Eight Types of Intelligence and Why You Wore the DUNCE Cap

I hated school.  I’ve written in the past about how I feel the educational system failed me.

I felt dumb.

My grades did not disprove this theory.

I could not sit still in my desk for long periods and though I could focus on subjects the words spoken at the front of the room held very little meaning to me and abstract concepts went completely over my head.  The logic required for Math and Science seemed completely illogical.  Why was I so different?  What was wrong with me?

Insert Howard Gardner’s Seven Intelligences theory and the answers become immediately available! Whoo hooo!!!

His premise is that there are EIGHT ( count them EIGHT!) learning styles and intelligences and that traditional schooling largely focuses on only two – that’s bad odds  right there ( any idiot can see that!)  ( oh, and they recently added an eighth to the original SEVEN so it’s not that I can’t add.. just sayin)

Gardner pointed out that schools usually focus mainly on verbal-linguistic and logical-mathematical skills but that these fall into just two of eight categories of intelligence. Some students who are weak in these traditional areas may actually be highly intelligent in other areas.

I was highly visual-spacial, kinetic, and even interpersonal... all three of which fell outside my intelligence spectrum! I can easily get math and science concepts now- but this is because I’ve learned how to apply concepts like this in ways that make sense to me.

Check it out! 

Tell me about YOU.  What was school like for YOU?  Where were you on this intelligence chart? I’d love to hear.

If There Be Dragons Part 2

Rumi said that the origin of the wound is where the light gets in…..

Yet before it does, the darkness will always have it’s way with you.  To really know the difference means that each must have a waltz on your dance card. To dance with the devil was an experience I will never forget.

Initially the darkness came for me in the form of all things dangerous and destructive. Life suddenly felt better with wild and reckless company.  I  felt the sweet surrender as I let it have its way with me on it’s canyons edge taking me further and further from the terrain of hyper vigilance and overly capable.   It made me feel powerful to rebel against life’s constricting rules and unpredictable atmosphere and finally I stood in the face of all that I could not fix and jumped from it’s spring board as I took a full beautiful arching swan dive over it’s deep dark end.

It felt good to stop caring who I was hurting and how often I was doing it- it was a relief to plunge into the body of  indifference and finally escape the cloying, choking , trapped feeling that held me suspended between two worlds in which my opposing parents each stood, heels firmly dug pulling me in opposite directions like an under-dried wish bone .  The love I had for each of them had turned to a black unrelenting fear in the impossibility of not hurting one or the other and rather than face that end I turned inward until I could stand the agony no more.  My own fury and fear unleashed a path of chaos and destruction that blazed toward epic proportions as my inner inferno combusted from my own sense of helplessness and self loathing.

As I look back now I realize that I’d checked out long before my teenage years but had never had any wisdom or perspective to be able to understand that this is what I had done.  Even in elementary school I was always “distracted” and “If Monica would only apply herself..” but the truth is evident now as mother to my own girl child who holds an eerie resemblance to my former self in looks and in spirit.

At her age, I was simply too busy trying to put the pieces of my home and family life together to have the stamina for anything that seemed less important. The history of my own legacy seemed far more urgent in nature than something that happened in world history.  Textbooks seemed so factual and precise… and offered less stimulation than my heightened senses allowed for.  “Is everything all right at home ?” I remembered Miss Crysta asking when I was in the second grade as I sat frozen in place absorbed in some far away land as my classmates filed out for recess.  I had no idea at that time what was even wrong with me except that I was kind of thick apparently – my grades said so anyway.

After I joined Al-Anon later in my late thirties I learned about those roles that adult children of alcoholics play inside the home.  I sat in shock as I listened to the participants describe my life.  I’d felt like an alien on a strange planet who’d finally been reunited with it’s species. Kids in these situations will become the caretakers, the pack mules and the sentry for the events and situations that take place in an effort to survive and make sense of the pain and confusion. They will assume the roles of little adults who work overtime to keep the peace, distract, entertain. Tap dancing through the wreckage as the the tension continued to grow –  it’s equilibrium so delicate it teetered dangerously in this fragile pressure vortex that felt a lot like a balloon at overcapacity for more air intake….

