I had a meeting at work today about going back to work full time. In the next few weeks, it will happen. It's a good thing, career-wise, for me, but it makes me sad. I have been able to be home part-time with my kids for the last six years, and that has been incredible. But, Erik and I both realize that in order to have a good life, we need more income. That means me. Actually, it's a really ideal time to go back to work because we have had several reorganizations within the company, and I either go back full-time now or I will probably be eliminated later on. I will miss so many things, though. Getting up with the kids and making pancakes...going for walks to the library or Trader Joes...doing puzzles with Tess while I drink my coffee...having an impromptu playdate with a neighbor...sleeping in...
It's a good thing. I really do believe that. I had a great conversation with the COO, and the role that I will take on, worldwide marketing communications, will actually be a promotion for me. I'm excited about it. But, I dread having to leave every day, five days in a row, for a full day. It's not like other parents don't do it every day, I've just been spoiled. I don't know that I will ever be the mom who gets to greet Owen when he gets home anymore. And I still haven't figured out what we do about the kids. Sure, Erik is working from home, but we both know you can't get much done with the kids at home. So, it's either more preschool or a nanny. And, to boot, the kids are off for the summer, and that's the hardest time.
I love my kids so much it makes my heart hurt sometimes, but there is a part of me that can't stand the summer boredom. And, we can't afford camp for them all. Owen will attend some sort of summer school for four weeks, but that's it. To be honest, I wish school was all year-round. Unfortunately, living in LA, you have to pay through the nose to have your kids in school all year round. But we will manage. And my biggest fear, that they will grow up without me being there, will happen. But I have to believe that they will also thrive and learn to grow up and eventually become amazing human beings. And maybe being a working mom might help them understand the world as it is. I already miss them.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Growth Spurts
How is it that one day your child is a baby with chubby thighs and the next thing you know they are wearing pants that are too short for them? I have watched both Tess and Owen go from my breast-feeding infants to these mini-adults, with thoughts and feelings and moods. Lately, Tess and Owen have been trying out new phrases, like "isn't that cool?" or they mimic me by saying "isn't that a good idea?" Even Axel has joined in on the game, and I am panicking, as I watch my sturdy 2-year-old boy, still soft and warm with those baby thighs, take a stand and say, "Mommy, isn't that cool?" He wants to join the "big kid club" so badly. I watch as the three of them interact with each other, and separately. In the morning, Owen is the first one off to school, courtesy of the bus. He has this wonderful bus driver who is so patient with the kids. I am always giving him fresh-baked cookies or cupcakes if I was baking the day before. All I can think when I see him is that he must be up at the crack of dawn to pick up all the other kids and be at our house by 7:30 a.m.! Then we go through the morning goodbyes, and lately, Tess has been very affectionate with Owen, asking him for a hug and saying "I love you, Owen!" as he leaves. Axel gets right in there too, almost pushing Owen over as he runs up to them so he can hug him goodbye. Then I walk Owen out to the bus, the other two trailing me out onto the front steps. Some days Owen is in a good mood, and other days he cries that he doesn't want to go to school. Those are the days I pick him up, all 50 pounds of him, and carry him right onto the bus. Then we wave goodbye to all the kids, with the double wave. Every now and then I will get a smile out of the other kids, and some days, Owen will even smile. Most of the time, he puts his head down, or looks the other way. It's that time of day, when he leaves, that I wonder what he is thinking. Is it hard for him? Or does he not think about it at all? Does he just live his life in the moment and at that moment he is just on the bus?
Lately, as I see them change and grow, I'm most astounded by the clothes they seem to outgrow so fast. I keep putting the same clothes on, thinking the clothes must have shrunk, but it's the other way around. I notice Tess has grown legs, and Axel has sprung up almost to Tess's height, and Owen has become a grown boy. He no longer has any little boy look about him. I'm almost afraid I'll start seeing facial hair soon (or other hair that I am not prepared to deal with)!
Where did the days go? And still, still, I find myself not paying attention: laundry, dishes, work, phone calls, doctors appointments, homework. They grow incrementally as I busy myself with chores. They sprout up like weeds when I turn my back. They are growing up, and soon they will grow away. I am trying so hard to memorize them, to keep these days with me, but they float away as quickly as the bubbles we play with in the backyard. One day soon, the toys will be outgrown and the house will be quiet, and I'll have all the time in the world to deal with laundry and dishes and work and phone calls...
Lately, as I see them change and grow, I'm most astounded by the clothes they seem to outgrow so fast. I keep putting the same clothes on, thinking the clothes must have shrunk, but it's the other way around. I notice Tess has grown legs, and Axel has sprung up almost to Tess's height, and Owen has become a grown boy. He no longer has any little boy look about him. I'm almost afraid I'll start seeing facial hair soon (or other hair that I am not prepared to deal with)!
Where did the days go? And still, still, I find myself not paying attention: laundry, dishes, work, phone calls, doctors appointments, homework. They grow incrementally as I busy myself with chores. They sprout up like weeds when I turn my back. They are growing up, and soon they will grow away. I am trying so hard to memorize them, to keep these days with me, but they float away as quickly as the bubbles we play with in the backyard. One day soon, the toys will be outgrown and the house will be quiet, and I'll have all the time in the world to deal with laundry and dishes and work and phone calls...
Monday, March 1, 2010
An Essay Not My Own
This is an essay written by the actress Amy Brenneman ("Private Practice," "Judging Amy,"), who I have always felt an affinity with. Perhaps because I breastfed my son Owen in the dark of the night at 3 a.m. watching re-runs of "Judging Amy," where life never seemed to be perfect... Or perhaps because this essay made me laugh AND cry as I heard her read it. I have been there. I have felt that feeling in my stomach, wanting my child to be "normal." But as the placard in my laundry room says, "Normal is just a setting on the washing machine." Enjoy.
“Passing (beauty)”
By Amy Brenneman
Passing.
Light-skinned blacks did it in the segregated south.
Pre-Stonewall gay men did it in marriages where they suffered.
