"Stand by your man"

My 4-year-old daughter continues her love affair with (dead) Michael Jackson.  She is addicted to MJ, and I am her codependent.  I call to her when MJ videos are on, I make CDs for her since she wants to listen to his music regularly before bed, and with a lot of begging, I can be reluctantly coaxed into doing the zombie moves from Thriller with her.  Okay, yeah, you caught me -- that's a lie.  It takes no coaxing at all, really.  We just hear the music and we perform.  It can't be helped.  

Yesterday, MJ tookover the tv channel FUSE (one of my favorites since they have interviews with musicians and they are one of the few music channels to still show music videos).  Emerson snuggled in on the couch to watch it.  When her cousins Blair and Ben (ages 5 and 8) came over to hang out, Ben looked at the tv with puzzlement on his face.  "Why are they playing Michael Jackson all day?" he asked, clearly hoping we could change the channel to iCarly or SpongeBob. 

Blair responded, "Because he's DEAD." 

You must understand -- Blair and Ben are my sister Jess' kids, and they have also dealt with the loss of their grandfather, our dad, in their young lives.  Explaining death to young children is nearly impossible, and yet they are fascinated by the topic and like to bring it up at random moments.  Just months after our dad died, Blair looked at her mom and said in that sweet preschool sing-song teasing voice, "You don't have a dad anymore.  You don't have a dad anymore."  Sometimes I believe her cuteness must be the evolutionary mechanism that allows for her survival. 

Emerson's response surprised even me.  She narrowed her eyes at Blair and a deep primitive growl came from her throat.  Then she said through clenched teeth and with more seriousness than I have ever seen from her, "I could fight you right now." 

I choked with laughter (another parenting award slips away from me), and Emerson began giggling along with me.  What a girl.  Her love has always been ferocious.  At least whomever steals her heart later in life will be well protected. 

"Stand By Your Man" by Tammy Wynette (looks like today I'm a little bit country -- yikes!)

"Violet"

We've always been told that it's best to forgive.  Well guess what?  I'm about to let all you non-forgivers off the hook.  Yep.  If you've been holding a grudge that you just can't shake (and maybe even feeling uneasy about it?), there's still hope that you're doing the right thing.   

I'm not sure why, and really, it's kind of embarrassing, but the Oprah Spirit Newsletter shows up regularly in my email.  I do not remember signing up for it, so I think Oprah is trying to tell me something personally.  Isn't that kind of her?  Most of the time, I delete immediately.  I'm not opposed to learning about the goodness of "spirit" or how to fix the twisted one inhabiting my body, but my time at the computer is limited, and I'm reading all of your blogs (which are way more entertaining because Oprah is not nearly snarky enough for me).  But the latest Spirit Newsletter caught my eye with an article titled, When You Should Hold a Grudge, by Martha Beck.  Beck outlines several instances when you should forgo forgiveness and hang tight with your little claws to grudgery.  I was intrigued. 

So I'll sum it up for you.  It's okay to hold a grudge against:

1. Planarians.  These are the "flatworms" that pathetically cannot evolve, the people who just don't get it and are blissfully ignorant, but they still drain you and offer nothing in return.  Planarians lack emotional intelligence and will never change.  Beck suggests that recognizing their characteristics and allowing yourself to grudge will give you the freedom to respond to them more rationally. 
2. Three-strikers.  If you've had a bad experience with someone, but then you discover that three unrelated sources have also had similar problems with the individual, alarm bells should be ringing in that pretty head of yours.  In this case, a grudge protects you.  And you should wear it like a "psychological Kevlar vest," according to Beck. 
3. Gaslighters.  You may feel uneasy in their presence because they manipulate the truth and maintain secret agendas -- oh, the gaslighters.  They are smooth talkers, and they cause you to constantly doubt yourself because of their ability to bend reality and explain away inconsistencies in their stories.  Slick.  And really sick. 
4. Les Pitiables.  Also often known as sociopaths.  They appear helpless and cover their asses by manipulating you to feel sorry for them even as they cause damage in your life.  They are always the victims.  Stay far away. 
5. The Hyde Transformers.  My favorite category of all.  Hydes go about their day calmly until a perceived transgression sets them off.  Then they morph into Mr. Hyde and rage like a demon possessed.  A few moments later, they are calm, pretending as if nothing happened, right back to Jekyll.  If you know someone like this, email me because I like to observe this one in action and then gossip about it later.  It's fun for me. 

There is real value in forgiveness, and Beck also mentions that forgiveness is something we all should work to cultivate.  Forgiveness heals and frees.  And I know that forgiving someone does not mean you have to let the transgressor into your life -- you can let go with a freshly scrubbed-clean heart and move on.  But maybe once in a while, like in the above instances, we may be better served to hold a grudge and stay leery instead of giving another chance.  What do you think?  Do you know anyone who would fit any of the descriptions?  How do you handle their instability?  If you don't share, I will totally hold a grudge.

"Violet" by Hole

"Snow [Hey Oh]"

Winter in Michigan.  Ma-a-a-an.  It's so cold that once I get home from work, I feel trapped in my own house.  I lack the courage that must be pried from one's being to walk out into the chill.  If we need a grocery item, like milk maybe, there must be another product we could substitute, say uh . . . coffee cream or sour cream or a combination of both?  Kids, you don't mind sour cream in your cereal, right?  Oh good, because I'll do anything to avoid leaving the fireplace for the rest of the night.  Shoot, I would do anything to hibernate in this house until the sunshine eventually makes a comeback in April. 

