Friday, November 14, 2003
Dead man walking
About once a month, I turn a corner on campus and see a ghost.
My stepdad David died in 1996, the fall after Adam and I were married. He and my mom got together when I was 14. They had a very volatile relationship, and we (Mom, Jesse and I) moved out a couple times a year, after some big fight. We'd go live with my grandparents or crash on someone's couch or floor, and then they'd make up and we'd move back.
But even when Mom and David were fighting, he and I stayed close. Now that he's gone, it's easy for me to see him as this decent father figure. The truth is far from that. He and my mom lived a life that children should've never been a part of, but Jesse and I were thrust in the middle of it. Then and now, though, I didn't blame him. Even though I called him Dad, he wasn't my actual parent, Mom was. It was much more her responsibility to keep us out of that lifestyle than it was his. He lived the same life he'd had before he gained a family.
And because I met him in the midst of those angst-ridden teenage years, when the best of mother/daughter relationships are hard, I clung to him. As bad as things got -- and they got really, really bad -- he was there for me, in his way. He taught me it was OK to trust. He was my mom's third husband -- and both my dad and her second husband had hurt me, badly. He was the Dad that guys had to say good night to when they picked me up. He saw me off to the prom. He sent me a silly foam-and-flower monstrosity -- at school, no less -- to tease me when I started dating someone whose nickname was "Fish." He'd give us our Christmas gifts days or weeks early, because he was just too excited about our reaction to wait.
David was diagnosed with diabetes as a teenager, and he'd never taken care of himself. He'd had a number of surgeries to remove bones from his feet by the time I met him and had these cool black combat boots with special foam inserts. He was taking insulin multiple times a day. Managing a bar (that I lived next door to on and off through high school) meant that he lived on Cokes, candy bars and chips. And that wasn't nearly as bad for him as the habitual drug use.
In the six years I knew him, he was in and out of hospitals. Doctors told me more than once that there was no way he'd live through this bout, but he did (and I'd show up to stay with him only to find him missing -- he'd hobbled across the street for fast food). I went with him to physical therapy twice a week, where doctors would debride the ulcers on his feet. And at home, I'd do it for him. My first "real" job was at a cafeteria across the street from where he had dialysis, because I was guaranteed to have a ride up there twice a week.
He'd been this stereotypical biker guy -- huge, long hair and beard, giant tattoo, intimidating. By the time Adam met him, he was legally blind. He was completely dependent on dialysis; a kidney donated by his sister wasn't enough to keep him off the machine. He had repeated surgeries to save part of his feet, but ended up in a wheelchair, with one leg amputated from the knee down. He was a tiny, empty shell of who he once was.
Oddly enough, his death was unexpected. Adam and I had just returned from a summer in Seattle, and I hadn't seen him in the few weeks we'd been back. My mom called me at work to tell me David was in the hospital. He'd been healthy -- or at least his version of it -- but they thought he'd gotten a spider bite. She'd watched it all weekend, and the spot seemed to be getting worse, and his breathing was labored. They'd taken him in, and she thought I should come to Oklahoma City.
By the time I got there, he'd died. It wasn't a bite; he was septic, and the spot was where the infection had caused a sore, trying to escape from his body. His organs just stopped, one after another.
We'd had some really, really bad times since I went away to college, mostly because I got involved in the crises between him and Mom. By the time he died, we weren't that close anymore. I had turned away from the life they lived, but still felt responsibility toward Mom and Jesse. But David was the only man I ever thought of as my father. I gave the eulogy at his funeral.
Adam and I left Oklahoma three months after David died. I'd have a bad day at work or see some strange New Mexcio thing that made me laugh, and I'd pick up the phone to call David before I remembered. A couple of years later, we'd returned to the state and I worked on campus. A bus passed by, and as I glanced up, I saw David staring at me, through the window.
