Just Another Day In Paradise

My Mother’s Day wasn’t perfect. The weekend brought rain and snot. At one point, I found myself huddled in a car with a crying, snotty Baby Girl and a crying, cold Joseph, watching the soccer game that Joseph was supposed to be playing in (I kind of deserved this, since I had completely underestimated how cold it was—it is NOT supposed to be 35 degrees in May—and had forgotten to bring gloves or a hat for Joseph). I didn’t get to sleep in on Mother’s Day, as I’ve learned that me sleeping in only leads to a grumpy husband who didn’t get enough sleep, and then no-one is happy. So I got up with the kids, bright and early. I didn’t get the tulips I wanted, even though I sent my husband an e-mail that said, “FYI, I like tulips.” Apparently the message was too subtle. I changed my outfit twice before going to church and still had massive amounts of snot on my shirt when we arrived. We ate out at restaurant for lunch, but between a squirmy baby who had missed her nap and a hyper 5 year old who literally *jumped* out of his chair four times, I didn’t get to eat my food until it was cold. There was laundry to be done, a house to be cleaned, and dinner to be made. And nobody else volunteered to take over those duties.

So, my Mother’s Day wasn’t perfect. But I chose to love it anyway.

I chose to love it because I know full well that there are too many women who ache to be mothers and are struggling on their journey to get there. Woman who will spend Mother’s day trying desperately to forget that the one thing they want—to have a baby to snuggle and kiss and rock to sleep at night—seems to be only a distant dream that will never become a reality. Women who have lost babies who were part of them, if only for the briefest moment in time. I know this because I was one of those women. And so I chose to love the snot and the tears and the laundry and the chaos because they are part and parcel of this amazing gift called motherhood.

I chose to love it because my son has another mother, his Ethiopian first mother, who didn’t get to see him jump off of chairs today. As grateful as I am for the joy that this amazing little boy brings into my life and as much as it physically takes my breath away when I think about the prospect of not having him here, I will never forget that my joy comes at the expense of another mother’s loss. I wish I could reach out to his first mother to tell her that Joseph is safe, and he is happy, and he is loved. Oh, how he is loved. But I can’t. And so I chose to love the day and this boy and all his energy to honor the sacrifice his birthmother made. And I chose to love the day because I am heartbreakingly aware of how, with just the smallest twist of fate, I would not have had the chance to hug this little boy and watch him jump off chairs, and see him grow up before my eyes.

I chose to love it because, all over the world, there are mothers who can’t feed their children or keep them warm or keep them sheltered from the rain. On my Mother’s Day, I got to give my children food without thinking twice about how I would make this happen. I got to clothe them, and when they were cold, we got to snuggle in a car, protected from the rain. And when they were sick, I got to wipe their noses with a clean cloth and give them medicine to ease their pain and tuck them into warm beds. I got to give them warm bathes and clean clothes. I got to keep them safe. So I chose to love the day because I know how extraordinarily lucky I am to be able to give those gifts to my children and how many mothers would do anything to be able to do these simple things for theirs.

I chose to love the day anyway because behind the joys of motherhood, there is a sadness that always lingers in the shadows. I miss my mom. I miss her smile and oh, how I miss her voice. Her voice, the one that had the ability to make me feel safe and warm and loved all over. I miss that feeling, the one of complete and utter unconditional love that only a mom can evoke. I miss her profoundly and deeply and achingly. And yet the grief is bittersweet. The bitterness is obvious. The sweetness is the clarity that such a loss brings about the brevity of life. That clarity shapes my days. I chose to love the day because I truly understand, down to my very core, that these moments with my children are excruciatingly, breathtakingly brief.

I chose to love my Mother’s Day. Though it wasn't perfect, it was full of moments that were oh-so-sweet. I woke up to Joseph spontaneously shouting, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” with no one to remind him to do so (remember, my husband was still sleeping). My baby girl woke up and smiled at me with her two new teeth peeking out. My husband presented me with a Dairy Queen cake which I had also requested (okay, so truth be told, my e-mail actually read: “FYI I like tulips and Dairy Queen cake.” He just went for the cake part instead of the tulips part). I felt my mom’s presence in church. At dinner that night, Joseph insisted I get the first piece of cake and crawled over into my lap to give me a kiss. I got to hug my children and watch them play and to put them to bed with full bellies, clean pajamas, and warm blankets. My day wasn’t perfect. But it was more than I deserved. And it was more than enough.