Bob and I have this little argument every winter, an argument involving very few words at all.  He sets our thermastat to 68 degrees (and this, folks, is a huge compromise for him as he would rather set it at 65 degrees because he's CHEAP frugal and thinks a frigid house will save us loads of dough). When I find myself shivering while wrapped in a sweater and fuzzy socks, I'll bump it up to 71 when he's not looking.  He recommends I put on a sweatshirt when I groan about it.  So I turn on the fireplace until the living room feels like a sauna.  Or I don an outfit like this and ask him, "Do you really want to have sex with a woman who looks like this all the time?"  I think I would miss this winter-weather tradition if we ever moved to a state where the sun makes a regular appearance. 

But I'll tell you a little secret of mine -- sometimes I find myself enjoying the snow for the briefest second.  When our roof is freshly powdered like a gingerbread house, and the trees are covered in white, and the snow on the ground acts as a blanket, muffling the sounds of the neighborhood until life feels like a simple breath of quiet for a moment, I pause at the beauty.  The stillness is also perfect for dampening the hostile curses I shout a minute later when I get a bit of snow in my shoes. 

"Snow [Hey Oh]" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers (I still adore you boys) 

"You can't always get what you want"

Maybe because I let my kids watch an embarrassing amount of tv, they know about Haiti.  They know there was a massive earthquake, and they know the entire capital has been reduced to rubble.  Their uncle is going there as a trauma nurse, and their dad applied to go as well (yes, heroes, the both of them).  In spite of seeing the horrific footage broadcast all over the television and discussing what it means with us, my darling daughter has a wicked hard heart when it comes to charity.  You may recall the last time I donated money?  It was to a (probably) homeless drug abusing prostitute woman outside of our favorite donut shop?  I wonder if that explains her behavior. 

Last week, I found a flier in her pre-school backpack indicating that her school would participate in a penny drive to aid with Haitian relief efforts. 

Me:  Hey, Emerson -- looks like you can donate pennies to help the people in Haiti.  Wanna take some in to school tomorrow?  We can put some in a baggie right now. 

Emerson, firmly and frowning:  NO. 

Me:  What?  Really?  Why not? 

Emerson, tight-lipped:  NO.  I'm saving that money for Disney. 

Me:  Yeah, I get that, but there are a lot of people there who could really use some emergency help.  Even little kids.  Imagine how bad off we would be if that happened here, like our homes and schools were destroyed, and we were hurt and needed help.  Don't you wish other people would be there to help us out?  [I mean, can't I guilt you into helping?]

Emerson, emotionless:  I said NO.  I'm not doing it.  I don't care. 

I know she's only four, and helping others is a lot to grasp.  But the "I don't care" part bothered me.  Perhaps she is mentally shielding herself from truly considering the horror.  But then, today . . .

Emerson:  Mom, can I take my whole penny jar to school to donate? 

Me:  Uh . . . yeah, sure . . . but I thought you didn't care about helping?

Emerson:  Well, my best friend Sage brought in all of her money.  All of it.  So I want to bring in all of mine too. 

A-ha.  Pre-school peer pressure, what a powerful force.  I like this tiny philanthropic Sage girl.  Maybe I can partner up with Sage to get Emerson to finally quit picking her nose and farting during dinner.

"You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Rolling Stones

"Come together"

Hello?  I am here, I swear it -- though my lack of blogging lately definitely indicates . . . that I haven't been blogging lately.  You are an observant group, I'll give ya that.  Between illness and reality television, dishes and laundry, I have been away from my true love the computer.  *Sniff*  I know.  It's a sad day when real life gets in the way of virutal life. 

But I am here, like the Whos in Horton Hears a Who.  And actually, the theme of Dr. Seuss' classic fits me rather well, I'd say -- "A person's a person, no matter how small."  I think at 5'2", I just barely surpass the height requirement to reside in Whoville.  Nearly my whole lot of sisters could be Whos as well.  We're practically a family of Whos, and I'm the second tallest.  I have two sisters under 5'.  We're little but quick and our bite leaves a mark (on your ankles - hee hee heh).  Never mess with a ferocious brood of short women.  We work in a pack like the tiny adorable dinosaurs in Jurassic Park -- you know, the ones that chirp sweetly and then gather together and pounce?  Yeah.  Those are my homeys.  But so are the Munchkins.  And I think only nerdy white people say "homeys" anymore, so put me in that category also.

I used to pray that I would get to 5'4", just two more inches.  Was that too much to ask, God?  I envy the length of those tall women.  The legs that go on forever instead of stopping abruptly.  When you're short, an extra five pounds looks more like ten.  And since I've put on eight pounds or so since Thanksgiving, you can imagine how my jeans fit now.  Pass the muffin top please.  (Reminder to self:  purchase Spanx on next shopping venture).   

My husband is tall.  Tall is hot.  It's not a coincidence that we are married, you know.  When we met, I had quite the genetic checklist for my future offspring.  Long legs, check.  Crazy thick hair (because mine is thin), check.  Adorable nose (because mine is damn huge ginormica a tad large-ish), chickety check.  Notice how kindness, intelligence, and overall handiness are characteristics that didn't even make my list.  I got lucky there.  So what if my head gets crushed into abnormal positions when we embrace?  So what if we can make-out (like teenagers, yes, still) more comfortably if I'm standing on the top stair? 

So now my children are growing taller than my family, and we're paying for it in outgrown clothing and appetities that just don't quit.  They have thick heads of hair, and my daughter screams every time I attempt to brush hers.  And it's probably too early to tell on the noses, but for all they stick their fingers up them, they are probably stretching them out anyway.   Maybe I should leave genetics to the professionals. 

"Come Together" by the Beatles