****POP!!!*****

As I danced cheek to cheek with the darkness we shagged and tangoed with abandoned over ballon covered ballroom floor empty of eager party goers popping everything in our devastating wake.  BLAM!! BLAM !!BLAM!!! – I crashed his porsche, I smashed her things, I cursed and hurled and defied and howled.  I beat my sister, I stole from stores. I lied, I drank and I snorted. Even as I sat at the police station (again) waiting for my Dad to come and pick me up I steeled myself for his look of disappointment knowing that this fate was far better than the one that would have rendered our relationship extinct. I would rather die.

At the height of my performance as the anti-christ he was diagnosed with stage four prostate cancer.  Our house seemed to heave a great sigh of relief as each side on enemy lines put down their weapons of mass destruction and began the peace treaty that all of us would sign.  There was still time to rebuild the city and restore the burnt out buildings and they did their best to mend the catastrophic woundings that took place there over the past five years in the name of progress.    There would finally be an end to the madness,  but it happen only after months of steady downward prognosis , grimaces of pain on progressively brittle bones as the cancer spread, and ineffective medical procedures to contain it.

The compromise was cuddled at home in a hospice bed centered in his favorite room, surrounded by his all of his leather bound books and his classical music collection. My mother was never far and most often curled by his side as she swept his hair over his still handsome irish brow with her soft forgiving hands, while murmuring nothings to his neck as we gathered on surrounding couches and armchairs shifting with the discomfort of their newborn intimacy.  Adagio for Strings would play along with classical pieces that met my fathers mood as his graceful surgeons fingers composed his opus on octaves outside our range. He died at age Seventy,  September 28th.  I would be turning twenty one.

Life is a paradox… filled with opposites and contrasts and events that must be gathered to each of us in our own time. As mortal humans we gather their confusing  straggling pieces to our chest  like a burdensome laundry pile one struggles to contain as it’s carried up the narrow dark cellar stairs only to realize that each sock that once had its match is now somehow,  mysteriously and maddeningly missing.  By the time the next pile is dirtied enough for that new lightening and brightening formula it’s formerly unavailable partner shows up out of nowhere like a long lost lover for game. set. match. to help make some sense of it all.

As his vitality lessoned over those last three years so did my bend toward destruction. On the day of his funeral I was utterly wracked with the grief of losing him, yet not a pew behind was the surprising rush of relief that comes when any horrible alternative end so narrowly missed releases you safely into the extended arms of mercy.  I had been rescued from the bitter taste of betrayal and the irrational fear of losing him in my life to losing him instead to a seemingly expertly choreographed death.  There these two impossibly incongruent emotions held each other in a tight embrace as my life seemed to know some strange yet certain alignment with fate.

I’d been allowed to love him without having had to call him out on the dapper coat tails of his hideous disease . It’s lack of decorum. spontaneous whims, and unpredictable mood swings  had held us hostage like a wedding party of wildly wilting buttonholed boutonnieres for so very long , yet we would miss it’s familiar hold on us like those who’ve known the blind bait and switch of Stockholm Syndrome.  Who were we now without him?

Al-Anon would also teach me that alcoholism is a “family disease” and once you know that the family unit is truly infected by it’s intoxicating fumes you won’t be surprised when I tell you that we all continued to flirt with it’s company as each of us set out for our own black tie event to live, love, and marry into the fun house mirrors of our fractured selves.

To be Continued…..

(ok- so it keeps comin… I thank you for reading and those of you who know me also know I struggle with writers block and have not been writing for some time.  Somehow last night as I was sitting with the keyboard this is the story that was coming up … and it just seemed to flow out but please know that it’s only my “story” and not my TRUTH if that makes sense?  This is all the past and I am happy and healthy and thriving and I’m telling it from a place of peace… so please know that I so appreciate you reading and commenting AND… I’m really good! -I love my mom and Dad and I love my family to pieces!  I think somethings just unplugging or something so I’m gonna keep it coming as long as it’s flowing and please feel free to read, ask questions, laugh, or none of the above. XO)

Thoughts Of Mothers Day

This is my first official portrait taken with my two children.  Why did I wait so long?! Last Saturday we lucked out with a beautiful afternoon and spent our time together in the competent and amazingly talented hands of  Terry Lee Cafferty. Terry Lee was offering a Mothers Day promotion at her new studio and I knew right away I wanted to participate. I’m still only ten years new at this mommy thing and who are these two look-alike children with their beautiful faces on top of mine?  I’m so happy we did this!

