Happy Birthday, Jack!

July 10th was Jack's first birthday. He is now officially a toddler, although the United States government failed to acknowledge this with a letter or some other form of notification. I'm sure it was just an oversight.

Anywho, I made these little videos as a gift to Jack, a way of looking back at his first year and remembering it. Be prepared to cry... some of them are total tear-jerkers.

This first one is Jack's first day of life... grab the kleenex.



A little video about Jack's love affair with water. Caution: this video contains nudity.



Uncle Corey is Jack's favorite person in the whole wide world. Jack gets so excited when Corey walks through the door! If Jack were a cocker spaniel, he would pee on the floor every time. Here's a little video that shows how cute these two are together.



If you made this video, entitled Jack & Co., you know you are kind of a big deal.



This last one is a letter that I wrote to Jack on his birthday. Get more kleenex.

WWJD

I’m going through another phase, as I often do. It's a phase in my thinking, one that I will think will change my life forever- once I figure it out. But I said that last week about about a diet program I saw on TV. Anyways, this current life-changing phase revolves around these two suffixes: –ish and –less.

When placed behind the word self, two new words are created that have very different meanings. Due to my Sunday School teachings and various after school specials, I learned that selfish = bad, while selfless = good. I mean, let’s face it. Jesus was the epitome of self-less: went through hell, was tortured and crucified for the world, etc. And we’re all supposed to try to be like him, right? Isn’t that what it means when it says, “Deny yourself, pick up your cross and follow Jesus?”

I heard a lot of stuff about selfish vs. selfless. Selfless people were always revered on Sunday mornings at church. There would be a slide presentation about the Walsh family in Peru who were living amongst the aborigines who would daily threaten the Walsh children’s lives by putting deadly snakes in their cribs and dragging them down to the river to be eaten by the crocodiles. And yet the Walsh family continued to be of service to the Lord and to the Tichian tribe of Peru by spreading the good gospel. And would you consider sending $20.00 – just the cost of a cup of coffee a day – to the Walsh family so that they can buy the necessary vaccines and snake venom antidotes that they need to continue their ministry?

They never did a slide show on the Stewart family that took a rejuvenating vacation to Cabo that summer after a long year of being a soccer mom and VP of sales at Qualcom. They didn’t talk about how great it was that the Stewarts flew first class and ate at five-star dining establishments in an effort to enjoy themselves and the beauty of the world around them. (Unless, of course, the Stewarts spent their time in Cabo passing out tracks and reciting the sinner’s prayer with other beach goers on vacation. Then they might get a nod from the pastor).

In fact, as a child I was often able to detect a hint of disdain from the pulpit for families like the Stewart’s. It seemed that I was warned against this kind of hedonism, this blatant soothing of the flesh that has no reward in heaven. “Do not build up your treasures here on earth,” “do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit,” “no one should seek out his own good but the good of others,” etc. I was groomed to be a martyr, to care more about others than myself, to feel guilty every time I walked past a homeless man without offering him my last silver coins. I was taught that by choosing a cup of coffee instead of sending my allowance to Peru, I was choosing to let children die.

So, fast forward 10, 20 years and here I am, still wrestling with my guilt over buying my venti iced coffee instead of sending $29.99 to end genocide in Darfur. And I’m serious, folks. I feel like I am choosing to let children die every time I enjoy that sweet, milky coffee that seems to switch me from off to on every morning. How could I be so selfish, the preacher’s voice inside my head asks? How could you deny Jesus in this way? How could you care more about your own comfort over the lives of dying women and children in Darfur?

I used to listen to this voice religiously. Out of a tremendous sense of responsibility for the world’s poor and sick and hungry, I sent my money to Compassion and Amnesty and the Red Cross. I ate a completely vegan diet for two years when I realized how the raising of farm animals devastated the earth and its resources. I’ve lobbied congress, sent letter to my senators, complained on the White House comment line. I became a social worker and a foster parent to rescue abused children. I only buy clothing made in the US in order to prevent the proliferation of sweat shops… but I still feel guilty. I still feel guilty for the amount of water I waste every day, for spending $25.00 on a pretty shower curtain, for wanting to give birth to another child instead of preferring to adopt one. I feel guilty for having what I have and for wanting more. I feel guilty for taking up space on the planet at all.