The bus came to a rest a dozen feet away at a stop, and I hurried over to it to look in. And there he was. Some strange guy who looked so much like David -- David as I'd met him-- it took my breath away. He had the hair (bald on top, long in back), the weird, black-framed '50s nerd glasses, the huge build and belly. His clothes didn't quite match. The only thing that wasn't right was that he was carrying books and on campus.
Every few weeks, I notice the guy. I'm sure he thinks I stare because, admittedly, he's a little odd, not your average student. He's probably used to stares.
I saw him on the Oval yesterday, and I wandered along beside him for a few minutes, glancing over every chance I got. He just makes me smile.
My stepdad David died in 1996, the fall after Adam and I were married. He and my mom got together when I was 14. They had a very volatile relationship, and we (Mom, Jesse and I) moved out a couple times a year, after some big fight. We'd go live with my grandparents or crash on someone's couch or floor, and then they'd make up and we'd move back.
But even when Mom and David were fighting, he and I stayed close. Now that he's gone, it's easy for me to see him as this decent father figure. The truth is far from that. He and my mom lived a life that children should've never been a part of, but Jesse and I were thrust in the middle of it. Then and now, though, I didn't blame him. Even though I called him Dad, he wasn't my actual parent, Mom was. It was much more her responsibility to keep us out of that lifestyle than it was his. He lived the same life he'd had before he gained a family.
And because I met him in the midst of those angst-ridden teenage years, when the best of mother/daughter relationships are hard, I clung to him. As bad as things got -- and they got really, really bad -- he was there for me, in his way. He taught me it was OK to trust. He was my mom's third husband -- and both my dad and her second husband had hurt me, badly. He was the Dad that guys had to say good night to when they picked me up. He saw me off to the prom. He sent me a silly foam-and-flower monstrosity -- at school, no less -- to tease me when I started dating someone whose nickname was "Fish." He'd give us our Christmas gifts days or weeks early, because he was just too excited about our reaction to wait.
David was diagnosed with diabetes as a teenager, and he'd never taken care of himself. He'd had a number of surgeries to remove bones from his feet by the time I met him and had these cool black combat boots with special foam inserts. He was taking insulin multiple times a day. Managing a bar (that I lived next door to on and off through high school) meant that he lived on Cokes, candy bars and chips. And that wasn't nearly as bad for him as the habitual drug use.
In the six years I knew him, he was in and out of hospitals. Doctors told me more than once that there was no way he'd live through this bout, but he did (and I'd show up to stay with him only to find him missing -- he'd hobbled across the street for fast food). I went with him to physical therapy twice a week, where doctors would debride the ulcers on his feet. And at home, I'd do it for him. My first "real" job was at a cafeteria across the street from where he had dialysis, because I was guaranteed to have a ride up there twice a week.
He'd been this stereotypical biker guy -- huge, long hair and beard, giant tattoo, intimidating. By the time Adam met him, he was legally blind. He was completely dependent on dialysis; a kidney donated by his sister wasn't enough to keep him off the machine. He had repeated surgeries to save part of his feet, but ended up in a wheelchair, with one leg amputated from the knee down. He was a tiny, empty shell of who he once was.
Oddly enough, his death was unexpected. Adam and I had just returned from a summer in Seattle, and I hadn't seen him in the few weeks we'd been back. My mom called me at work to tell me David was in the hospital. He'd been healthy -- or at least his version of it -- but they thought he'd gotten a spider bite. She'd watched it all weekend, and the spot seemed to be getting worse, and his breathing was labored. They'd taken him in, and she thought I should come to Oklahoma City.
By the time I got there, he'd died. It wasn't a bite; he was septic, and the spot was where the infection had caused a sore, trying to escape from his body. His organs just stopped, one after another.
We'd had some really, really bad times since I went away to college, mostly because I got involved in the crises between him and Mom. By the time he died, we weren't that close anymore. I had turned away from the life they lived, but still felt responsibility toward Mom and Jesse. But David was the only man I ever thought of as my father. I gave the eulogy at his funeral.