As Mothers Day approaches I think of my own Mother- a woman who has dedicated every cell in her body to making sure I am alive and well in the world and that nothing harms a hair follicle on my precious head.  I realize that the witchery of motherhood  comes as some instant hex when we deliver our tight fisted babe from the universal womb. Our instincts forever heightened and downright primal as we need simply tilt our heads in a certain angle in order to sniff the air- the scent of our baby inextricably glued into our every pore for ad infinitum.  I get it now-  no one could have ever explained how birthing another forever changes you.

My Mother- The woman who somehow just “knows” when something is not quite right  -the invisible thread.  Was it a message sent to her by way of  the wind? A tug in the umbilical aura? A shift in cosmic energy? How does she doooo that? Oh, yes… this is me now… I too can summon hurricane force winds and lift John Deer Tractors if given by threat to my children.  YES,  HEAR ME ROAR.

This beautiful creature – my mother, as time wraps it’s wisdom in a shawl of crinkled lines around her sparkling eyes
every
single
time
she looks at her children… her grandchildren
growing even more beautiful with age.

This being who brought me in, knew long before I ever would what it really takes to birth another, raise another, love another, bury another, honor another… what it takes to keep the memories of past faces and places like heart shaped moments on the tin of a freshly baked cookie sheet…  smell the goodness.

“Mom- i’m home!”

home again home again jigged de jig….

She was always there….

bigger than life …even when she wasn’t…

…  her face and voice the echo and compass inside the heart she grew, inside a heart that knew inside a heart of another, mother… hers.

Her love-  combined with the waterfall of (other) mothers…. never ending – it’s force coming down to cleanse and rebirth even the most prodigal child…

never did she lose faith or hope.

never did she stop giving.

believing,

loving.

and so…it’s mothers day, and I will follow her lead – with every cell in my body which inherently knows the true depth and power of  this love. This awesome mom- me power so pure and this connection so strong that yes, one gentle breeze might simply touch my cheek and I will know, oh I will know that moment before I know- because that is the power of mom, and somehow in this cosmos come hell or high water I will lean in with every fiber of my being to kow that my babies are alright and if that’s so – then:  ALL is right with the world….  YES. All is right with the world.

Happy Mothers Day.

Love after Love and a Pregnancy Haiku

So, I’m not really sure when i started loving poetry but i think it was around the time I was at a loss for complete sentences to describe what was happening – so…. pregnancy perhaps?  I wonder what my pregnancy Haiku would have sounded like:

Plump and round…
Square circle
Weighing FAT 183 pounds

or

Cookie Cookie
Carbs and Baloney
Love you so… never lonely

I digress.

I’ve loved poetry since the moment i discovered what a beautiful way it describes the “in betweens” of life.  The intangibles of our emotional world.  It can weave words into beautiful life pictures.  It’s the artists pallet of the written word.

Take this image for example… in a sentence it would sound like this:

“yeah, this sunset over the water painting was so spectacular, and the colors were amazing”

or

“Sunset sweeps across the sky,

radiating color

warmth will spread from the hue of tomorrow”

Ok- who know’s if i am making any sense at all but the point of this post was to share the following with you:

I  love this poem a friend introduced me to about two weeks ago and wanted to share it with you and dedicate it to The Revelation Project and all the women who have come to the banquet of their own lives.  Also to those who dare to really discover who they are.  What inspiration-  wow.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.”

― Derek Walcott

Children of America

I hate politics, and feel pretty much the same way as five year old Hudson Hinkley Does “YUCK!” But if you want to grab my attention as a mom and get me to listen in- start talking to me in terms even a five year old can understand and focus the conversation of the future of my children.  ALL our children.

I want to be more involved in “conversations that matter” not  “Politics”- PLEASE! Stop wasting my time!

I don’t want to watch a bunch of grown men sling mud and create media chaos that distracts from the real issues at hand, and for god’s sake I have better things to do than listen to the endless rhetoric and wah wah cry baby antics. I’ve got noses to wipe, meals to make, laundry to fold, bodies to cuddle and story’s to read.  I also have a full time job and I’m trying to make an income so that I can afford money to send my kids to camp this summer and to keep them out of the public school system because it’s a travesty. 

We are seriously messing up the future of our children.
They collectively SIT for 8-10 hours a DAY passively taking in volumes of information so that they can be tested.  They don’t move their bodies much , are not playing outside, are having their art and music classes cut, and eating a steady  diet of GMO’s, Sugars, and artificial ingredients.