I’m tired of feeling bad for enjoying a cup of coffee. I want to be done with the anxiety that comes along with this tremendous sense of over-responsibility and I am ready to embrace the beauty of the world around me without apologizing for my first-class plane ticket. But I don’t know how yet.

Perhaps there is a clue to this issue of suffixes in the question written on the slap bracelet I used to wear so proudly: What Would Jesus Do? This always seemed like an easy question: give your stuff away, die for each other, turn the other cheek, become a doormat, etc. But maybe this isn’t accurate at all. Perhaps I had Jesus all wrong. As I recall, he did put Judas in his place when Judas chastised the woman for “wasting” expensive perfume on Jesus’s feet. Judas argued that the money could have been used for the poor, but Jesus told him, “There will always be poor, but I won’t be around long. Enjoy me while I’m here.”

So, what would Jesus do? Seems to me that he might just order the venti iced coffee, and add a blueberry scone to go with it. He might even have done so in designer sandals. Maybe there is a way to enjoy the bounty and beauty of this life without feeling guilty, without feeling as if I’m stealing from the poor. Maybe.

The A List

The must-haves Amber thinks are just great:

1. Little brothers who mop your kitchen floor while he babysits your child. Thanks, Corey!
2. The VW billboards. As a beetle owner, I beam with pride when I see the fabulous VW billboards urging us to "Dare to be happy." Jaded is overrated, Misery has enough company..." I could start a religion based on this stuff. In fact, I will. Services at 11:00pm.
3. Cathy Griffin, My Life On the D-List. Love love lovety love love love her. Love.
4. Shutterfly.com. I'm going to admit something to all of you but you have to promise to still like me. I like to scrapbook. Oh god, I hate admitting that. I was never a crop-till-you-drop-diehard, but I do own a paper-cutter and a punch, or two. Shutterfly is excellent because of the amazing photobooks that you can create online. They're simple, cute, and they don't require adding on a spare bedroom for your craft supplies.
5. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. A smart, quick paced show that takes lots of shots at the religious right. And Chnandler Bong is in it!
6. The Glamazons. I found myself inspired by these ladies, although their lead singer could use a pitch corrector for performances. Yikes. OH, and watch to the end of the video for the Hoff's reactions. Fab.
7. Hey Paula. Oh.My.God. An hour of pure crazy. L-O-V-E. Straight up.
8. This photo of Jack eating a lime

eharmony dot panic attack dot com

A few nights ago, I saw a commercial for perfectmatch.com and I became temporarily insane inspired. You see, while the very thought of dating makes my body go numb with fear, I realize that it may be a necessary evil to finding a partner to share my life with. And lately, I've been feeling as though my life just might be worth sharing with somebody.

This notion of inviting someone else into my life crept up on me, somewhat unexpectedly. Up until a few months ago, I was singing the praises of living alone. After 28 years of roommates and boyfriends and brothers and dorms, I have been relishing the joys of aloneness. Ahhh, the remote to myself. Ahhh, I can listen to Celine Dion and nobody will know. Ahhh, sweatpants all day. I can leave the dishes in the sink for a week if I want to. I can just walk around that pile of laundry on my floor for a few more days. I can just choose not to look at that ring around the inside of my toilet. It's my house!

So, I started taking the free compatability test which reminded me of the quizzes in the back of Glamour Magazine I used to take in Junior High. " Do you tend to be more spontaneous in planning things or do you prefer a schedule." Spontaneous. Check. "Would your friends classify you as the life of the party or more of a wallflower." Life of the party. Check. This is fun!

But then it got very, very un-fun. It got downright mean and nasty. It started asking about the not-so-pretty parts of me, the parts of me that I like to hide even from myself, the parts of me that are labeled with scarlet letters of shame and odium. "Deal-Breakers," the page was titled. But in my mind it should have been, "Reasons Why You Will Reject Me" or "Reasons Why I Will Not Get a Match." I couldn't believe it was asking me to just put it all out there, that I am "Full Figured" and "Financially Unstable." It was as if they has asked me to go stand in front of the classroom and, layer by layer, take off my clothes with each little box I had to check. "Often late." Check. "Smoker" Check. "Suicidal after filling out this questionnaire." Check.