Hell, I did it too. In the dark ages of my family’s dysfunction (happily changed this quarter century later), when my father was still drinking and my brother dealing dope and I didn’t know any of that, just knew that something was wrong. I passed as normal. No, better – exceptional. It wasn’t enough to blend in; I had to create a diversion with my specialness, so that no one would look beyond my family’s increasingly frayed curtain.
We pass.
We pass tests, we hope to fit in, blend in, and not create a ruckus. But somewhere in us is a still, small voice: can’t it be better than this? Can’t I actually be myself?
My daughter, who has taught me everything, has taught be about this too. So terrified was I, to be a mother, so overworked and stressed – that I tried desperately to “pass” as a mother. Please, let me say the right things; concoct the right “schedule,” (courtesy of my old school British nanny). Feed the right foods and Charlotte would emerge precocious, well behaved, affectionate – and sleeping through the night. It was formulaic, right? Put something in, you’d get something predictable out. Scientific, logical, mechanical. The star-making machine on that beach of the Sneeches.
But from the start, my Charlotte defied prediction. She didn’t sleep through the night ate to her own likes and marched to her own drummer. My mother’s eyebrows arched and I felt it ping – zap! – in my belly of shame.
Then at two, the delays were apparent. “Thank God she doesn’t have any weird behaviors,” said Beth the speech therapist (who has seen her fair share), “and it helps that she’s so pretty.” And you know what Beth? It does.
And yet. Yet we were back to the game of passing. Charlotte could basically tolerate any classroom I put her in, but we’d hold our breath, waiting for a strange utterance or inexplicable behavior. Just the other day, at a resort pool, a girl her age was drawn to her and wanted to play, and they did – but only with me playing U.N. interpreter.
Last year, Charlotte’s and my collective still, small voice began asking: can’t it be better than this? Can’t we be ourselves? Can’t we be honest about our challenges, our struggles and shadow selves? And isn’t that place, where we can do that – isn’t that the place we call home?
How do we get in the habit of passing? Surely it is ingrained in us from early on, as American as Paul Bunyon and apple pie. Let’s look at some dispatches from the front line:
February 2003: Sky Bar, Hollywood
We are celebrating a work friend’s American citizenship. Me, Brad, all the others that I worked with at the time. I am relaxed. Charlotte is about to turn two and we enjoyed this year SO much ore than the last one. The terrors of infancy (mine, not hers) were retreating, and I found myself actually – dare I say it – having fun.
Tyne Daly and I sat toasting ourselves and laughing our asses off. She asked me about life, motherhood, art and God – you know, our typical superficial fare. Then she quite casually asked, “Do you think it’s odd that Charlotte is not speaking yet?”
Penny drop, stomach lurch. Something is awry.
“Not really,” I try to gather my thoughts amid Vodka and Hollywood cleavage. “Do you?”
Passing, passing. Passing as normal and hiding all flaws. But we have been found out.
Brad and I drove home that night with me chattering about her comment (“That Tyne – what does she know? She was probably just wasted!”) amid a gathering dread. Three months later we started speech therapy, none months later an Individual Educational Program, the infamous IEP.
That Tyne Daly. What does she know?
.
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking by
April 2004: Encino Elementary School
I bring Charlotte to her first IEP, which was all Greek to us. Like travelers in some strange school year abroad, we showed up to mysterious places and met mysterious people who seemed so at ease with this strange business of quantifying another, tiny, human.
At the first session we were to meet the school nurse and the school psychologist. The meeting was set for one pm – a lethal hour for my daughter. Transitioning from a naptime she’d never really mastered, I could count on 1 pm being a netherworld of fatigue hysteria and misery. For me as well. We showed up at a tiny room where puzzles were put out and crayons proffered. Charlotte would have none of it. Howling, clutching my hair, bracing her legs like a lamb to slaughter, the meeting devolved quickly into an episode of “Survivor” with me playing the part of the apologetic host, apologizing with the hackneyed “She’s not always like this!” “You’re not seeing her best side!” as their pencils scraped government forms.
Shame spiral. We left defeated. Or rather, I did. Char was just happy to be back in the sunshine and leave the judgment behind. She’s always been a wise child.
We week later we had round two. Dread. But this time it was scheduled for 10 am – Char’s happy time. We met up with the PT, the OT, and various other T’s outside on the play structure. Charlotte was delightful. Smiley and communicative – in gesture if not in word – she charmed the adults who scribbled positive things in their governmental forms. I crawled out of the shame spiral and emerged sputtering and blinking back onto the shores of a job well done. The job of raising a “normal” daughter.
Not long after, I told the story of Char’s IEP to a seasoned mother of a special needs kid. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “You WANT them to fall apart! Then you get more services! Sometimes I’ll skip his lunch and nap and gets cranky, just so they give me behavioral!”
Clearly, I didn’t read the memo on how to manipulate the system. Clearly, too, I was not in acceptance yet that we really NEEDED services. Other people did, sure. But this was a short layover for us – this special needs thing – not our final destination. Let other people learn how to manipulate the system – my daughter and I are just passing through. Right?
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking by.
September 2002: Tarzana, California
I slouch at the back of Kid’s Gym. I worked til 3 am the night before. That means I don’t have go to work until 3 pm today. The non-parents in my cast sleep until noon or one, I am up at 5:30 with my 18-month-old girl. We stumble through the morning – much help from Daddy – and then I take her to her “gym class,” which I’d signed her up for a couple of months before.
In those couple of months, I’d gone with her maybe twice. I always wanted to, but never could, courtesy of a liquid shooting schedule over which I had little control. I engineered her life from afar, signing up for things I’d heard about, making play dates with people I barely knew. “Charlotte and I met a cute girl in the park,” my nanny would proclaim. “I got her number.” She’d hold the number out to me and I’d call, so shy, so at a loss about this particular social transaction. The other mother was inevitably cheerful and confident and I faked my way through – I’m nothing if not a trained actress – pretending that I’d done this kind of thing a hundred times.