Last One Standing: The Daycare Incident

It was one of those moments that would make any mother's heart stop. I'd just arrived at Baby Girl's daycare, excited to see her beautiful smile after a long day apart. Her teachers greeted me at the door to her room, looked down to watch Baby Girl toddle toward me as she always does, looked at me in confusion when they didn't see this happen, and then looked at each other. And then one of them uttered the words that I never, ever want to hear again: "Where's Baby Girl?"

As it so often does in moments like this, time slowed to a crawl and actions began to unfold in slow motion. I watched the teachers as they checked the coat nook, followed their line of gaze to the picture window that overlooked the toddler playground, felt their horror as it dawned on them that they had left her out there, alone. Then we all snapped into action, rushing out to the playground. And there she was, my sweet baby girl, standing next to the toddler slide where she had been playing contentedly. Unfazed by all the drama, she saw me, smiled, and toddled over to me with her arms stretched up to meet mine. I picked her up, and held her. For the longest time. I just held her.

She had been lost for fewer than thirty seconds. But it was thirty seconds in which I felt the most vulnerable I have ever felt as a mother. The terror I felt in those thirty seconds was the helpless kind where you suddenly understand, down to your very soul, that your whole world can be irrevocably snatched from you in an instant. Kind of like when you are in a near-miss car accident and suddenly you realize how vulnerable you are all the time, speeding along at sixty miles per hour, mere inches away from the other drivers who hold your life in their hands.

After I gathered her up and left, I called the director to let her know what had happened. Then I drove home and did the next logical thing:I posted my situation to Facebook and asked for advice. I say this partly in jest, but there is a a bit of truth here as well: my Facebook friends have gotten me out of many a prickly situation. Like the time I came home to a bird in my house, panicked because I had no idea how to remove said bird from my house, posted to Facebook, and was gently reminded that maybe I should open a window. Oh.

So I posted to Facebook. Basked in the communal sense of outrage. Read the varying suggestions about my next steps. Waited for the horrible, scared feeling to subside a bit (wine helped), and then sat back to ponder the situation.

To be fair, the rest of the children in the daycare room had just come in from outside. They were still taking their coats off. Baby Girl had only been alone for a minute and there's every possibility that the teachers would have realized she wasn't there in the next minute. In some respects, it was an issue of very bad timing: what are the chances that a parent would walk into the room at the exact moment a teacher had lost track of a child for a second? But there was also the haunting possibility that they wouldn't have realized their mistake, that she could have hurt herself, or been taken, or worse. And there was the simple, stark fact that a 14 month old should never be left on the playground alone. It should just never happen. Something went very wrong with a process that should have been in place to protect her.

There was a part of me that wanted to quit my job right then and there. To wrap her in my arms and hold her for the rest of her life. To protect her like a mother should. This anxiety I was feeling was not unknown to me; I had been in this place before. With all the losses that piled up prior to the arrival of my children, my life was a bundle of anxiety for a long time. My early days parenting Joseph were spent battling my overly active imagination that turned the smallest incident into something to be feared on a grand level. My pregnancy with Baby Girl was marked by the omnipresent feeling that something was going to go wrong (and not just in the normal "pregnancy is a bit anxiety-provoking' kind of way; more in the "I just woke my husband up at 2 am for the third night in a row, sobbing hysterically because I am convinced that I am going to die of the Swine Flu" kind of way). It's only recently that I've been able to trust in life again; to believe that I could sink into all this goodness and enjoy it without constantly worrying about the various ways it could be taken away from me.

So yes, there was a large part of me that wanted to pull her out of daycare completely. To take care of her myself and keep bad things from happening. But beyond the obvious financial and emotional ramifications of such a drastic choice, there was another a major problem with that logic: I'm not perfect either. Oh, I like to think I am. I like to believe that as long as my children are in my care, they are magically protected from harm. But in my heart of hearts, I know that this illusion of control is just that: an illusion. I'll be honest and admit that there have been many times when I've messed up and my children have gotten hurt or at least nearly so. I've bumped their heads on doorways, been too careless with my driving while they are the car, watched helplessly as they've fallen off ladders. And then there was the little incident that involved me bumping an axe off the wall of my garage and watching it miss my sweet baby boy's head by a fraction of an inch. Yeah, I'm not perfect. I can't protect my children from all harm, no matter how hard I try. None of us can.