They have parents who are overstressed, overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated in their jobs who come home and are so tired that they can’t even find the strength or time it takes to engage with their kids in meaningful ways.

Because we are so dis-connected, and numb- our kids are phasing into more connectedness with video games, television, food and poor behavior.  The results are tragic:  anti-depressants, adderall and any other drug we can get into them so that they will COMPLY and not be “difficult” – We’ve taken away their freedom, and rights, and their voices because guess what?  We don’t have any to give.   Our country is filled with the unconscious.

We have become slaves to the dollar, the deficit, and the detriment and we have sold our personal sense of integrity, and our morals and values for a chance to be on reality TV.  Double U TEE EFF?

Our children are angry, lonely, anxious, hostile,  violent, and SAD.  They need us.

This post isn’t about getting more votes for Barry Hinkley   It’s about the lengths we need to go to for us to wake up and come together as parents in order for change to happen.

I’m grateful for the video that stars Hudson Hinckley – because our children SHOULD be starring in this “movie” we’ve created out of our lives. If you look around though you’ll see a burnt down hollywood of thugs, thieves, liars, and zombies.

We’ve lost our real authentic selves, our sense of integrity, nobility and duty.

What are we teaching these kids anyway?  Kids model the behavior of adults, so if that does not scare you then nothing will.

HUDSON’s  got my attention:   You know why? Because he has no idea what he’s saying in this “campaign” video. He’s just a kid who loves his Dad and that’s about as simple and as complicated as it gets.   All of our children are all trying to tell us something…

are we listening?

Why I killed Michael Jackson

About a month ago I played a Michael Jackson tune for the kids.  They were immediately hooked and seemed to  know right away …they knew that they were listening to one of the world’s greatest of all time.

I never had to tell them- I just confirmed it for them by nodding my head- “yep” when they looked at me with their mouths open – in awe and then when I showed them who exactly it was that they were hearing by pulling him up on a music video from You Tube. Seeing is believing so if you thought he sounded cool… just wait.

Yeah… I know that look on their faces… I know it all too well.

I’ll never forget the moment.

Never.

The moment I realized that he existed- that I shared the planet with  Michael Jackson.  I was twelve years old and I saw him perform on Carrie Smith’s television set.  We had the house to ourselves- a New Years Eve sleepover and her parents weren’t coming home anytime soon. I screamed my heart out. In fact- It ached so badly at the sight of him- i was unable to ever recover the girl i was before I knew of him.

One minute i was a normal twelve year girl, and the next-  I was unable to think a complete thought without him in it.  Nothing in this world was more important than knowing every last detail about him.  I day dreamed endlessly about being with him, and then being him.  He embodied the word “cool” and he could dance and move and sing and look like nothing I had ever seen, or would, ever again.

I loved him.  No- I mean, I really loved him.

It was 1982 and it was just months away from the moonwalk debut when he sang “Billy Jean” – and “duh”, of course Billy Jean was not his lover- ugh!!!- she was just a girl that said that he was the one…  (the thought still gives me physical angina to this very day).  People are so stupid. I wanted to crack heads.

Unrequited love is very painful, and can be incredibly transformative when you are struck between the eyes with it at age twelve.

I was positive if he knew the depth of my devotion he would choose me.  After all, no one would ever love him like I would. ever.  I can’t imagine for how long I moped as I pushed dinner across the surface of my plate each night at the table.  Taking me away from my “boombox”  was like unplugging the life support system from my body.  I played my cassette’s until they warped. I practiced my moves privately. religiously.
I wore penny loafers.  If I stood on the tips just right and held my dresser’s corner edge and squinted as I looked in the mirror – my moves were getting closer… try as I might I would never successfully issue a moon walk.  Not even on my best day.  I was increasingly frustrated and forlorn but I would never.give.up.

I was obsessed.

By the 1990’s I’d resigned myself to my rank.  I was no different than the rest of them… I was just another number in a sea of endless fans. The frustration drove us all to the edge. It must have.  We needed to take him down- find something wrong with him to bring him back to our level and dispel the magic and mystery.  NO ONE can be that amazing. NO ONE.  HIT after endless HIT.  It’s like he was not even REAL.
ENOUGH ALREADY.

I know it was a drug overdose… I know all the media’s input on the subject… but I say that by the time we killed him he was likely relieved.  We all get left behind to simmer in our righteous stew with all the contempt we created for him. We thought he was weird?  I’d say we only made him as weird as we treated him.

