Creating a World of Joyful Hearts

On Sunday night, a friend and I sat by the banks of the Patuxent River, drinking red wine and watching the sky bloom into rosy, amber perfection before settling into darkness.

We had one of those conversations that you wish you could put in your pocket--witty, thoughtful, and reflective.

She was discussing the world she wanted for her daughters, and it made me think about the world I want my sons to give her daughters, and in turn, her daughters to give my sons.

In other words, it made me think: How do I raise men who treasure, value, and respect women?

Redefine Strength
Masculine strength is traditionally viewed through the prism of power and physicality. Don't get me wrong---there is nothing wrong with being physically strong. Yet, I try to teach my boys to recognize and admire strength in all its forms.

There is strength in speaking the truth, in proclaiming that it is not okay to use "fag" or "retard" as a pejorative.

There is strength in listening. Instead of thinking of what you're going to say next, be fully present and engaged in conversation.

There is strength in humility. Don't be afraid to admit that you need help, or you do not understand, or if you are afraid. Nothing builds a connection more quickly than simply acknowledging that we are all souls, and we are all on this journey together.

Recognize Our Light
Because we are all souls, we must live lives worthy of that light.

This means love should never hurt. We do not hurt our loved ones with words, our hands, or our bodies. We must never allow contempt to enter a relationship. Yes, people disagree. Yes, there may be anger. But never, ever allow those dark moments to extinguish another light.

This means that we are not better than anybody else. Talk to the waitress, the custodian, and the substitute teacher like you would talk to your grandmother. Say "please" and "thank you." Hold the door open for people, and pick up litter on the side of the road. Give blood. Buy a stranger a cup of coffee.

After all, that's somebody's baby.

Put Your Feet in the Moment
You only get one life. Embrace the miracle of life, fatherhood, friendship, and love.

Embrace the grace which comes from life's stumbles.

Seek the joy in a full moon, a cherry blossom, or a perfect line drive.

And, please. in the midst of all this...call your mother.

This post was written in support of a non-profit called The Joyful Heart Foundation, which was founded in 2004 by Mariska Hargitay, who plays Detective Olivia Benson on “Law & Order: SVU.”  Mariska started getting fan mail from rape survivors and was moved to create a foundation to help heal the victims of crimes dramatized on her show.  Joyful Heart’s initial and primary mission is to help victims of sexual assault mend their minds, bodies and spirits and reclaim their lives.

Today, the foundation is also at the forefront of an effort to end a disheartening backlog of tens of thousands of rape kits in labs across the country, a backlog that contributes to a rapist’s 80 percent chance of getting away with his crime.  The backlog and its detrimental effects will be the topic of an SVU episode on Wednesday, September 29th.

Please click here to read other writers' vision for their children's futures in support of this cause.

Red Writing Hood: Ad patres

This week's Red Writing Hood Challenge is an opportunity to attempt poetry. The topic is "Where I'm From" and it follows a template. It's like Mad-Libs, minus the poop jokes. As always, comments and feedback are most valued!

 


Ad patres


I am sidewalk chalk, the Crayola gasp of discovery. 

I am the dusty stucco parade of houses, the false lawns in a thirsty land.

I am the ocotillo, her prickly tentacles bewitching and true. 

I am scribbled margins and restless dreams; new houses and shadowy men.  I am dreaming Marion, knitting her black afghan in the shadows..

"Be the hands that are missing," they say. "Remember that you represent our household," they chide. 

The sublime grace of the Frozen Chosen.

The sun cracks the desert floor like a piecrust, but I am the prairie's relentless chill. I am tamales and green jello-- big sky and big shoulders.
 
I am my grandmother's education, cut short and tied like sausages. I am the square carpenter's pencils, these stern lead fence-posts. I am the evening snoozes in the armchairs, the silent, ponderous yearnings. 

I am their perfect, singular bubble. Drifting, iridescent, and full, they watch me, whispering their hopes into the wind.

I  float, as soft as a dream, until I meet them in the sky.

I Only Get to Do this Once

My oldest is going to be five in February, and hasn't napped with any frequency for almost a year.

I chose to ignore this fact and call two to three hours a day "quiet time." I banished him to his room with some books and toys, and told him that he couldn't come out until his little brother woke up from his nap.

This worked out marvelously for about a year. Baby slept. Oldest learned self-regulation. I got to write.