My mother worked when I was little. Not many others did. Mostly I was proud, sometimes I missed the afternoon rituals of cookies and sewing, which were basically mythic but actually existed at my friend Jill Schreiber’s house. Jill’s mother was sweet and doting – endlessly available but frankly a little dull. My mother wasn’t around as much, but when she was we’d talk books and ideas, not cookies. Probably why I still don’t cook to this day.
We had a running joke, my mother and me. If we had a free Saturday afternoon or some unexpected unplanned time she’d turn to me and say, “What do real mothers and daughters do?” And then we’d try to do it. We’d go to a mall (which we hated) or shop for clothes (boring) and try to imagine the activities of a “normal” mother and daughter. We’d laugh about it all, but I suppose there was some mourning too. We were constantly playing catch up, constantly laboring under the charlatan complex.
So here I was again. Slouching at kid’s gym. Watching the other mothers playing parachute, ball and peek-a-boo. It’s not that Charlotte and I didn’t do those things – we had a wonderful play life. It was more the culture of at-home mothering was foreign to me and made me feel less-than, not as good as, a charlatan mother.
What do real mothers and daughters do?
As I slouched, a woman came up to me drinking a latte. She was there with her daughter Kiara and had two more boys at home. She also was seven months pregnant. She sipped her latte and slouched with me. We watched one especially manic mom playing parachute with her son who looked like he could use some alone time. “Justin! Justin! Look at me! Peek a boo!!” Justin looked around the room, as if searching for someone to help him out of this awkward cocktail party moment. “Justin! Big Boy! Wheee!!!”
My latte drinking friend, who with three children and one on the way could arguable be called the most experience mother in the room, turned to me and muttered, “Wow. She really needs to get a life.”
The latte drinker is named Donna. She became one of my best friends. She’s my kind of mama.
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking
November 1976. Gideon Welles Junior High School
Junior High is all about passing, right? Hide the zit, the nerdy glasses, the low self-esteem. I sit in social studies wearing turtleneck, Fair Isle sweater and jeans: the winter uniform of Glastonbury Connecticut. But everything was a little bit wrong. The sweater didn’t have the vital three buttons at the front and the jeans were Lees, not Levis. To this day, I don’t know how my Harvard educated mother could fail to comprehend these distinctions and manage to buy the wrong kind REPEATEDLY but I guess some things defy explanation. I sit with Jill in the back, out of the orbit of the queens: Marylynne Tyrrell, Sharon Elliot and Tricia Trusk. May their names live on in infamy. You know them because you were in class with them too. The inhibitors of cool, the not-so-benevolent despots. Their Fair Isles had three buttons, their jeans were Levis and they wore Bean boots – the requisite foul weather footwear in preppy Glastonbury into which my sliver-narrow feet didn’t even fit. I still wore galoshes.
My grand arrival into my ancestral home of theater dorks was still a year away. At this point I was still playing at fitting in. On that fateful day in social studies the queens gathered their heads in whispered conference. Then Marylynne raised her petite blond head and scanned the room. “Whose mother is a judge?”
Face flood in shame. I’m not passing now. I’ve been outed as having a mother who works – not the norm for our neck of suburbia – and more than that, my mother has a career. Mothers could work if they volunteered in the school library, or maybe had a job as a nurse, but this, this, prominent job thing was too outside the bounds of normal.
I swear to you, the way Marylynne dripped that last word, “judge,” she could have been calling my mother a whore.
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking by.
With all of this baggage, we greet our children. Some dealt with, most not. Or rather, we think we’ve dealt with it until we greet our children. Then the issues come roaring into the nursery and settle in next to the diaper genie.
My issues are about hiding my flaws and distracting you with achievement. My daughter, who has taught me eveything, has taught me about this too. She has helped to break the familial cycle of secrets and shame. She has bushwhacked into the brave new world of authenticity. She has taught me that life is more than “passing.” She has taught me there is no “normal.” That the guy we revere as the straight arrow quarterback is probably wearing women’s underwear -- or at the very least has a stutter. Charlotte does not see people in terms of their deficits. She doesn’t care about cool behavior – she does care about warmth, play and acceptance. Not a bad standard for friendship.
Finally, my daughter has shown me, again and again, that it is because of the chinks in the armor of our perfectionism that new light can come in, the light of intimacy and help and love.
October 2009. Topanga, California
So here we all are. Coming together as community in this bright October day, imagining a world where everyone belongs. And you know what? Everyone does belong here. That is the magic of CHIME.
Last year, Charlotte’s and my collective still, small voice began asking: can’t it be better than this? Can’t we be ourselves? Can’t we be honest about our challenges, our struggles and shadow selves? And isn’t that place, where we can do that – isn’t that the place we call home?
We have found that at CHIME. We found home. From the first, we exhaled with relief. We don’t have to hide. Life – school – has become about more than passing. It’s about saying:
“Here’s who I am.
Here’s what I can do.
Here are my struggles.
Can I ask you for help?
(And while we’re at it, can I help you?)”
We build community by admitting our mutual need, not by pretending that we have none. And in the process, we are “Chimed.” We start looking at the world differently. We accept things that were once scary, we understand things that were once strange, we admit that we don’t have it all together, we get off the relentless hamster wheel of the 21st century and look around for a minute or two.
If you looked at your audience-mates (you don’t have to – it’s way too scary and I’m not that touchy-feely!) you would see a fellow traveler on this unfolding journey. Beside you is a person who triumphs and struggles, just like you, with fears and joys that mirror your own. They may look different than yours, and the world outside might judge those differences as more significant than the similarities. We at CHIME know better. We know that this “better world” we’re imagining is about seeing a piece of ourselves in everyone. Charlotte Silberling knows that, as all CHIME kids do. They are guiding us toward that better world.
Lucky, lucky us.
“Passing (beauty)”
By Amy Brenneman
Passing.
Light-skinned blacks did it in the segregated south.
Pre-Stonewall gay men did it in marriages where they suffered.
Hell, I did it too. In the dark ages of my family’s dysfunction (happily changed this quarter century later), when my father was still drinking and my brother dealing dope and I didn’t know any of that, just knew that something was wrong. I passed as normal. No, better – exceptional. It wasn’t enough to blend in; I had to create a diversion with my specialness, so that no one would look beyond my family’s increasingly frayed curtain.