If pulling her out of daycare wasn't an option, the next solution would be to switch daycares, immediately. This was a thought I entertained more thoroughly. It was a common suggestion to my dilemma on Facebook and I'm guessing it's the thing that most parents would recommend given the situation at hand. It's highly logical move. But. Baby Girl was happy at her daycare. Switching daycares with a 14 month old is not an endeavor to be taken lightly. She'd have to start the process of acclimating to a new environment and new teachers all over. This in and of itself is not reason enough to preclude a switch, but it's certainly a tally in the column of staying. Further, this daycare came with high recommendations from many people of varying backgrounds. In the world of daycares, it was one of the best. If something like this could happen there, it could happen anywhere. Switching daycares might feel good, but there would still be no guarantees that my daughter would be safe. The raw, hard truth is that anything can happen, anytime and anyplace. Life is fragile. There are no guarantees.

So I didn't switch daycares immediately. Instead, I talked to the director and the teachers and watched carefully for defensiveness in their responses. There was none. There was only contrition. And I questioned their processes. They had already recognized their error and had taken steps to fix it.

After all the talking, I chose to believe that it was a one time, fluke mistake that did not speak to the quality of the daycare as a whole. One of my Facebook friends commented that this was a compassionate response. To a degree, this is true. I do find it relatively easy to put myself in other people's shoes and I do seem to have an innate understanding that we are all flawed humans doing the best we can in a messy world (see above axe incident for proof of my own flawed humanity). But I think that it was more than a compassionate response: it was probably, in large part, a self protective response. I have to believe that it was a fluke mistake. Because if I start believing the inverse, if I return to imagining all the scenarios in which I could lose my children, if I spend all my time trying to do everything I can to protect them from any possible harm, I will not only go a little bit crazy, but I will lose the opportunity to live and enjoy the life that is right in front of me.

Don't get me wrong: I can be a mama bear when I need to be. My antenna is up, and if there is any further hint of misstep, there will be no third chances. But I don't think this is going to happen. My motherly instincts tell me that I can trust again. And in the end, motherly instincts are really all we have to go on. Now I just have to pray that mine are right.

Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
—Elizabeth Stone

Words of Hate

I'm tired today. Too much Christmas shopping this weekend, too many things to do in general. I'm tired, and I'd planned to make my day a relaxing one. Drop off my son at school, spend the day with my daughter, indulge in a cup of coffee and a book during nap time. No blogging, no thinking, no doing. Sunshine and happiness topped my day's agenda.

Then I woke up this morning to a story in our local press describing a sign that a man had posted declaring that "no negros" were allowed in his business. The man doesn't hate all Black people, he explained. He's just had a problem with a few of them, and so he's going to take care of that by preventing anyone else with brown skin from entering. Well, okay then. As long as he doesn't hate all Black people.

So much for sunshine and happiness.

It would be easy to read this story, shake my head, mutter a few words to myself about the absurdity of this type of thinking, and move on with my day. To tell myself that he's just an anomaly--a blip on the radar of a post-racial world. The problem is, he's not. Whether we like to admit it or not--whether we know it or not--too many people continue to judge our nation's citizens by the color of their skin. This guy's not all that different from a lot of people. He's just ballsy enough to say it out loud. And if there are people like this who continue to believe that it's okay to post crap like that for all the public to see, imagine what people are saying behind closed doors.

So I can't just shut my eyes and move on. I'm raising a son who is going to encounter this type of thinking. He's going to bump up against people who think he is dumb or violent or lazy just because his skin is brown. It's my job to do everything I can, anything I can, to fight against this. And that means speaking out against words like these and calling them what they are: hateful, and ignorant, and shameful.

Most people who read this will agree that this man is out of line. Most will see that it's not okay to prevent people from coming in your door because they don't share the color of your skin. When racism is this extreme, it's pretty easy to see. What's harder to see is the more subtle racism that runs through our nation's blood. The kind that leads to Black men and woman being followed in stores more often than their Caucasian peers. Or stopped by the police for no reason. Or put in jail more often. Or blocked from living in certain areas by being denied mortgages despite ample income. Or placed in special education more frequently. Or called for job interviews and hired less frequently despite having equal credentials. The reasons for these phenomena are multi-faceted and complex, of course. But at the core of it all is the pervasive and often unseen belief that looking at a person's skin color will tell you about that person's character.