Alas, though, times have changed. For a variety of reasons too tedious to explain, Owen is now downstairs with me during Joel's nap-time. It was time.

I tired to write while he was downstairs for a couple of days. I couldn't concentrate.This may explain the preponderance of posts involving the Pope.

I found myself pecking at a screen while my son played by himself in the backyard. It was a breathtaking fall day---just a hint of chill in the air, sunshine, glorious light.

And here I was, answering emails and checking my Facebook account.

Such a waste. I will never have that afternoon again.

So, things are going to change. The computer will remain off during the day. After they go to bed, I will have a conversation with my husband before I log in. I will write at the end of the day, and I will probably post far less frequently.

I only get to do this once. If I'm going to write my life, I had better start living it.

***

That being said...I am the featured writer for the Red Dress Club. This is a wonderful group of women writers.

Their weekly red writing hood challenges have really kick-started my fiction. Please consider joining them on Friday. Also, go ahead and click over to read my profile. I won't mind that one bit.

Never Underestimate the Power of Creativity

The Pontify-my-Son contest has blown my mind thus far.
(See yesterday's post for background. )
Amazing entry #1 by Salt:

Amazing Enrty #2 by The Blogging Goddess:

Amazing entry #3 by my cousin, dek:

 

Seriously...the world is FULL of awesome. 

Contest closes tomorrow night, so you can still enter.

Winner gets either a can of Old Bay or an Eddie Murray bobblehead...or something else if you're not interested in a Maryland-themed prize.

I will have my husband and my non-blogging girlfriends determine the winner. It will be seriously challenging. For realz.

Pope. Popeity Pope Pope.

In the lobby of Owen's preschool, there are several framed photographs of the Popes throughout the ages.

Without fail, each day, Joel will point to the pictures and say, "Who Dat?"

"That's the Pope, honey," I say.

He'll immediately point to another picture, "Who Dat?"

"Another Pope."

And on and on it goes.

Yesterday, during lunch, Joel was saying "Poop! Poop!"

I frowned and said, "Honey, no potty talk at the table."

Owen, who often translates for his brother, said, "No Mommy, Joel is talking about the Pope."

I turned to Joel and asked, "Is that true, honey?"

He nodded his head vigorously, delighted to be understood.

Owen added in, "Joely wants to be Pope!"

I said, "Is that true, Joely?"

Again, smiles and vigourous head nodding.

I said, "Well, I have honestly never considered that idea. Ever. At all."

Besides the pesky detail that we aren't Catholic, I just cannot imagine my child hanging out in the Vatican, or waving from a Popemobile. I certainly wouldn't kiss his ring.

I mean, I know where that hand as been.

Owen said, "If Joel is going to be Pope, he's gotta learn to play piano!"

Naturally. All the best Popes---Pope Elton John comes to mind---have tickled the ivories.

I suppose that's another roadblock towards Joel's Papacy.

Well, I suppose a mother can imagine. I mean, somebody rocked all those pontiffs to sleep.

For all those Photoshop experts out there, I throw down this challenge: Deck out my son in Papal Regalia. If you can include the pointy hat, that would be stellar.

The person who creates the most fantastic image of my son as pope will win an Eddie Murray Bobblehead. I won it at an Orioles game years ago, and it's probably worth some money. If you don't want that, I will send you a can of Old Bay.

The contest closes Wednesday night. Here's your subject. Have at it:

Red Writing Hood: Gaping Hole

Those dastardly ladies at the red dress club thought it would be fun to toy with me this week.

The Red Writing Hood challenge is:

Write a morality tale based on forgiveness but written with the fantasy genre in mind - create a whole new world comprised of supernatural phenomenon.

Seriously? Fantasy is not my friend.

That is, with the possible exception of  Orlando Bloom. He can be my friend anytime.

***
Gaping Hole 

"Look," I said, pacing back and forth,  "I've been a tooth fairy for three years. I've done bicuspids. Molars. Lateral incisors. I think I know what I'm talking about."

Sprite pushed down his glasses, placed his quill on his mushroom desk, and smiled softly. "Drake, nobody is questioning your talents. You  have harvested more teeth than any other fairy in the glen. You're good. Thanks to you, we had a record harvest of dentine and cementine."

He chuckled softly to himself. "Yet...I can't help but  remember your first trip out..."