We pass.
We pass tests, we hope to fit in, blend in, and not create a ruckus. But somewhere in us is a still, small voice: can’t it be better than this? Can’t I actually be myself?
My daughter, who has taught me everything, has taught be about this too. So terrified was I, to be a mother, so overworked and stressed – that I tried desperately to “pass” as a mother. Please, let me say the right things; concoct the right “schedule,” (courtesy of my old school British nanny). Feed the right foods and Charlotte would emerge precocious, well behaved, affectionate – and sleeping through the night. It was formulaic, right? Put something in, you’d get something predictable out. Scientific, logical, mechanical. The star-making machine on that beach of the Sneeches.
But from the start, my Charlotte defied prediction. She didn’t sleep through the night ate to her own likes and marched to her own drummer. My mother’s eyebrows arched and I felt it ping – zap! – in my belly of shame.
Then at two, the delays were apparent. “Thank God she doesn’t have any weird behaviors,” said Beth the speech therapist (who has seen her fair share), “and it helps that she’s so pretty.” And you know what Beth? It does.
And yet. Yet we were back to the game of passing. Charlotte could basically tolerate any classroom I put her in, but we’d hold our breath, waiting for a strange utterance or inexplicable behavior. Just the other day, at a resort pool, a girl her age was drawn to her and wanted to play, and they did – but only with me playing U.N. interpreter.
Last year, Charlotte’s and my collective still, small voice began asking: can’t it be better than this? Can’t we be ourselves? Can’t we be honest about our challenges, our struggles and shadow selves? And isn’t that place, where we can do that – isn’t that the place we call home?
How do we get in the habit of passing? Surely it is ingrained in us from early on, as American as Paul Bunyon and apple pie. Let’s look at some dispatches from the front line:
February 2003: Sky Bar, Hollywood
We are celebrating a work friend’s American citizenship. Me, Brad, all the others that I worked with at the time. I am relaxed. Charlotte is about to turn two and we enjoyed this year SO much ore than the last one. The terrors of infancy (mine, not hers) were retreating, and I found myself actually – dare I say it – having fun.
Tyne Daly and I sat toasting ourselves and laughing our asses off. She asked me about life, motherhood, art and God – you know, our typical superficial fare. Then she quite casually asked, “Do you think it’s odd that Charlotte is not speaking yet?”
Penny drop, stomach lurch. Something is awry.
“Not really,” I try to gather my thoughts amid Vodka and Hollywood cleavage. “Do you?”
Passing, passing. Passing as normal and hiding all flaws. But we have been found out.
Brad and I drove home that night with me chattering about her comment (“That Tyne – what does she know? She was probably just wasted!”) amid a gathering dread. Three months later we started speech therapy, none months later an Individual Educational Program, the infamous IEP.
That Tyne Daly. What does she know?
.
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking by
April 2004: Encino Elementary School
I bring Charlotte to her first IEP, which was all Greek to us. Like travelers in some strange school year abroad, we showed up to mysterious places and met mysterious people who seemed so at ease with this strange business of quantifying another, tiny, human.
At the first session we were to meet the school nurse and the school psychologist. The meeting was set for one pm – a lethal hour for my daughter. Transitioning from a naptime she’d never really mastered, I could count on 1 pm being a netherworld of fatigue hysteria and misery. For me as well. We showed up at a tiny room where puzzles were put out and crayons proffered. Charlotte would have none of it. Howling, clutching my hair, bracing her legs like a lamb to slaughter, the meeting devolved quickly into an episode of “Survivor” with me playing the part of the apologetic host, apologizing with the hackneyed “She’s not always like this!” “You’re not seeing her best side!” as their pencils scraped government forms.
Shame spiral. We left defeated. Or rather, I did. Char was just happy to be back in the sunshine and leave the judgment behind. She’s always been a wise child.
We week later we had round two. Dread. But this time it was scheduled for 10 am – Char’s happy time. We met up with the PT, the OT, and various other T’s outside on the play structure. Charlotte was delightful. Smiley and communicative – in gesture if not in word – she charmed the adults who scribbled positive things in their governmental forms. I crawled out of the shame spiral and emerged sputtering and blinking back onto the shores of a job well done. The job of raising a “normal” daughter.
Not long after, I told the story of Char’s IEP to a seasoned mother of a special needs kid. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “You WANT them to fall apart! Then you get more services! Sometimes I’ll skip his lunch and nap and gets cranky, just so they give me behavioral!”
Clearly, I didn’t read the memo on how to manipulate the system. Clearly, too, I was not in acceptance yet that we really NEEDED services. Other people did, sure. But this was a short layover for us – this special needs thing – not our final destination. Let other people learn how to manipulate the system – my daughter and I are just passing through. Right?
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking by.
September 2002: Tarzana, California
I slouch at the back of Kid’s Gym. I worked til 3 am the night before. That means I don’t have go to work until 3 pm today. The non-parents in my cast sleep until noon or one, I am up at 5:30 with my 18-month-old girl. We stumble through the morning – much help from Daddy – and then I take her to her “gym class,” which I’d signed her up for a couple of months before.
In those couple of months, I’d gone with her maybe twice. I always wanted to, but never could, courtesy of a liquid shooting schedule over which I had little control. I engineered her life from afar, signing up for things I’d heard about, making play dates with people I barely knew. “Charlotte and I met a cute girl in the park,” my nanny would proclaim. “I got her number.” She’d hold the number out to me and I’d call, so shy, so at a loss about this particular social transaction. The other mother was inevitably cheerful and confident and I faked my way through – I’m nothing if not a trained actress – pretending that I’d done this kind of thing a hundred times.
My mother worked when I was little. Not many others did. Mostly I was proud, sometimes I missed the afternoon rituals of cookies and sewing, which were basically mythic but actually existed at my friend Jill Schreiber’s house. Jill’s mother was sweet and doting – endlessly available but frankly a little dull. My mother wasn’t around as much, but when she was we’d talk books and ideas, not cookies. Probably why I still don’t cook to this day.