Adam and I left Oklahoma three months after David died. I'd have a bad day at work or see some strange New Mexcio thing that made me laugh, and I'd pick up the phone to call David before I remembered. A couple of years later, we'd returned to the state and I worked on campus. A bus passed by, and as I glanced up, I saw David staring at me, through the window.
The bus came to a rest a dozen feet away at a stop, and I hurried over to it to look in. And there he was. Some strange guy who looked so much like David -- David as I'd met him-- it took my breath away. He had the hair (bald on top, long in back), the weird, black-framed '50s nerd glasses, the huge build and belly. His clothes didn't quite match. The only thing that wasn't right was that he was carrying books and on campus.
Every few weeks, I notice the guy. I'm sure he thinks I stare because, admittedly, he's a little odd, not your average student. He's probably used to stares.
I saw him on the Oval yesterday, and I wandered along beside him for a few minutes, glancing over every chance I got. He just makes me smile.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Seen and heard
Seen:
There's a table set up in OU's Union of "Students for Howard Dean." Good for those kids, being politically active and all. There must be a marketing student in their bunch, too. They have a basket of goodies with a sign saying, "Dean's for candy."
Heard:
Overheard walking back from above Union trip:
Girl: ... so nice to me.
Guy: So he can talk to you? So what? How hard is that?
Girl: Before we started dating, he was such a good friend.
Guy: mumbles disagreement
Gap in which I've walked too fast to continue eavesdropping. Is the guy "just a friend" who's trying to woo her away? I slow down a few steps.
Girl: But now, he's being kind of a turd.
Here's your opening, guy!
Guy: Has he only been a turd for one day or ...
And then they're in the building and up the stairs, and my curiosity isn't sated. Guess I'll just have to wait until the next clueless person has a cell phone conversation right outside my OPEN office door -- about porn, a fight with her boyfriend or tries to talk his way out of credit card debit. And there was that guy who couldn't stop circling the pay phone just down the hall yesterday. And the one a couple of weeks ago who came by about five times to ask for a piece of candy from the bowl on my desk, taking four or five each time. Ah, the joys of working in the basement.
There's a table set up in OU's Union of "Students for Howard Dean." Good for those kids, being politically active and all. There must be a marketing student in their bunch, too. They have a basket of goodies with a sign saying, "Dean's for candy."
Heard:
Overheard walking back from above Union trip:
Girl: ... so nice to me.
Guy: So he can talk to you? So what? How hard is that?
Girl: Before we started dating, he was such a good friend.
Guy: mumbles disagreement
Gap in which I've walked too fast to continue eavesdropping. Is the guy "just a friend" who's trying to woo her away? I slow down a few steps.
Girl: But now, he's being kind of a turd.
Here's your opening, guy!
Guy: Has he only been a turd for one day or ...
And then they're in the building and up the stairs, and my curiosity isn't sated. Guess I'll just have to wait until the next clueless person has a cell phone conversation right outside my OPEN office door -- about porn, a fight with her boyfriend or tries to talk his way out of credit card debit. And there was that guy who couldn't stop circling the pay phone just down the hall yesterday. And the one a couple of weeks ago who came by about five times to ask for a piece of candy from the bowl on my desk, taking four or five each time. Ah, the joys of working in the basement.
Crafting time
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Must-see TV
With last night's series end of Playmakers, Adam and I are down to only two nights a week of dedicated TV watching. We watch Angel and West Wing on Wednesday nights and part of NBC's Thursday lineup (Friends, Scrubs and ER).
Granted, when one of our HBO Sunday shows rolls back around (Six Feet Under, Sopranos, Sex and the City, in order of preference), we'll watch that, too. But for now, I'm pretty proud that I only watch four hours of TV a week. (And let's not count being in the same room with The Wiggles or Dora on as watching.)
I very rarely turn on the TV if I'm not watching something in particular. Adam's more likely to turn it on and flip for something, but not much when I'm home. I've finally convinced him that you can read or be online without the TV on in the background. It wasn't easy.