After a few cigarettes and a pep talk from a friend, I talked myself down off of the ledge and completed the questionnaire. Later on, it asked me what I was willing to tolerate in my future partner and things like "Bald or Balding" and "More Messy Than Tidy" were checked, while "Unwilling To Have Children" and "Sports Addict" were kept in the intolerable category. I realized that I just might make the day of some bald, messy guy who thinks he's totally rejectable based on these things. And maybe some guy out there thinks that being a "Spender Rather Than a Saver" is sexy! Who knows.

Happy Father's Day

Quite often I get asked, "How do you manage being both the mommy and the daddy to your son?" This question always catches me off guard because I do not consider myself to be both mother and father. I am not, nor will I ever be, Jack's father. How could I be? I am totally and only his mother, and this is all I will ever be. This idea that I would try to somehow play both roles makes as much sense to me as thinking that I can fill in as the family dog, something we also don't have in our home.

And yet, I believe we are not lacking. Jack and I are blessed to be surrounded by wonderful men who support us, take care of us, and otherwise love us so much that we're convinced that life is just as it should be. And so today I would like to acknowledge the men in our lives who fill in the much needed spaces that only a man can fill. Some things are just better left to the men, like teaching Jack how to pitch a tent and make a periscope (thanks Dad), or modeling how to revere and respect a woman (thanks, Craig), or effortlessly tossing, spinning, and air- plaining my son all through the air (thanks, Corey). I truly cannot do alone, and thanks to you I don't have to.

Thank you, Billy, for giving me the experience of being loved totally and unconditionally. Thank you, Dad, for proving me wrong about you. Thank you, Sean, for showing me how a wife can be treated in marriage. Thank you, Donovan, for your very nurturing presence in the shittiest of times, as well as the joyous ones. Thanks, Corey, for the billions and billions of little things that have made my life so much more livable, from making Jack laugh when he's fussy, to creating the best toy ever! He lights up when he sees you, and so do I. Thank you for your unfailing support. Thanks, Nate, for paving the way to great parenting, showing me what an attentive, fun parent looks like. Thanks, Craig, for delighting in my son- oops, I mean, your son. I love that you love him like you do!

Happy Father's Day to you, my amazing army of men! I love you!

Boys and Their Toys

I don't know how to put this politely, so I'm not even going to try. My son loves his junk. And when I say he loves his junk, I mean he loves his junk.

It is the very first thing he goes for when he gets naked. I'll barely have his diaper off of his body and - BAM - his hands are all over his shit, like moth to a flame. In the bathtub, it's one hand on genitalia, another hand holding rubber ducky.

He can't get enough of it. He just loves his stuff. And quite frankly, I'm beginning to get a little bit worried. I mean, I know that all men seem to have a sort of obsessive love affair with their penises, but I didn't expect it to begin at such a young age.

But maybe it does. Maybe it's like some instinctual, survival of the fittest, Darwinian primal urge to love and caress and revere one's "family jewels" in order to preserve the species. Maybe it's just jock itch. I don't know.

As a woman who is sans penis and raising a son who is in love with his, I need a little help here, guys. Help me understand. I mean, I have no reference for a body part that I love as much as you guys love your penises. And, if my son's fascination is any indication of what's normal, this super-appreciation for your stuff starts out real early.

So guys, do us girls all a favor and fill us in on the joys of manhood.

The Rocking Chair

I am holding your entire body in my arms.

You are wrapped in the blanked grandma knit for you; your fingers poke through the stitches. Our chests, pressed together, expand and fall at different rhythms.

I can feel your heartbeat.

A pink cheek is illuminated by the dim light, inviting me to kiss its smooth surface. I do. Your ear touches a tiny shoulder, a shoulder that suggests that someday it will belong to a man, strong and angular. But not tonight. Tonight it is soft and round, like a caterpillar or half baked bread.

Music from a toy given to you at Christmastime lulls you to sleep, but it is your breathing that soothes me. Shallow, rattled breaths escape from your mouth, passing by rose petal lips that beg me to meet them with my own. Paper eyelids cover dreaming eyes, and I long to kiss these, too.

Every part of you draws me close; I could stay in this embrace forever.