If you are Caucasian, it can be hard to see this subtle, systematic, everyday racism. But that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It just means that means that asking those of us who live in the majority to see the white privilege from which we benefit is like asking a fish to see the water he's swimming in. It's hard to see it when it surrounds and pervades your very existence.

But even if you can't see it, you can often hear it. Listen carefully. You'll hear it in the jokes made at family parties. Or in the casual comment that suggests that the family down the street isn't taking care of their yard because they are Black. Or in the off-handed suggestion that the Hmong teenager down the street is probably in a gang. Or when your uncle theorizes that black people are poor simply because they enjoy living off welfare. Or when people ask me if my son is smart. (And yes, they do). It's there. We all hear it. Now we just have to speak out against it.

It's not easy to speak up, of course. Most of us were taught that it's not polite to talk about race. Its uncomfortable. And more than that, speaking out puts us in a vulnerable position. We risk rejection, bad feelings, arguments. We risk making others uncomfortable. We risk losing friends. We risk offending family. We risk a lot by speaking up.

But the price we pay for not speaking up is greater. When we don't speak up, we end up condoning a world where it's okay to believe that the color of your skin actually means something about who you are. A world where we start to believe that "other" is scary. A world where it's okay for a man to post a sign on his door that says "no negros allowed." A world in which a man like that is not shunned from his community for posting such a sign but instead benefits from the attention he receives. A world in which I will soon have explain to my beautifully innocent son what "negros" are and why some people don't think they should be allowed in their stores, because I can't protect him from the realities of that world much longer. This is the price we pay when we don't speak out. And it's not a price I'm willing to pay.

Okay.

Enough of that darkness.

Excuse me while I go look for some sunshine.

“In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” -Martin Luther King Jr.

The American Dream: On Voting Democract

A friend of mind recently asked me why I vote Democract.  

I vote Democrat  because I believe in the American Dream: that shining vision of America as the land of opportunity, as a place where everyone has the opportunity to make a good life for themselves, regardless of social class or skin color or circumstances at birth. As a place where everyone has the same shot at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is an idea full of promise, and beauty, and I hold it very closely to my heart. 

Unfortunately, this American Dream of ours is still just that: a dream. Everyone does not have an equal chance for success in this country.

Take, for example, the statistics surrounding the lives of African American males in our country. African American males are much more likely to be unemployed than are white males (in 2006, 19.5% of African American males were unemployed while 7.9% of white males were). They are also less likely to graduate from high school (77.4% will graduate, compared to 85.5%) and are much more likely to be in jail (10.1% are in jail, compared to 1.5%). 

Reading these statistics, you can choose believe one of two things: 1. African American males are lazier, dumber, and more violent than white males, or 2. There are systematic and cultural forces at work in our country that limit opportunity and set African American males up for failure from the very beginning of life. If you choose to believe option number one, you can stop reading this now because nothing else I say will make sense to you. You should also take a step back and challenge yourself to think about where those prejudiced views come from and think deeply about if you really want to hold them. And if you do, I don’t want to know you. But if you choose to believe number two, then you will begin to understand what I mean when I say the playing field is not level in this country. Please note: I am NOT saying that African American males should not be expected to work hard. Of course they should. What I am saying is that their hard work is much less likely to lead them to success. And that this should not be tolerated in a country that claims to believe in the American Dream. 

One more example. In this country, we believe in the idea of social mobility—that with enough hard work, individuals can move through social classes (e.g., from working class to middle class) with relative ease. Unfortunately, the stark reality is that the poor are likely to stay poor (and become poorer) while the rich are likely to stay rich (and get richer). And it’s getting worse. In 1945, there was a 12% chance of moving up in social class; in 2000, there was a less than 4% chance. This “Matthew Effect” is a result of many variables, but indulge me for a moment as I take you through one example of why it might be true.

