I can sit comfortably at the computer for a little while.

True Confessions

In my work as a Hospice chaplain I hear many confessions. Often they are what one might expect. They are the typical things; the things any of us might lament. They are often the yearnings to have spent more time with loved ones, the desire to have listened better, to have appreciated more, to have settled for less. Rarely, seldomly, one hears the true deathbed confession--the truth which has been denied, the wrongs which must be righted, the words, bubbling forth in a torrent which cannot be silenced, or words whispered in hushed tones, always watching to make sure I don't sink to my knees with the weight being entrusted to me in the spoken truth.

In my work I am constantly reminded of death. The urgency to live is vital. Death whispers to me constantly. It is a reality I live with. For the most part I believe I live well in spite of, or because of the reality of death at every turn, for when death is often in your view, when the last breaths of the dying are the bread and butter of your vocation, you can't help but become enraptured with the idea of life.

My work is sometimes lonely. I hear things which I cannot repeat. I see things I do not know how to explain. I drive long lonely miles with NPR as my sole companion (heart ya, Terry Gross, really...let's do lunch soon...). And then Thursday comes. And I remember that, just as the motivational speakers might yell, "There's No 'I' in 'Team'" (although as my husband points out, there is a "me").

On Thursday, on every Thursday, I join the other two chaplains in my agency for lunch. It is our weekly communion of double cheeseburgers and Asian chicken salads. The body of Christ shared over fast food meals. Our talk varies from inappropriate, quirky Hospice humor to soul-searching questions about the nature of God.

G. and M., my partners in crime and my comrades on the front-lines, have both heard me into being and allowed me to rage at that which is wrong. We are a motley assortment, three different denominations, three different life histories. We have been thrown together in our shared callings to minister to the dying, and we have not shirked our responsibilities, even in the face of encroaching "efficiency and productivity standards," and corporate micromanaging. I believe that in many ways, they are what keep me from throwing my hands up and running from this death-facing ministry. They are what remind me that what I do is sacred and holy.

And so it was today that we gathered for lunch. Our Thursday lunch. We shared the office gossip. We told of our cherished patients. We made a few jokes about catheter bags and enemas (Hospice humor at its finest...).

And then, as I watched my colleague M. sort through the french fries on his tray, ostensibly searching for the most perfect one to dip in ketchup, I asked, "Do you have a french fry issue?" And he smiled and said, "I can't help it. I'm anal-retentive. I save the small ones for last. I like them best." And G. smiled and said with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm a little compulsive too. I count the cars on trains when I'm stopped at a railroad crossing." And I said conspiratorially, "It's okay, I put a dot next to the word in the dictionary after I look it up."

We smiled in conspiratorial glee as we marveled at our eccentricities. We shared of our most obsessive-compulsive habits. We marveled at the lengths we would each go to to find order in our world. And in that naming, we realized our deep desire to hold control of our own universes for a brief moment. And we laughed again at the unpredictabilites of the grips of death. And we knew we were not alone.

Top Ten Indicators That One is Merely Taking Feminist Theology as a Gen-Ed Credit

10. Asks that professor refer to him by his "Pimp Name."
9. Uses Powerpoint Presentation with picture of Asian woman on cover of Playboy magazine to demonstrate Asian feminist theology and then becomes indignant when professor asks, "And how does this reflect the ideas of Asian theologians?"
8. Claims in the class roundtable introduction that he is taking the course because, "I like girls."
7. Uses final paper as a chance to give winning Mary Kay cosmetics pitch because "women have
power when they look pretty." And recommends professor use more moisturizer now that she is of "a certain age."
6. Pulls Victoria's Secret bra out of important end of semester "Bra Burning Finale."
5. Refuses to take part in top secret ritual involving breast milk.
4. Believes professor is not God/ess incarnate.
3. Refuses to say password "Menstrual Blood" at door to A210 each week.
2. Begins each journal entry with, "I hated this reading, and believe that Jesus Christ is Lord of
Heaven and Earth and this class is heresy, however, I will do my assignment and so..."
before writing critical summary of readings.

And the number one indicator that one is merely taking Feminist Theology for a Gen-Ed Credit:
1. Prefers that the final exam be a touch football game in which half the students are Christians
and half pagans.

Slumpage

So, I haven't been writing lately. And while most of it has been related to end of semester planning and grading, and little boy tending, and early season flower gardening, part of it has also been just a genuine continued sense of writer's block, and Hospice chaplain burn-out, and general mild-level slumpiness. No discernable reason. No discernable or immediate remedy.

The writing will return, I trust. Bear with me.