Speaking of background ... sports is about the only "adult programming" we'll have on when Em's awake. Anything that comes on before she goes down, we tape (and boy would TiVo make that process easier). But we are very dedicated about what we do watch -- having a 2-year-old and an active social life means we have to make an effort. We don't just plop down in front of the TV at 8. We take it a little seriously, sadly.
We're very careful about what and how much she watches, too. She watches a little of a Playhouse Disney show (these days, it's Jo-Jo's Circus) in the mornings while I'm getting ready for work and Adam's getting started. Emma might watch half an hour or so at daycare, something we've discussed a lot with Toni, her provider. She's been wonderful about listening to our concerns. And then Em sometimes will watch half an hour more, on tape or DVD, in the afternoons post-nap, while Adam's working and I'm not yet home. Usually Dora, the Wiggles, Blue's Clues or a Sesame vid. She still occasionally asks for Baby Einstein, too. When she's not at daycare, she's allowed one half hour in the morning and one in the afternoon, and that's it.
I worry that we're too strict with it. And I feel a little like a hypocrite when I'm rushing to get her in bed on Thursdays so I can start watching our taped Friends and pick up ER "live" at 9. (I also feel like a hypocrite for limiting her Halloween candy intake while eating mini-Twix behind her back, but that's a different story.)
I can see the value in TV. And it does offer me a lot of entertainment. But I'm scared of being a slave to it -- and even more scared of Emma becoming one. I used to work on a newspaper copy desk with a guy who was very, very proud of the fact that he didn't own a TV. Very snotty about it. And I don't want to become that guy, either.
Granted, when one of our HBO Sunday shows rolls back around (Six Feet Under, Sopranos, Sex and the City, in order of preference), we'll watch that, too. But for now, I'm pretty proud that I only watch four hours of TV a week. (And let's not count being in the same room with The Wiggles or Dora on as watching.)
I very rarely turn on the TV if I'm not watching something in particular. Adam's more likely to turn it on and flip for something, but not much when I'm home. I've finally convinced him that you can read or be online without the TV on in the background. It wasn't easy.
Speaking of background ... sports is about the only "adult programming" we'll have on when Em's awake. Anything that comes on before she goes down, we tape (and boy would TiVo make that process easier). But we are very dedicated about what we do watch -- having a 2-year-old and an active social life means we have to make an effort. We don't just plop down in front of the TV at 8. We take it a little seriously, sadly.
We're very careful about what and how much she watches, too. She watches a little of a Playhouse Disney show (these days, it's Jo-Jo's Circus) in the mornings while I'm getting ready for work and Adam's getting started. Emma might watch half an hour or so at daycare, something we've discussed a lot with Toni, her provider. She's been wonderful about listening to our concerns. And then Em sometimes will watch half an hour more, on tape or DVD, in the afternoons post-nap, while Adam's working and I'm not yet home. Usually Dora, the Wiggles, Blue's Clues or a Sesame vid. She still occasionally asks for Baby Einstein, too. When she's not at daycare, she's allowed one half hour in the morning and one in the afternoon, and that's it.
I worry that we're too strict with it. And I feel a little like a hypocrite when I'm rushing to get her in bed on Thursdays so I can start watching our taped Friends and pick up ER "live" at 9. (I also feel like a hypocrite for limiting her Halloween candy intake while eating mini-Twix behind her back, but that's a different story.)
I can see the value in TV. And it does offer me a lot of entertainment. But I'm scared of being a slave to it -- and even more scared of Emma becoming one. I used to work on a newspaper copy desk with a guy who was very, very proud of the fact that he didn't own a TV. Very snotty about it. And I don't want to become that guy, either.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Random blog lady
So, this weekend, I got my first "I was just discovered your blog" from someone to whom I had absolutely no connection.
Well, that's not true. She found a number of connections. Or actually, her boyfriend found me by randomingly clicking on the "recently updated" page on Blogger, and it was just as I'd posted about Bedlam. Given that he's an OSU student, I'm impressed that he kept reading.