Imagine that you are about to play a game of Monopoly with a worthy opponent who that is equal to you in intelligence and who is equally Monopoly savvy. Then imagine that your opponent comes to the game with $5,000 of Monopoly money and ownership of 5 different properties, one of which he has a monopoly on. And imagine that, in addition to earning your $200 every time you pass Go, each of you also has to dole over 10% of your earnings. Then imagine that someone is standing over you as you begin to lose the game to your “equal” opponent, yelling that you just need to, “WORK HARDER!” and, “WORK SMARTER!”

Intuitively, we all know that this scenario means that your Monopoly adversary is much more likely to win the game. The deck is stacked against you. Small setbacks such as a health crisis doled out by one of those darn Chance cards will affect you much more deeply than it will your opponent. And that 10% of your earnings you have to dole out each time you pass Go? It’s much more likely to impact you than your opponent, especially at the beginning of the game. Although your adversary will have to pay more, he will still have more with which to snatch up additional properties to earn more and more revenue. Money begets money. Is it possible you might win? Of course it is! But if you do, it will be due to some very lucky breaks you got along the way. And so it is in this country. Those that have, continue to get. Those that have not continue to struggle. It’s a big ol’ game of Monopoly and the deck is stacked against way too many people who enter the world with close to nothing. 

But wait, you think. My parents or grandparents did it. They moved from lower class to middle class, and it was all a result of their hard work. I would challenge you to think of the government programs that contributed to their success. Did they benefit from the GI bill that propelled millions of working class and lower class men into home ownership and provided them with the previously untouchable dream of obtaining a college education? Or from the government backed loans and grants that allowed many of us to do the same? It’s extremely important to remember that although we may hold the illusion we have achieved success in our life all on our own, many of us have gladly accepted the assistance of programs run by the government to help get us here. 

I vote Democratic because I know that, as a middle-class white woman, I am where I am in life largely because of luck. Yes, I work hard. I work very hard. And I am very self-sufficient. But I was and continue to be very lucky as well. I was lucky to be born into a middle class family that valued education from the very start. Lucky to get to attend a quality public school. Lucky to have had food to eat and clothes on my back so that the biggest of my concerns in high school was the drama that involved my high school boyfriend and prom. Lucky to grow up in a community where drugs and alcohol were valued by very few and where violence was very rare. Lucky to have access to low interest, government-backed loans to fund my graduate degree. “Lucky” to be born white; not because I think that being white is better than being any other color, but “lucky” in the sense that my skin color provides me with privileges in this country that I am only beginning to understand. Lucky, lucky, lucky. I’m a Democrat because I understand that there are broad social systems at play that make it so that hard work isn’t always the basis of success. Is hard work a part? Of course it is. It’s a big part, and a very important one. But it doesn’t tell the whole story. Not. even. close. 

So, as a Democrat, I advocate strongly for those things that will begin to level the playing field. This includes quality schools for everyone, because so many children lack the academic skills that they need to succeed in this world—not due to a lack of intelligence, but instead due to a lack of access to the quality education that they deserve as a citizen of this country. I also advocate for access to quality health care for all, because one health care crisis can sink an entire family into poverty and keep them there for good, and because the cost of health care in this country is a huge obstacle to success for so many working families. And I advocate for a minimum wage that is a truly a living wage, so that a working class family of four can actually make a life for themselves.

Quality education, health care, and a living minimum wage. Three things which I strongly believe would lift people out of poverty and level the playing field in this country. You will notice that I did not say that I would like to give free money to people who simply don’t want to work. That’s just silly. I do believe that we should have programs designed to provide temporary emergency assistance to those who are in crucial need. But that’s different than believing that we should just continue to fund the lives of those who are able to get jobs. Not only does that perpetuate the problem, but it is degrading to those in need. 

This is, of course, where job creation comes in. We need more jobs that pay our citizens well. It’s as simple as that. This is where I join hands with my conservative friends to advocate for protection of small and medium-sized businesses. We need businesses to provide jobs. But my conservative friends and I then part ways when those same protections are also provided to large, thriving businesses who are pocketing millions of dollars at the expense of the working poor. I believe that the economy is built from the bottom up, not the top down.