Ah, this again. I forced my lips into a smile, and played along:  "I really thought I had found treasure in that glass. I was sure-"

"You were sure that plastic teeth soaking in green salts were going to make you King of the Fairies!' He laughed openly now, his gossamer wings shaking as he gasped out the words, "You said, 'We're rich, Uncle Sprite! We're rich!'"

I sat down on the acorn chair across from his desk. "What can I say? Rookie mistake."

He winked, and leaned forward, "My boy, those false teeth couldn't power a dandelion, let alone the entire glen! So, remember that, Mr.I-Know-What-I'm-Talking-About. "

I laughed, mainly for his benefit. Clearing my throat, I stated, "I believe I've more than made up for it." I ticked off each point with my finger, "Who tipped you off about the Osmond Family? Gary Busey? Hilary Swank? The National Hockey League?"

He nodded, "Yes, my boy. Thanks to Busey alone, we were able to power up the entire Redwood District. You've always had good instincts. It does, after all, run, in the family."

I stood up, puffed myself up to my full six inches. "You know, I have more ideas. Well beyond finding celebrities with unfortunate teeth. We could really take this to the next level! We've already started with harvesting the cemeteries....it seems logical that we would harvest the..."

Sprite held up a hand, "Don't say it. Just--"

"I'm not finished!" I said, "All those teeth...all that potential power...just sitting there..wasting away. I can't believe we are talking about this again! Or more specifically, not talking about it again."

I ran my fingers through my hair, gestured towards the bar, "Do you mind?"

Sprite opened his hands, "By all means, son." I poured myself a nectar, drank it in one swift gulp.

The familiar liquid softness did nothing to slow the pounding of my heart, the energy pulsing from my head to my wingtips. "Will you just consider the idea?"

He frowned, his eyes dark unrepentant caverns. "No, Drake. No I will not. We are fairies. We are not monsters. It's a---"

I pointed a finger in his face, my voice steely, "I know, I know, it's a business. We take the teeth when they don't see, we pay them a handsome fee. GROW UP, Sprite!"

I turned my back to him, my fingernails cutting into the palms of my hands, "They don't need them all, anyway," I mumbled. "Just a quick yank, a bit of blood, and the toothy riches could be ours."

I felt his rooty knarl of a hand rest on my shoulder, "You have had so much taken from you," he whispered. "I haven't forgotten. First your father's accident.. And then her. I'm so, so sorry that she never came back."

Mom. She left for England years ago. Seeking riches, seeking teeth. Plenty of both there. 

I turned to him, and whispered, "It's just not right." I bowed my head. "It's just not right at all."

He held me and said, "You're right. It isn't right." He pressed his forehead against mine and whispered, not unkindly, "But, my boy, learn from her mistakes.You can't take things from people. You can't take away a childhood. You can't take a living tooth.  It always, always leaves a gaping hole."

The Most Pointless Build Up to a Cookie Recipe Ever

After yesterday's insomnia post, I decided to drink a purely medicinal glass on Pinot Grigio (Mommy's Time Out, if you're curious) before bed.

I woke up nine hours later, fresh as a daisy, and channeling my inner Miley Cyrus. I was both shaking my hips and nodding my head like yeah. Good thing that Britney song wasn't on, or I could have injured myself.

(Thanks, MamaPop, incidentally, for bringing that song back from the dead for me.)

We had a busy day today.

I decorated for the Fall Holidays:

Awesome

TERRIFYING. 

Other highlights include Owen eating a carrot: 

Also, me pretending to eat his carrot, much to his amusement and my dorkosity:

Joel felt compelled to share that he was enjoying his peanut butter:

He also ate my face.

As you can imagine, all this pouring candy corn into jars and taking blurry pictures with a cell phone can take the Miley right out of a girl.

So, I did not make delicious cookies, as I had planned. Trust me, they are really good. Have I let you down yet?

Don't answer that.

Awesome Cream Cheese Cookies
1/4 cup margarine or butter
1 package of cream cheese
1 egg yolk
1/4 teaspoon of vanilla
1 package of yellow or chocolate cake mix.

Cream butter and cream cheese. Blend in egg yolk and vanilla. Add cake mix (just the dry cake mix) and cover and chill for approximately thirty minutes. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Roll dough into balls and roll in sugar. Flatten on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 8-20 minutes.

They are to die for. Check in with adrienzgirl if you want to see other delicious cookie recipes.