But he came back later, after posting about finding another Oklahoma blogger, and read about my conversion. Another connection, because he's in an interfaith relationship -- he's Jewish, she's Baptist.
Anyway, his girlfriend emailed me, asking me some questions about becoming a Jew, advice from someone whose been there, etc. We've traded a few emails. It's a little funny how small the web world is.
Reading about myself on both his blog and hers amused me. They called me "the random blog lady" and made it sound like I must be 100 years old or something. Which made me realize, if you're reading and don't know me, you might think I am.
A long intro to tell you I'm going to do an "about me" post. Because I'm on the free-is-good version of Blogspot, I can't set up additional pages. So I'll just post it here and set up a link to it in my sidebar. I'm not attaching it to this so if you want to know about me in a few months, you won't have to read this damn long explanation of why I wrote it.
Well, that's not true. She found a number of connections. Or actually, her boyfriend found me by randomingly clicking on the "recently updated" page on Blogger, and it was just as I'd posted about Bedlam. Given that he's an OSU student, I'm impressed that he kept reading.
But he came back later, after posting about finding another Oklahoma blogger, and read about my conversion. Another connection, because he's in an interfaith relationship -- he's Jewish, she's Baptist.
Anyway, his girlfriend emailed me, asking me some questions about becoming a Jew, advice from someone whose been there, etc. We've traded a few emails. It's a little funny how small the web world is.
Reading about myself on both his blog and hers amused me. They called me "the random blog lady" and made it sound like I must be 100 years old or something. Which made me realize, if you're reading and don't know me, you might think I am.
A long intro to tell you I'm going to do an "about me" post. Because I'm on the free-is-good version of Blogspot, I can't set up additional pages. So I'll just post it here and set up a link to it in my sidebar. I'm not attaching it to this so if you want to know about me in a few months, you won't have to read this damn long explanation of why I wrote it.
About me
I was born in Pauls Valley, Okla., 29 years ago. Graduated from high school in McLoud 17 years later. Moved a lot in between, mostly in central Oklahoma, but also to California and back five times in four years. I went to about 10 different elementary schools.
I stayed in McLoud from the middle of eighth grade until graduation, though. It's not that we didn't move, we just (mostly) stayed in or near district.
McLoud is a hole. I graduated with about 120 people, but the town itself is smaller than that implies. Kids are bused from the surrounding rural areas -- sometimes 45 minutes or more -- to go to school there. My typical "it's so small" comment is that it doesn't have a red light, just a blinking yellow outside town. Somehow, though, there are teachers who stick it out, despite the fact that in my four years there, two of our most popular kids shot a convenience store clerk and beat him to death with a coke bottle. A kid got stabbed in the leg at a party right across from the school, and he lay there and bled to death before anyone did anything. We had the highest per capita pregnancy rate in the state. Our principal went to jail for child molestation (though not a student). Our superintendent was ran out of office after an embezzlement scandal. Nice, no?
Still, though, some very dedicated teachers helped me to succeed, even when I'd decided falling into the life my parents led was easier. I went to OU on a journalism scholarship. I probably would've ended up in writing/English/communications anyway, but the fact that the school was offering to pay for my education made the decision easy. I worked my way through college, including a couple of years in various positions at The Oklahoma Daily. I met my husband there; I was his boss. It's worked out well for us.
We got married a semester before we graduated, and spent our "honeymoon" summer in squalid student housing near UW, while I worked for The Seattle Times and Adam started out in PR. We came back to OU for one last semester, graduated and moved to Albuquerque. I worked for The Trib while Adam did PR. Funny, now, because he's in online news and I'm into the whole publc relations thing.
We moved back to Oklahoma for a great opportunity for him at OU. I did a couple of different things before making the switch into PR; we'd originally left the state because there wasn't a newspaper I wanted to work for. I ended up taking a PR job for an area at the university, and it's the job of a lifetime. Adam's since left for the world of the virtual newsroom. And one house, two cars, a dog and a kid later, here we are.