And for those who believe that Democrats are not informed by their religious beliefs, let me assure you that this couldn’t be further from the truth. Although I certainly believe that government and religion should be separate-this is how our founding fathers wanted it and it protects us all-- I am also very aware of the ways in which my political views are shaped by own spirituality and religion. My Lutheran church advocates proudly for social justice, and so do I. Matthew 25:40 informs me that “The King will reply, ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” This shapes my view of life. I believe in taking care of those who truly cannot take care of themselves—the elderly and the sick and the disabled. And this is also where I part ways with many of my liberal allies; taking care of the least among us means that, except in the extreme cases when the life of the mother is at stake, I do not believe that abortion should be an option. But--BUT--I also believe that we cannot stop at outlawing abortion. We must also provide education and support to prevent unwanted pregnancies. And when they occur, we must provide support and education for mothers as well as health care and food and clothes for the babies who are born to those mothers who weren’t yet ready to be parents. And as long as we are talking about protecting life, I will also note the importance of respecting all life, which means being extremely careful about where and how we wage wars. 

A word on budget issues and then I’m almost done (I promise). Do I see a need to balance the budget so we can work toward the elimination of the debt we carry? Of course I do. It’s both embarrassing and dangerous for our country to carry so much debt. The disagreement is not really about if we should eliminate our debt and balance the budget, it’s about how we do so. Yes, there is government waste. And yes, we need to eliminate it. This is an area where our politicians on both sides of the aisle have failed us and I would advocate strongly for them to work together to eliminate the truly wasteful ways in which we spend our money.

But I don’t consider education, or roads, or policemen, or fireman, or supplies for American troops, or health care to be waste. If we want those things as part of our society, we have to pay for them. As much as I would love to eliminate the taxes that suck up a large part of my paycheck so that I can finally buy that Ipad I’ve been drooling over, I’m okay with paying taxes because I know that they are being used to fund those things from which I benefit (roads, police, schools, safety regulations on foods and medicine, research, the list goes on and on) and those things in which I believe (equal opportunity, a safety net to catch us if we fall, education and health care for all). To take it one step further, I’m also okay with paying a higher percentage of my taxes than those who make less than I do. I have more, so I can pay more. If I have to cut out the privilege of eating out one time this week so that a family who is struggling to survive on minimum wage can eat at all, I’m okay with that. But that’s just me.

Of course, there are those who will say that we should just privatize it all; that we should turn government–run services over to private companies who know how to run things efficiently and effectively. There’s a problem with this logic, however. What makes good business sense does not always make good moral sense. As just one example, private schools are not obligated to provide services to children with special needs. This makes sense from a private business standpoint. Not only does the exclusion of children with special needs save money (children with special needs cost more to educate), you also get a better “return on your investment” (the scores of the school are better, so you get more bang for your buck). It’s a smart business decision for sure. It’s just not a smart moral one. Kind of like when private health care insurance companies who want to make more money start excluding people on the basis of health conditions that they cannot control. My fear with privatization is that smart financial decisions will start to take precedence over moral ones.

So I’m a Democrat. 

I'm not purely a socialist, because that would mean that I think the government should fund and run all business in this country. I don’t believe that. Instead, I think that the government should provide the regulations which determine baseline standards (e.g. safety standards, minimum wage) under which private businesses should operate. And I believe that government should run and/or play a strong role in the the funding and regulation of enterprises such as schools and health care, when it is imperative that financial decisions be balanced by moral ones. Does this thinking mean I am partly socialist? Yes. But you know what? I bet you are too. Unless you, fellow reader, believe that the government should play no role in the development of programs funded by the collective whole (e.g., military, public education, roads, fire/police protection, food/drug protection, the CDC, the NIH, social security, medicare), you too are in part socialist. Whether they know it or not, the vast majority of Americans believe in a mix between socialism and capitalism. I am one of those Americans. And so are you, I'd guess.

I'm a Democrat.

I'm not a Communist because that would mean that I think the government should control all business, eliminate private property, and dole out assets according to some grand dictator's plan to make everything equal for everyone. I don't think this. I believe that differences should exist in our society and that private market forces can and should help shape who gets what. Those who are highly skilled and highly needed should get more. A cardio-vascular surgeon should get paid more, should acquire more, than me, the speech therapist, and market forces should help shape this. I’m not arguing that some people shouldn’t have more than others. I’m arguing that, all else being equal, everyone should have the same chance to get to be the surgeon. And that those who don't have the skills to be the surgeon should still be able to make a decent life for themselves and their family.