We had a running joke, my mother and me. If we had a free Saturday afternoon or some unexpected unplanned time she’d turn to me and say, “What do real mothers and daughters do?” And then we’d try to do it. We’d go to a mall (which we hated) or shop for clothes (boring) and try to imagine the activities of a “normal” mother and daughter. We’d laugh about it all, but I suppose there was some mourning too. We were constantly playing catch up, constantly laboring under the charlatan complex.
So here I was again. Slouching at kid’s gym. Watching the other mothers playing parachute, ball and peek-a-boo. It’s not that Charlotte and I didn’t do those things – we had a wonderful play life. It was more the culture of at-home mothering was foreign to me and made me feel less-than, not as good as, a charlatan mother.
What do real mothers and daughters do?
As I slouched, a woman came up to me drinking a latte. She was there with her daughter Kiara and had two more boys at home. She also was seven months pregnant. She sipped her latte and slouched with me. We watched one especially manic mom playing parachute with her son who looked like he could use some alone time. “Justin! Justin! Look at me! Peek a boo!!” Justin looked around the room, as if searching for someone to help him out of this awkward cocktail party moment. “Justin! Big Boy! Wheee!!!”
My latte drinking friend, who with three children and one on the way could arguable be called the most experience mother in the room, turned to me and muttered, “Wow. She really needs to get a life.”
The latte drinker is named Donna. She became one of my best friends. She’s my kind of mama.
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking
November 1976. Gideon Welles Junior High School
Junior High is all about passing, right? Hide the zit, the nerdy glasses, the low self-esteem. I sit in social studies wearing turtleneck, Fair Isle sweater and jeans: the winter uniform of Glastonbury Connecticut. But everything was a little bit wrong. The sweater didn’t have the vital three buttons at the front and the jeans were Lees, not Levis. To this day, I don’t know how my Harvard educated mother could fail to comprehend these distinctions and manage to buy the wrong kind REPEATEDLY but I guess some things defy explanation. I sit with Jill in the back, out of the orbit of the queens: Marylynne Tyrrell, Sharon Elliot and Tricia Trusk. May their names live on in infamy. You know them because you were in class with them too. The inhibitors of cool, the not-so-benevolent despots. Their Fair Isles had three buttons, their jeans were Levis and they wore Bean boots – the requisite foul weather footwear in preppy Glastonbury into which my sliver-narrow feet didn’t even fit. I still wore galoshes.
My grand arrival into my ancestral home of theater dorks was still a year away. At this point I was still playing at fitting in. On that fateful day in social studies the queens gathered their heads in whispered conference. Then Marylynne raised her petite blond head and scanned the room. “Whose mother is a judge?”
Face flood in shame. I’m not passing now. I’ve been outed as having a mother who works – not the norm for our neck of suburbia – and more than that, my mother has a career. Mothers could work if they volunteered in the school library, or maybe had a job as a nurse, but this, this, prominent job thing was too outside the bounds of normal.
I swear to you, the way Marylynne dripped that last word, “judge,” she could have been calling my mother a whore.
Passing, passing. By the skin of our teeth, barely making it, squeaking by.
With all of this baggage, we greet our children. Some dealt with, most not. Or rather, we think we’ve dealt with it until we greet our children. Then the issues come roaring into the nursery and settle in next to the diaper genie.
My issues are about hiding my flaws and distracting you with achievement. My daughter, who has taught me eveything, has taught me about this too. She has helped to break the familial cycle of secrets and shame. She has bushwhacked into the brave new world of authenticity. She has taught me that life is more than “passing.” She has taught me there is no “normal.” That the guy we revere as the straight arrow quarterback is probably wearing women’s underwear -- or at the very least has a stutter. Charlotte does not see people in terms of their deficits. She doesn’t care about cool behavior – she does care about warmth, play and acceptance. Not a bad standard for friendship.
Finally, my daughter has shown me, again and again, that it is because of the chinks in the armor of our perfectionism that new light can come in, the light of intimacy and help and love.
October 2009. Topanga, California
So here we all are. Coming together as community in this bright October day, imagining a world where everyone belongs. And you know what? Everyone does belong here. That is the magic of CHIME.
Last year, Charlotte’s and my collective still, small voice began asking: can’t it be better than this? Can’t we be ourselves? Can’t we be honest about our challenges, our struggles and shadow selves? And isn’t that place, where we can do that – isn’t that the place we call home?
We have found that at CHIME. We found home. From the first, we exhaled with relief. We don’t have to hide. Life – school – has become about more than passing. It’s about saying:
“Here’s who I am.
Here’s what I can do.
Here are my struggles.
Can I ask you for help?
(And while we’re at it, can I help you?)”
We build community by admitting our mutual need, not by pretending that we have none. And in the process, we are “Chimed.” We start looking at the world differently. We accept things that were once scary, we understand things that were once strange, we admit that we don’t have it all together, we get off the relentless hamster wheel of the 21st century and look around for a minute or two.
If you looked at your audience-mates (you don’t have to – it’s way too scary and I’m not that touchy-feely!) you would see a fellow traveler on this unfolding journey. Beside you is a person who triumphs and struggles, just like you, with fears and joys that mirror your own. They may look different than yours, and the world outside might judge those differences as more significant than the similarities. We at CHIME know better. We know that this “better world” we’re imagining is about seeing a piece of ourselves in everyone. Charlotte Silberling knows that, as all CHIME kids do. They are guiding us toward that better world.
Lucky, lucky us.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Six Degrees of Separation
This weekend is the American Society of Cinematographers (ASC) Awards, where the ASC honors it’s own for their amazing ability to photography images. Several of the nominees are also friends of mine, people who I have gotten to know over the years working with them. Their images have made memorable impressions on anyone who has ever watched a movie, or a television show, or a commercial, and laughed or cried. They have the ability to make us feel what the storyteller is trying to tell.