He must have felt like an exotic endangered animal. We’d all wanted a piece of him- at any cost to him. We did what any angry mob of obsessed fan’s would do-   and he had it coming to him too.  We killed him because he was not one of us.  We killed him because his light was so bright we were afraid it would shine out the ugly in the rest of us.  We killed him the way we will kill anything we covet and can not have.

When my kids asked me why and how he died – I had to really ask myself how I would tell them what really happened.  I’m unwilling to tell them what popular culture would like to believe and so I will think about my answer carefully.

What really happened to Michael Jackson? Someday I’ll have to tell them why we killed him.

Right now, I’d rather they simply know that legends like him can actually “live” in the world, and that it’s possible to honor something impossibly beautiful and rare without destroying it.

Five Alarm Taco Shell’s

Before.....

It’s not even 5:00 yet and there’s no wine in the house.  Is it age? or am I just getting blonder as my roots go darker?

I just calmed myself down from the upsetting incident that just happened in my kitchen.  No… this time it did not involve a knife or butter... but instead 2 seemingly very innocent taco shells.

Taco’s are my “easy ticket” meal.  I can whip em up in my sleep – but…if I should be wide awake and turn my back as they “bake” in the toaster oven… not so much.   One minute I was chatting with my daughter about one thing and the next minute I was screaming “RUN!” as I watched the taco shells burst into flame and once again I found myself doing what any blonde would do in such a situation….

1. Scream “Fire!”

2. Scream “Shit!” “Fire!”

3. Scream “Oh God!” “Shit” ” FIRE!”

4. Where are my Oven mits?  (“If I would only put them back where I found them… then they would always be here for emergencies such as these…) “oh shit. GOD. FIRE!”

5. Lurch, open toaster door ( fucking idiot… now the flames are coming OUT the door!!!)

6. OH SHIT! FIRE! OH GOD! OH SHIT!

7. Under the sink- there is a fire extinguisher! (I am brilliant that I remembered that’s its here!- I’ll save the house, the family)

8. WAIT! I don’t know how to use a fire extinguisher!

9. “OH GOD! SHIT SHIT SHIT FIRE!!!”

10. “WATER!!!” WATER!!!! “SINK SPRAYER!” “WATER!” ( Smoke Detector blares in the background and as the spraying water hits the fire the hissing and steam are deafening… I look around me for the first time and notice my daughter has not moved an inch but is sitting in apparent terror at the table waiting for her serving of tonight’s tasty dinner… )

11.  Electricity and water don’t mix… ooops… too late.

12. Fire is out. water everywhere. Steam. Hissing.

13. Giggling….she’s giggling…

14. Now- full blown hysteric’s – my heart is beating a million miles and hour and my daughter is on the floor killing herself laughing and says….

“I am so telling my class about this one”  and run’s into the other room to tell her brother: “Mom nearly just burnt the WHOLE HOUSE down!”

15. As if stuff like this happens all the time or something. Sheesh.

16. Mr. Goodbar just called to let me know he took out another rider on our insurance.

After....

It’s the little things.

It’s the little things.

A bowl of raspberries with a whipped cream top.

Cut out hearts.

Heart felt cut outs.

A handmade paper rose can smell like two dozen on a summers day.

Subtle touches-a lingering touch- a tender touch- I’m touched.

Inhale the love, breathe in… deep…

You are safe.

Absorb the love- like a sponge.

One moment without a Hallmark moment….

The real deal. Raw. Pure.

Love.

Happy Valentines Day

-MR 2012

 

 

Happy Birthday Dad.

I was almost Twenty-one the September my Father passed away.

Dr. Joseph Augustine Grady was born in Massachusetts in 1921 (is my math correct?) He was Fifty when I was born.  I’m feeling especially grateful at this moment that my birth happened at all.. the odds were kind of stacked against that possibility seeing as my mother was a nun when they met.

It took me the better part of my adult life to put together the pieces of their amazing (and unbelievably romantic) story. Their courtship lasted for five years, and four of those years were experienced through letter writing while my Father was on medical mission in Viet Nam.  Their story is a love story- the real deal.

My Dad was utterly broken when my Mom met him…. broken, vulnerable, and an incredibly accomplished Vascular Surgeon practicing in Detroit Michigan. She was twenty years his junior- so, ladies… if he’s a couple years older… don’t sweat it.  He already had three children, and tragically- a very alcoholic, very mentally ill wife.  At the age of Twenty-Five my mother was appointed to care for them… and so, for the better part of a year she did this and then continued to care for them even after he left for Viet Nam.