We love Norman. It's a great place to raise Emma and put down roots. I think we're here for the long haul.
Obviously, there's a lot more I could say -- about my childhood, growing up poor white trash. About my amazing marriage. About my brilliant daughter. But it'll all come out in the blog, I'm sure. And more interesting that way, I bet.
I stayed in McLoud from the middle of eighth grade until graduation, though. It's not that we didn't move, we just (mostly) stayed in or near district.
McLoud is a hole. I graduated with about 120 people, but the town itself is smaller than that implies. Kids are bused from the surrounding rural areas -- sometimes 45 minutes or more -- to go to school there. My typical "it's so small" comment is that it doesn't have a red light, just a blinking yellow outside town. Somehow, though, there are teachers who stick it out, despite the fact that in my four years there, two of our most popular kids shot a convenience store clerk and beat him to death with a coke bottle. A kid got stabbed in the leg at a party right across from the school, and he lay there and bled to death before anyone did anything. We had the highest per capita pregnancy rate in the state. Our principal went to jail for child molestation (though not a student). Our superintendent was ran out of office after an embezzlement scandal. Nice, no?
Still, though, some very dedicated teachers helped me to succeed, even when I'd decided falling into the life my parents led was easier. I went to OU on a journalism scholarship. I probably would've ended up in writing/English/communications anyway, but the fact that the school was offering to pay for my education made the decision easy. I worked my way through college, including a couple of years in various positions at The Oklahoma Daily. I met my husband there; I was his boss. It's worked out well for us.
We got married a semester before we graduated, and spent our "honeymoon" summer in squalid student housing near UW, while I worked for The Seattle Times and Adam started out in PR. We came back to OU for one last semester, graduated and moved to Albuquerque. I worked for The Trib while Adam did PR. Funny, now, because he's in online news and I'm into the whole publc relations thing.
We moved back to Oklahoma for a great opportunity for him at OU. I did a couple of different things before making the switch into PR; we'd originally left the state because there wasn't a newspaper I wanted to work for. I ended up taking a PR job for an area at the university, and it's the job of a lifetime. Adam's since left for the world of the virtual newsroom. And one house, two cars, a dog and a kid later, here we are.
We love Norman. It's a great place to raise Emma and put down roots. I think we're here for the long haul.
Obviously, there's a lot more I could say -- about my childhood, growing up poor white trash. About my amazing marriage. About my brilliant daughter. But it'll all come out in the blog, I'm sure. And more interesting that way, I bet.
DotMoms Rx
Lupica love
I've alluded to it here before: I love Mike Lupica. Don't ask me why I have such a crush on him, because it doesn't make much sense. But I get very tickled when he gets so worked up on The Sports Reporters that he can't speak. His sputtering is just very endearing, I guess.
We missed Sunday's edition of the show, so I didn't seem him lambasting Stoops and our boys.
I hate to criticize him too much without having heard exactly what he said. But we didn't run up the score. No points were scored in the fourth quarter; OU took a knee with half of the quarter left. Jason White came out at halftime, for god's sake.
The Sooners are just a really good team. And to call them "graceless" isn't fair. Has he read anything about Stoops? About how his staff all values family first? About how no one has anything bad to say about the man?
When I was editor of The Oklahoma Daily in college, Howard Schnellenberger was coach. Oooh, the magic of the Sooner Nation. Players passing out after two-a-days with no water. Howie red-nosed on the sidelines, with wife Beverly wearing a gold-and-diamond helmet pendant almost as big as an actual helmet. Really. Fighting with my sports desk to return whiskey they'd been given by the coaching staff -- another story entirely. Trust me, we've seen graceless.
I'm not going to give up on Lupica just yet. I kept reading his fiction, even after Full Court Press, which was pretty bad. And that quick Amazon search reveals that he has a couple out I haven't read. I'll likely find those ... but not carry them around Norman.
We missed Sunday's edition of the show, so I didn't seem him lambasting Stoops and our boys.