I’m a Democrat. I believe in our country, and I believe in freedom. I just want everyone to have access to the same freedoms that I do. And despite the recent turn of events in the elections, I firmly believe that I’m standing on the right side of history. Of this, I am proud.

An Open Letter To My Mom

Hi Mom,

I've been thinking a lot about you again.

It's funny how grief runs in seasons like that. At first, losing you was so overwhelming I could barely breathe. Your loss turned me inside out and nothing felt the same. Then, time marched on and, as it did, the sharp edges of grief fell off. A new normal arose from within.

Now...now there are entire weeks that go by where I don't think about what life would be like if you were here. My life is full of joy, and peace, and hope for the future. I'm the happiest I've ever been. I immerse myself in my days and live them for what they are, because that's really all any of us can do. And I know that you'd want me to do this very thing; I know that your greatest hope for me would be this very life that I am living.

But then there are the moments when something makes me stop and remember. Remember you. Remember your smile and your voice and your laugh. Remember how much I have lost by not having you here to see this life as it unfolds miraculously in front of me.

I'm not sure why I've had more of those moments lately. Perhaps it's because we had to say good-bye to your sister a couple weeks ago. Although I didn't know her well when I was a child, she tried so hard to establish a relationship with me as a grown-up. She loved to read my blog, and she encouraged me. Sometimes she shared stories about you, or about me when I was young. I didn't even realize it then, but it was nice to have that piece of you, that connection to you, through her. And now that is gone, too.

Or perhaps it's because my baby girl is growing up. She's not a baby anymore, she's a toddler, and she is marvelous. Sometimes I see you cross over her face, like a shadow...and then it's gone. Right now, she's at the very age I was when you took it upon yourself to write down the things that I was doing that made you smile. Every once in a while, I pull out that yellow lined paper where memories of my childhood are documented in your careful teacher's penmenship, and I smile along with you as I imagine myself doing those things. Then I see my baby girl do them, and suddenly I am you, smiling at her, like you were smiling at me. And although those moments help me remember that I am connected to you through her, I still feel your loss most profoundly inside of them.

So today, I was thinking about all the things I'd do if you were here with me.

First, of course, I'd grab you by the hand and introduce you to my babies. I'd tell you all about Joseph and how he's learning to read and write and how amazed and thrilled I am to be able to share our love of the written word with him. And then I'd let you hold my baby girl, and we'd marvel together in the memories of me as we talked about her.

Then we'd head to the kitchen where you'd insist on making me my favorite dinner, just like you always used to do when I came home to visit. Nobody makes me that dinner anymore, but even if someone did, even if the ingredients were measured carefully and the food was prepared as precisely as it had been by you, even then it wouldn't be the same, because the dinner was never really about the food. It was about the love with which the food was made. And I'd tell you how, in your absence, I've realized that the unconditional love that flows from a mother to her daughter can simply not be replaced. And when I lost that source of love, I suddenly felt very alone. And sometimes I still do.

After dinner, we'd grab a cup of coffee and I'd ask you how you survived when Kate and I were young. I'd tell you that motherhood is way harder than I ever imagined it to be. I'd tell you how much I've learned about myself, and how many mistakes I have made...and how much I regret them. I'd tell you that I'm sorry for not appreciating you, for not recognizing all the sacrifices you made for me, for not understanding how lucky I was to have you in my life. For taking you for granted.

After a while, we'd have to look for your cup of coffee, which you'd have lost somewhere along the way when you went to warm it up. We'd find it, still in the microwave, needing to be warmed up yet again. I'd log you onto facebook and show you around. You'd love it, but it would take quite a while for you to figure out how to make it work. We'd talk about our love of books and bemoan the likelihood that my grandchildren will probably never know the pleasure that comes from cracking open a new book and feeling the weight of that book in their hands as they read. We'd go shopping together and you'd find a way to convince me that if *you* bought me something new to wear, I wouldn't be breaking my current promise to not buy new clothes, especially if you used some of your magic $20s to pay for them. And then we'd play a game of Scrabble.

And I'd win.

I still remember the day the world took

you back & there was never enough time to thank

you for the thousand scattered moments

you left behind to watch us while we slept.

-Brian Andreas, Thousand Moments