They both struggled with their feelings, and my mom tried in vain to deny it by putting distance between them physically and spiritually.  She’d promised herself to God… but it seems God had other plans.

After my Father Died, (He was Seventy) my Mom published a book of his love letters to her – most of them written in 1967- three years before my birth. In his honor today, and with his holiday on the horizon … I’ve re- published one (they are amazing).

My Dad would have been Ninety One today.

Happy Birthday Daddy.

Monday September 25th 1967

Dear Mary Jane, 

No mail again today. I have only received one letter- yours- since leaving home.  I’m getting very lonesome. I need a letter badly, Perhaps tomorrow.

It is very hot tonight. I can hardly breathe. The electrical power is so low the fans are barely turning. Twice today while operating the power failed. Even when it’s running high, the lights aren’t very good. I am learning to put up with so many deficiencies. It’s good for me. I am becoming a very adaptable and patient surgeon. That should be a new twist.

I have at this time a very ill nine year old girl with typhoid fever and a bowel perforation.  She need’s surgery but the poor, ignorant parents refuse to allow surgery. It’s sad but there is nothing I can do about it. I told the father she would die without surgery. He said he had eight children and he didn’t really care weather she died or not. Was it Kipling who said “East is East and West is West and never the ‘twain shall meet”? He meant of course that the West would never understand the East and vice versa. I believe that is true.

I have another little boy who is dying of cancer. His sister – about 11-12 years old- comes in every night to take care of him. She has got to be the nicest and cutest little girl I have seen in his country. When she see’s me, she greets me with a gracious bow. I can imagine what she would be like washed and well clothed.

There must be some mail tomorrow. I’ve got to hear from you. I’m lonesome and I miss you very much. 

I know you’ve been thinking of that trip to London- but you are not quite sure. You’ll think about it. You would like to but- to the supermarket in my car? What a scandal!!

Some day you may develop my point of view: I love you and I can’t stop- I’ll try to see you whenever the opportunity presents itself or whenever i can present the opportunity. That’s the way it is- London, New York, Detriot, Montreal, River Canard, anywhere on earth.

Love, 

Joe

A Love So Powerful

Shaw Age 2

There are those days as I wait for the kids to return from a weekend away with dad, when I physically ache for them.  The best part of any divorce is that you get a break.

The worst part of divorce is that you get a break.

I had this really unbelievably morbid thought today as I sat here aching: It’s that I can’t even imagine the pain of what it must be to lose a child, or have your child be physically hurt.  I know what you must be thinking… why would you even go here…?

I think because lately I’ve been watching TV again and I am privy to all the things that go on in the world that I was blissfully ignorant of before and when I hear about these things it makes me lose a piece of my heart and soul every time.  Just even the fact that it’s a part of the news along with every other happening and… then the weather… like, the fact that the world does not actually just stop rotating on it’s axis in response to a child’s pain or suffering just confounds me…

How would that be possible?

On a lighter note (oh thank God, you must be saying…)   both kids got home from school safe and sound.  I’ve not seen them since Friday morning when I dropped them off at school , and I felt like a puppy at the window- acting a bit like one too,  practically slurping their faces off with happiness… home again, home again, oh boy… wag wag.

During our after school snack my daughter informed me that her class is performing a play , at school. She said that’s three hours long and so I should start practicing sitting still starting, like now ( no comment) and then she said…

“and I need to warn you mom, it’s a little violent”

really? I asked… “In what way?”

“Well, there is a hanging- because, see it’s -old fashioned… back in the olden days when they killed people”

and then I thought to myself… “wow, right… she does not really have a concept of what the real world is like”… she does not have a concept because I have shielded her from the media, news and violent and devastating things since the day she was born, but one day, she’ll find out… and when ever that someday comes – it will be a someday way too soon.

I wish she never had to know… that she would continue thinking that “hangings” are the worst of it, and that this form of barbaric behavior is a past tense but I know i can not shield my baby forever…

It makes me realize though, how critical our role: as mothers-   It’s OUR LOVE for our children that is the only thing powerful enough to stand firm against the wrong that is done… mothers united with mothers who are united with mothers, all over the world.  Deep thoughts I know, but damn if motherhood does not make it so.