I hate to criticize him too much without having heard exactly what he said. But we didn't run up the score. No points were scored in the fourth quarter; OU took a knee with half of the quarter left. Jason White came out at halftime, for god's sake.
The Sooners are just a really good team. And to call them "graceless" isn't fair. Has he read anything about Stoops? About how his staff all values family first? About how no one has anything bad to say about the man?
When I was editor of The Oklahoma Daily in college, Howard Schnellenberger was coach. Oooh, the magic of the Sooner Nation. Players passing out after two-a-days with no water. Howie red-nosed on the sidelines, with wife Beverly wearing a gold-and-diamond helmet pendant almost as big as an actual helmet. Really. Fighting with my sports desk to return whiskey they'd been given by the coaching staff -- another story entirely. Trust me, we've seen graceless.
I'm not going to give up on Lupica just yet. I kept reading his fiction, even after Full Court Press, which was pretty bad. And that quick Amazon search reveals that he has a couple out I haven't read. I'll likely find those ... but not carry them around Norman.
Monday, November 10, 2003
Rice and peanuts
A huge package arrived on our front porch today. I knew it wasn't for Emma; it was baby gifts for a friend whose shower I'm hosting soon. Emma loves to get mail, so I explained as soon as she saw the box that it contained presents for the baby.
"Can we open it?"
"Sure, we can open the box, but the presents will be wrapped. We can't open them."
We open it up, and it's full of styrofoam peanuts.
"Ewww, the baby can't have those!" Emma exclaimed.
We were on our way out the door when the mail was delivered, and Emma was begging to play with the peanuts as we left. I'm trying to fend her off, and Adam says, "You know what, Emma? When you get home, you can dump all of those out and play with them."
Me: "What? Do you know what a mess that will make? You'll have to clean them up."
Adam: "OK, sure."
When we get to the car, Adam asks if I read Salon today. No, I hadn't. "You should the Life piece later. You'll know why I told her it was OK."
So, I just read it. And now I know. And it reminds me of what a good father he is.
"Can we open it?"
"Sure, we can open the box, but the presents will be wrapped. We can't open them."
We open it up, and it's full of styrofoam peanuts.
"Ewww, the baby can't have those!" Emma exclaimed.
We were on our way out the door when the mail was delivered, and Emma was begging to play with the peanuts as we left. I'm trying to fend her off, and Adam says, "You know what, Emma? When you get home, you can dump all of those out and play with them."
Me: "What? Do you know what a mess that will make? You'll have to clean them up."
Adam: "OK, sure."
When we get to the car, Adam asks if I read Salon today. No, I hadn't. "You should the Life piece later. You'll know why I told her it was OK."
So, I just read it. And now I know. And it reminds me of what a good father he is.
Jewish Little People
One of my biggest concerns about raising Emma is bringing up a Jew in Oklahoma. Granted, we live in Norman, a college town. And as such, it's more educated, more tolerant, and, perhaps most importantly, more diverse than the rest of the state. (It's also 40 minutes away from our temple in OKC.)
Maybe as a convert, these fears are more strong for me. Adam grew up in Phoenix, which does have a fairly large Jewish population. He may literally be the first Jew I, a native Oklahoman, ever knew. In grade school for him, there were occasionally kids he knew from temple in class. And though the general population still assumed he was Christian, I'm sure, he had access to kosher-for-Passover food, Hanukkah wrapping paper and Rosh Hashanah books. (Or, at least, my mother-in-law did!)
Emma and I are flying to Phoenix to visit her on Christmas Day (or the seventh night of Hanukkah, whichever way you prefer to mark it). Bryan, my brother-in-law, has been coming up with witty replies for Em to use every time someone in the airport says "Merry Christmas." (His favorite involves her carrying a lump of coal in a sack.) I used to be really bothered every time someone assumed I celebrated Christmas. It doesn't bother me quite as much now; I'm used to it.