Seven years ago, I was pregnant with my first child, working for a great company, and enjoying life. My husband and I lived in a beautiful little Spanish house in Hollywood Hills. One day, I came home from work and there was a letter in the mail. A letter telling me that I had been accepted as an associate member of the ASC. I was so excited. This was something I had always wanted, but never thought would happen. At last, I would be a part of this elite organization of artists. I shouted out to my husband, “I got accepted as an associate member of the ASC, can you believe it?” He looked at me and said, “Wow, you seem more excited about this than about being pregnant.” Without thinking I said, “But this is a lifetime membership, a lifetime commitment.” He looked at me funny and said, “So is having a child.” Hmmm…
As time went on, we had our child, Owen, and found out he had Down syndrome. To this day, I will never forget the support and love that I got from members of the ASC. As I began to deal with the diagnosis, I worked on hosting the first fundraiser for Down syndrome research (www.dsrtf.org). And guess who offered me the space to host it? The ASC (www.theasc.com). Their clubhouse, located in the heart of Hollywood, was the perfect venue for our fundraiser. The membership opened their arms to my cause. I remember Billy Fraker, ASC, five-time Oscar nominee (“Murphy’s Romance,” “War Games” and “Rosemary’s Baby” to name a few) always asking me how my son was doing after he was born. He never forgot to ask. And he generously supported our fundraiser. Then there is Owen Roizman, ASC (“Tootsie,” “The Exorcist,” “French Connection,” among others) a legendary cinematographer (our son was named after him), who never forgets to call me “mommy” and ask about his namesake. They all supported me in what was probably my darkest time.
As I get ready for the festivities tonight and tomorrow night, I think about how much crossover there is in my life. So many “degrees of separation.” And these relationships have been forged through my work, through the years of spending time with some of the greatest cinematographers. A few weeks ago, I ran into Ken Zunder, ASC, who shot “Judging Amy,” one of my favorite shows. (I breastfed my son with Down syndrome many nights watching reruns of “Judging Amy”). My husband and I visited the set years ago. Then, surprisingly, I saw Amy Brenneman (who played Amy) at a fundraiser for Chime Institute, which is a school for kids with disabilities. Her daughter attends the school. She wrote this amazing essay that captured it all completely about dealing with a child with a disability. When I saw Ken, he put me in touch with her assistant, who was able to ask Amy if she would share her essay. And her assistant, who has a niece with Down syndrome, was able to share it with me. So, tomorrow I will post Amy’s essay.
Seven years ago, I was pregnant with my first child, working for a great company, and enjoying life. My husband and I lived in a beautiful little Spanish house in Hollywood Hills. One day, I came home from work and there was a letter in the mail. A letter telling me that I had been accepted as an associate member of the ASC. I was so excited. This was something I had always wanted, but never thought would happen. At last, I would be a part of this elite organization of artists. I shouted out to my husband, “I got accepted as an associate member of the ASC, can you believe it?” He looked at me and said, “Wow, you seem more excited about this than about being pregnant.” Without thinking I said, “But this is a lifetime membership, a lifetime commitment.” He looked at me funny and said, “So is having a child.” Hmmm…
As time went on, we had our child, Owen, and found out he had Down syndrome. To this day, I will never forget the support and love that I got from members of the ASC. As I began to deal with the diagnosis, I worked on hosting the first fundraiser for Down syndrome research (www.dsrtf.org). And guess who offered me the space to host it? The ASC (www.theasc.com). Their clubhouse, located in the heart of Hollywood, was the perfect venue for our fundraiser. The membership opened their arms to my cause. I remember Billy Fraker, ASC, five-time Oscar nominee (“Murphy’s Romance,” “War Games” and “Rosemary’s Baby” to name a few) always asking me how my son was doing after he was born. He never forgot to ask. And he generously supported our fundraiser. Then there is Owen Roizman, ASC (“Tootsie,” “The Exorcist,” “French Connection,” among others) a legendary cinematographer (our son was named after him), who never forgets to call me “mommy” and ask about his namesake. They all supported me in what was probably my darkest time.
As I get ready for the festivities tonight and tomorrow night, I think about how much crossover there is in my life. So many “degrees of separation.” And these relationships have been forged through my work, through the years of spending time with some of the greatest cinematographers. A few weeks ago, I ran into Ken Zunder, ASC, who shot “Judging Amy,” one of my favorite shows. (I breastfed my son with Down syndrome many nights watching reruns of “Judging Amy”). My husband and I visited the set years ago. Then, surprisingly, I saw Amy Brenneman (who played Amy) at a fundraiser for Chime Institute, which is a school for kids with disabilities. Her daughter attends the school. She wrote this amazing essay that captured it all completely about dealing with a child with a disability. When I saw Ken, he put me in touch with her assistant, who was able to ask Amy if she would share her essay. And her assistant, who has a niece with Down syndrome, was able to share it with me. So, tomorrow I will post Amy’s essay.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Kiss and Make Up
After the emotional drama of the other night, I got up the next morning not knowing what to expect. Tess had crept into our bed in the middle of the night, and when I woke up, she looked at me with one eye, not sure what my mood was. It's amazing how intuitive she is for a just-turned-four-year-old. I smiled and kissed her and she smiled back.
Going into Owen's room, I gently patted his back, "Come on, buddy, it's time to get up." He pulled the covers over his head. "I don't want to go to school," he said. Now, this is a kid who asks every night if he is going to school again tomorrow, he loves it that much. Not so today. That was when I knew that he totally understood what happened last night. The memory of it all had probably seeped into his dreams and woven itself around the lingering edges of sleep. I tried again. "Come on, Owen, it's school today. You get to ride the bus." He reluctantly pulled the covers back. I got him up and he got dressed. Tess came slowly down the hallway to his room. "Kiss and make up, you two," I said, and held my breath. Owen would not look at Tess, his eyes remained cast down. Tess went over to Owen, knelt down and said, "Good morning, Owen. Can I have a hug?" Owen raised his face and the hint of a smile was there. Then he opened his arms and they both fell the floor, hugging for a long time. Slowly I breathed out. The crisis was over.