Month Thirteen

Dear Grayson,

If you could proclaim anything from the rooftops right now, other than the ever-popular and good-for-all occasions exclamation "Quack!" you would announce that this has been the month of solid foods. Your oral fixation knows no ends now that you've discovered that, lo, you have teeth (seven or eight of them to be exact), and that, lo, these teeth can chew foods which taste much more exciting than Gerber's 2nd foods peas or Gerber's macaroni and cheese (which your mommy thinks resembles in both texture and smell soggy rawhide bone after the dog has chewed on it or dropped it in the waterbowl). Yesterday at Grammy's birthday brunch buffet, you finished off your own piece of bacon crumbled into tiny bits, and several spoonfuls of scrambled egg, and an English muffin, and some bites of cinnamon roll, and some hash brown potatoes. It was a feast. And you carefully mouthed every last bite and banged your hands on the table for more (or rammed your fists together in the sign language equivalent of "Dammit, woman, get me something else to eat.") Tonight you apparently finished off the local Italian restaurant's signature spaghetti and bread. I have yet to see you turn away food.

However, this oral fixation, this newfound fascination with different textures has also extended itself to gnawing on your mother's arms as you balance carefully when she sits on the floor. I now have tiny teeth mark bruises on my upper arms and neck. I'm reluctant to wear short-sleeved dresses to work, lest anyone think your father is grabbing me viciously around the arms and leaving fingermarks. Of course, that bite on my clavicle came dangerously close to turning a deep maroon and before long the neighbors are going to start whispering that your father is marking me with love bites (Note to your high school self from your mother: Grayson, hickies are not cool. And if you ever start wearing turtlenecks unexpectedly in your teen years I will figure it out, and the excuse that you just burned yourself with a curling iron will be refuted in a New York minute. Not that I would know anything about that paltry excuse.) I've been working on giving you the "mean face," when you bite and saying, "No! Ouch! That hurts Mommy!" Your face usually crumples and then I feel like a terrible parent and have to refrain from rushing in immediately and offering you my forearm to gnaw on to make up for it, "I'm sorry, baby, here...there's a nice raw spot right there below Mommy's elbow, show Mommy what strong white teeth you have..."

You are standing like a pro, balancing carefully and learning the laws of gravity. You remain a cautious baby, afraid of falling, afraid of landing anywhere with a thud. I love that about you. You're not a daredevil. This provides comfort to parents who wear their seatbelts even when driving to the mailbox and who always drink a full glass of water with their vitamins. That's the nerdy family you were born into..."Safety First!" we proclaim, as we adjust our pocket protectors and pack our Star Trek lunchboxes.

I continue to stare at you in slack-jawed wonder as I remember the baby you were just a short year ago. I sense I'll do this for the rest of your life; watch you with wonder and awe.

I love you, sweet boy.
Mama

The Truth Comes Out

I suspect you've known it for awhile.

I've been giving those charismatic speeches. I touch your arm just so, in that way that doesn't assume too much but which lets you know that I care about you. I look deep into your eyes in ways which insinuate that I, only I, can truly understand you. I started wearing a certain kind of Nike shoes and then told you all to wear them, along with the black sweatsuits. I referred to that spaceship that would soon be visiting. And then I offered you that kool-aid.

The truth, my friends, my followers, my disciples, has come out.

I am a cult leader.

Or at least this is what one of my male students has accused me of being. Or rather, he believes that he is "gettin [sic] somewhat of a sexest [sic] cult vibe from this class." And since I teach this college class, this college class in feminist theology, I assume I must be the cult leader.

I shouldn't take his critique too seriously I suppose, because I am really gettin somewhat of a vibe that he's sort of uncertain of what feminist theology entails. And, he also sleeps through a bulk of my lectures.

But, there is still that niggling voice within me. A voice that says, "Maybe you're not a good teacher. Maybe you're not being fair. Maybe you're too strident. Maybe you're too aggressive. Maybe you're offensive."

And this student ends up, then, representing the very patriarchy I speak against. The patriarchy which insists that when women speak their truth, their theological truth, that they are deemed "cultish," that when women work at empowering themselves they are called "sexist." How well I have swallowed the lessons of the patriarchy, even as I teach my students to question it. How quickly I allow one young privileged white male to batter me back into place with his (misspelled) words.

And how do I raise a son, a white privileged son, to not take his position for granted? How do I teach him to listen to women, to listen to his gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, to listen to those of different colors, and to those of different classes?

I don't want my anger at misogyny to ever be laid at his feet. And I don't want him to be raised, ever, as the enemy. And I don't want my cause to ever be his responsibility.

The truth comes out. And the truth is this: we still live in a world where sexism exists. And our world will be a better place, and our children will be healthier children, if we name it and attempt to deconstruct it. And there is no better time than now.

Now, come here and drink this kool-aid.