But what about Emma? We've been talking a lot about the Christmas decorations in the stores, and how some people celebrate that holiday and others celebrate Hanukkah. We had this same talk last year, but she really didn't get it then. (And I just responded "Uh-huh!" when Emma pointed out the abundance of bunnies and eggs this spring.)
We can't even find a kids' Bible for her. Our local Borders and Barnes and Noble have every version you can imagine -- the Children's Catholic Bible, My First Womyn's Bible -- but no children's Torah. I've found ONE book of "Jewish Bible stories" (read: the Old Testament), so we own that. I hit the library in late September, hoping to find a book that would help me explain the high holidays to her. No go. The only one that even mentioned Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur was published in 1964 and wasn't exactly at her level.
She did get a gift in the mail this weekend from Grandma that made her day, though: The Little People Hanukkah set. I don't think she loves it because the family is celebrating Hanukkah; she's never known anything else. But the tiny menorah playing tinny songs thrills me, and the latkes on the plate make me smile. After she opened it, Emma danced around Grandma and Grandma and I waltzed Mom and Dad around the kitchen table, with Emma screeching, "Be careful, Mom! Don't spill the wine" (that Dad clutches in his wee hand). It was fun. The family has since rode around the house in a schoolbus, the dog and baby Clover (no idea where she got that one) have played soccer with a ball from a set of jacks, and they've all danced and dined and open gifts. Much like we will soon.
I know Emma will fare fine being different. And it's not that I'd have her be anything but a Jew. Of course not. But I wish I could make the world at large realize there is a minority out here. And I'm thankful that I have access to the Internet and all the Judaica I could want.
Maybe as a convert, these fears are more strong for me. Adam grew up in Phoenix, which does have a fairly large Jewish population. He may literally be the first Jew I, a native Oklahoman, ever knew. In grade school for him, there were occasionally kids he knew from temple in class. And though the general population still assumed he was Christian, I'm sure, he had access to kosher-for-Passover food, Hanukkah wrapping paper and Rosh Hashanah books. (Or, at least, my mother-in-law did!)
Emma and I are flying to Phoenix to visit her on Christmas Day (or the seventh night of Hanukkah, whichever way you prefer to mark it). Bryan, my brother-in-law, has been coming up with witty replies for Em to use every time someone in the airport says "Merry Christmas." (His favorite involves her carrying a lump of coal in a sack.) I used to be really bothered every time someone assumed I celebrated Christmas. It doesn't bother me quite as much now; I'm used to it.
But what about Emma? We've been talking a lot about the Christmas decorations in the stores, and how some people celebrate that holiday and others celebrate Hanukkah. We had this same talk last year, but she really didn't get it then. (And I just responded "Uh-huh!" when Emma pointed out the abundance of bunnies and eggs this spring.)
We can't even find a kids' Bible for her. Our local Borders and Barnes and Noble have every version you can imagine -- the Children's Catholic Bible, My First Womyn's Bible -- but no children's Torah. I've found ONE book of "Jewish Bible stories" (read: the Old Testament), so we own that. I hit the library in late September, hoping to find a book that would help me explain the high holidays to her. No go. The only one that even mentioned Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur was published in 1964 and wasn't exactly at her level.
She did get a gift in the mail this weekend from Grandma that made her day, though: The Little People Hanukkah set. I don't think she loves it because the family is celebrating Hanukkah; she's never known anything else. But the tiny menorah playing tinny songs thrills me, and the latkes on the plate make me smile. After she opened it, Emma danced around Grandma and Grandma and I waltzed Mom and Dad around the kitchen table, with Emma screeching, "Be careful, Mom! Don't spill the wine" (that Dad clutches in his wee hand). It was fun. The family has since rode around the house in a schoolbus, the dog and baby Clover (no idea where she got that one) have played soccer with a ball from a set of jacks, and they've all danced and dined and open gifts. Much like we will soon.
I know Emma will fare fine being different. And it's not that I'd have her be anything but a Jew. Of course not. But I wish I could make the world at large realize there is a minority out here. And I'm thankful that I have access to the Internet and all the Judaica I could want.