That day, when I came home from work, I noticed something different. Tess was very attentive to Owen, and Owen was so happy to bask in the glow of her attention. She asked him to play a game, then showed him how she wanted to play it. They followed each other around, more so than I usual. I was so proud of Tess for taking the lead this time. This was her way of making it up to Owen. And Owen was happy.
I know I can't keep the hurt away from my children, and I know this is how they will learn, and grow. Sometimes it is the pain that teaches us the lesson and the healing that allows us to go on. I am not so afraid for Owen anymore, because I know that he will adjust. And he understands, that is what hit me the most. So often, people want to label kids with Down syndrome as slow, or retarded, and they are not. We dismiss their ability to embrace a wide range of emotions, not just happiness. How many times have I heard that "they are such happy kids"? I took something away from that experience. I learned that my son will experience as much of life as everyone else. He won't be president, or a rocket scientist, or cure cancer, but he will have a good life. And, as Henry David Thoreau said, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."
Going into Owen's room, I gently patted his back, "Come on, buddy, it's time to get up." He pulled the covers over his head. "I don't want to go to school," he said. Now, this is a kid who asks every night if he is going to school again tomorrow, he loves it that much. Not so today. That was when I knew that he totally understood what happened last night. The memory of it all had probably seeped into his dreams and woven itself around the lingering edges of sleep. I tried again. "Come on, Owen, it's school today. You get to ride the bus." He reluctantly pulled the covers back. I got him up and he got dressed. Tess came slowly down the hallway to his room. "Kiss and make up, you two," I said, and held my breath. Owen would not look at Tess, his eyes remained cast down. Tess went over to Owen, knelt down and said, "Good morning, Owen. Can I have a hug?" Owen raised his face and the hint of a smile was there. Then he opened his arms and they both fell the floor, hugging for a long time. Slowly I breathed out. The crisis was over.
That day, when I came home from work, I noticed something different. Tess was very attentive to Owen, and Owen was so happy to bask in the glow of her attention. She asked him to play a game, then showed him how she wanted to play it. They followed each other around, more so than I usual. I was so proud of Tess for taking the lead this time. This was her way of making it up to Owen. And Owen was happy.
I know I can't keep the hurt away from my children, and I know this is how they will learn, and grow. Sometimes it is the pain that teaches us the lesson and the healing that allows us to go on. I am not so afraid for Owen anymore, because I know that he will adjust. And he understands, that is what hit me the most. So often, people want to label kids with Down syndrome as slow, or retarded, and they are not. We dismiss their ability to embrace a wide range of emotions, not just happiness. How many times have I heard that "they are such happy kids"? I took something away from that experience. I learned that my son will experience as much of life as everyone else. He won't be president, or a rocket scientist, or cure cancer, but he will have a good life. And, as Henry David Thoreau said, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."
Monday, February 22, 2010
Such Sweet Sorrow
Tonight, my heart hurt for my son, Owen. I didn't know how to make it better. For once, I hope having Down syndrome erases his memory of the pain tonight.
Here's what happened: he and Tess were playing and I told them we could play a game and see who could get their pajamas on faster. Of course, they thought this was the most fun thing, and they both started trying to get their clothes off and their pjs on. I figured it was going to be about even. I had to help both of them a little, and they were going at the same rate, until Owen just powered through putting his pants on (he even pushed my hands away when I tried to help turn them around) and he won, sitting down with this big smile on his face. Tess looked at him and said, "Owen won" and I congratulated him. He was so proud of himself. Until Tess started crying. "I wanted to win, I wanted to win," my 4-year-old said, while the smile on Owen's face disappeared. He looked down, then at Tess, then stood up and walked upstairs to go to bed. Meanwhile, her sobs got louder. I told Owen he had to go to the bathroom and put him on the toilet. He was silent, and sad. I could tell he sad, and bewildered, because he did what he thought he was supposed to, play the game to win. But she was crying so loudly at this point and there was nothing I could say or do. I felt horrible for Owen, and I was so angry at Tess.
I went downstairs to tell Tess to stop crying and when I came back upstairs, Owen was re-doing his pajamas, muttering "Tess can do it. See? I slower." He gets it. He knows he hurt her and that's all he cares about. My anger at Tess was palpable, but I decided getting Owen to bed would be the best thing. We brushed his teeth and he ran into his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He wouldn't even say goodnight to me, and I tried to give him a hug but he got out of bed and pushed me towards the door. "Go," he said. I went into Tess's room, so angry, but not sure what to do about it all. So I stonily watched as she brushed her teeth. She knew I was angry and went right into her bed, still crying a little. I always tell her a story, so I asked if she wanted on. "Yes," she said. So I started to tell her about a little girl named Tess who hurt her brother and how much he adored her. She still continued to cry a little and said, "But mommy, I wanted to win." I tried to explain that she can't always win but it wasn't getting through. Then, I heard Owen. He got up, came into Tess's room and gave me a hug, wordlessly. Without even glancing at Tess, he went back into his room and went to bed. My heart lurched. He was saying, "It's okay, mom, I love you, but I'm still hurt." So I asked Tess to look at me and tried to explain that Owen wasn't as smart as she was, and that his brain didn't work the same way and she had hurt him really bad. She still wouldn't budge. So I said goodnight and walked away. As I left the room, I heard her turn and say "goodnight Mommy" in this frighteningly small voice. Two kids who love each other so much but don't know how to cross that bridge to forgiveness. Owen adores Tess. It's clear. And Tess loves Owen, but she is smarter than him, and faster, and the leader, and can't understand why he won this time.
It makes me wonder: does Owen know so much more than us? How is it that all he wanted was for Tess to win so that she could be happy. He didn't care that he won, he would give it all back to make her happy. Isn't that what true love for one another is? Isn't that true unselfishness? To think that my son possesses something so rare, so wonderful. That is what children with Down syndrome are all about. That is why we need to treat them with respect, and care, and kindness.
Here's what happened: he and Tess were playing and I told them we could play a game and see who could get their pajamas on faster. Of course, they thought this was the most fun thing, and they both started trying to get their clothes off and their pjs on. I figured it was going to be about even. I had to help both of them a little, and they were going at the same rate, until Owen just powered through putting his pants on (he even pushed my hands away when I tried to help turn them around) and he won, sitting down with this big smile on his face. Tess looked at him and said, "Owen won" and I congratulated him. He was so proud of himself. Until Tess started crying. "I wanted to win, I wanted to win," my 4-year-old said, while the smile on Owen's face disappeared. He looked down, then at Tess, then stood up and walked upstairs to go to bed. Meanwhile, her sobs got louder. I told Owen he had to go to the bathroom and put him on the toilet. He was silent, and sad. I could tell he sad, and bewildered, because he did what he thought he was supposed to, play the game to win. But she was crying so loudly at this point and there was nothing I could say or do. I felt horrible for Owen, and I was so angry at Tess.
I went downstairs to tell Tess to stop crying and when I came back upstairs, Owen was re-doing his pajamas, muttering "Tess can do it. See? I slower." He gets it. He knows he hurt her and that's all he cares about. My anger at Tess was palpable, but I decided getting Owen to bed would be the best thing. We brushed his teeth and he ran into his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He wouldn't even say goodnight to me, and I tried to give him a hug but he got out of bed and pushed me towards the door. "Go," he said. I went into Tess's room, so angry, but not sure what to do about it all. So I stonily watched as she brushed her teeth. She knew I was angry and went right into her bed, still crying a little. I always tell her a story, so I asked if she wanted on. "Yes," she said. So I started to tell her about a little girl named Tess who hurt her brother and how much he adored her. She still continued to cry a little and said, "But mommy, I wanted to win." I tried to explain that she can't always win but it wasn't getting through. Then, I heard Owen. He got up, came into Tess's room and gave me a hug, wordlessly. Without even glancing at Tess, he went back into his room and went to bed. My heart lurched. He was saying, "It's okay, mom, I love you, but I'm still hurt." So I asked Tess to look at me and tried to explain that Owen wasn't as smart as she was, and that his brain didn't work the same way and she had hurt him really bad. She still wouldn't budge. So I said goodnight and walked away. As I left the room, I heard her turn and say "goodnight Mommy" in this frighteningly small voice. Two kids who love each other so much but don't know how to cross that bridge to forgiveness. Owen adores Tess. It's clear. And Tess loves Owen, but she is smarter than him, and faster, and the leader, and can't understand why he won this time.
It makes me wonder: does Owen know so much more than us? How is it that all he wanted was for Tess to win so that she could be happy. He didn't care that he won, he would give it all back to make her happy. Isn't that what true love for one another is? Isn't that true unselfishness? To think that my son possesses something so rare, so wonderful. That is what children with Down syndrome are all about. That is why we need to treat them with respect, and care, and kindness.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Growing Up So Fast
Owen is 6-1/2, going on 13. At least, that's how I feel. Is it normal that he is already acting like a teenager? In the morning, when it's time to get up for school, he rolls over and covers his head with his blanket. In the evening, he has been going into the toy room and slamming the door shut so he can watch his show by himself, in the dark. I love that he is acting like a normal kid, it secretly makes me happy. But it's sad, too. I see the seasons change so fast with my kids. I see how it was almost like no time has passed and suddenly they are older, and talking, and thinking, with their own personalities starting to flesh out. Owen is already up to my shoulders, and he is only six (most people with Down syndrome are shorter people, although it helps that my husband is almost seven feet tall). Tess is already expressing her views to me, trying out phrases like "that's so weird" and now locking the door to her room when she says "no boys allowed." How did it happen? How did Erik and I go from two people who fell in love and got married, to a couple with a new baby who was diagnosed with Down syndrome, to this world of a beautiful, growing, healthy family that is ours, all ours? How did we navigate those roads with each other and come out better for it? Because our family has made us better people. Owen's diagnosis has given us an innate strength we didn't know we had, an ability to relate and draw people in, and a vision of a life well-lived with no regrets.
The other day, I was coming back from the store with Tess and Owen and I asked Owen if he was cold. "No mom, I'm not cold. I'm fine," he said, and I smiled at the length of his sentences, the use of grammar, the ability to communicate. Oh, and did I mention he's only six? In comparison, Tess can talk up a storm and express herself, and even Axel (who hasn't turned two yet) can put sentences together and ask the who, what, where and why questions. But, for Owen, it is a gift. It will make all the difference in his world if he can communicate and people can understand him.
I am so lucky to have my three kids.
The other day, I was coming back from the store with Tess and Owen and I asked Owen if he was cold. "No mom, I'm not cold. I'm fine," he said, and I smiled at the length of his sentences, the use of grammar, the ability to communicate. Oh, and did I mention he's only six? In comparison, Tess can talk up a storm and express herself, and even Axel (who hasn't turned two yet) can put sentences together and ask the who, what, where and why questions. But, for Owen, it is a gift. It will make all the difference in his world if he can communicate and people can understand him.
I am so lucky to have my three kids.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Second Time Around
I finally took the plunge again and created another blog...it's amazing when you let something lapse, then it becomes obsolete. My first blog, "I Thought I Was Driving," was all about my first-born child, Owen, who was born with Down syndrome. He is everything I never thought he would be: funny, smart, cute, happy, sad and thoughtful. "I'm so proud of you, Mom," he said the other day, out of the blue, after I had just finished working out. He always knows what I need to hear at the right time.
So much time has passed since that first blog, and I find I miss the opportunity to write about my thoughts. So, here I go again!
And, One Extra Reason to Live...Love...Hope is the name of the fundraiser that I host for Down Syndrome Research and Treatment Foundation. We will be hosting our fifth annual charity event this year, and as of yet, I have no idea what it will be like. And I'm the chairperson!
So much time has passed since that first blog, and I find I miss the opportunity to write about my thoughts. So, here I go again!
And, One Extra Reason to Live...Love...Hope is the name of the fundraiser that I host for Down Syndrome Research and Treatment Foundation. We will be hosting our fifth annual charity event this year, and as of yet, I have no idea what it will be like. And I'm the chairperson!
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