#theseandother2020thoughts

 How am I going to go back to sucking-in undergarments and clothes not made of at least 50 percent spandex? Will I face a day when I draw on my eyebrows again and leave the house, ready to face a number of people who aren't my husband? Will pants be widely worn ever again?#theseandother2020thoughts

The talking playtable. A night adventure.

I was out at the curb at 1:31 a.m. in my night robe. I figured out why my son had been waking up screaming in the middle of the night.

As I fed his brother a bottle in the dark, a brightly-colored toy suddenly said in technicolor terrible flashes: "Level, level 1, let's have some fun!" How about no, Creeper Toy. Mama's not gonna have this.

Remnants of my son's nighttime bottle in one hand and the rogue playtable clutched in the other, I marched out of their bedroom and into the night, an exorcising mother on a mission.

The HOA may cite me as a nighttime oddity. "Who was the lady in barely a night robe carrying the zombie kid playtable at 1:31 a.m. on (my street)? She looked suspicious."

Suspicious indeed, Nextdoor. But I won the night.

And P.S.: Don't pick up the playtable she left on the curb...unless you want to end up like her, questioning through a bleary mind whether a dead loved one is speaking out through a kid's toy or the toymaker made intentionally shorting-out fuses to really mess with consumers...it's a lot of nighttime thoughts, and I -- no you, should get to sleep. So drive by. Don't be tempted by free stuff that talks. Stick to outdoor toys for curb finds.

"Yinz getting air yet?" A memory of Mom's Ford Tempo and snorted laughter on a Monday

Monday morning our little family was headed to daycare. The heat was already making us all sticky, and as I turned out onto the main road near our house the air-conditioning blasted in my face. I was almost cold with it and I thought about whether the boys in the back were getting enough cool air.

They have vents overhead in the new vehicle, so I didn't really think about it too much.

Then, I was instantly taken back to another hot, sticky summer when I was a little kid in the back of my mom's Ford Tempo. It was a Tuesday. I know that because we'd just come from Tuesday's Ladies Group Bible Study. My aunts and cousins were there. We were all headed to town to buy craft supplies for some upcoming craft sale. The windows were up.

My mom was so proud of that new, used car. It was the biggest lemon you could ever imagine. The car broke down literally the same day my dad bought it. He drove it up the Three Mile Hill in Acme, Pennsylvania, and it died, right there in the setting sun at my grandma's house. I will never forget the slew of words that slipped out my dad's mouth as he looked into the dark, smoking abyss where the motor lived.

I don't remember exactly when the car was fixed, but it had been, and my mom was ready to take as many people as possible in it to try out the air-conditioning.

My mom, my grandma and at least one or two little ones were lodged together in the front seat and it seemed the entirety of the cousin-class were in the back. I imagine there were probably two adults and three or four little kids back there, but at the time, it felt like three adults and 9 children lodged in there. Like steerage on the Titanic.

It was fine going to town. We weren't hot yet. My mom continued to promise over the deep red of the Tempo seats that the air-conditioning was getting started and soon everyone would be cool.

"We're getting cool up here," she'd say. "You feel air back there yet?"

Maybe? A wisp or two of a breeze from between the seats?

"It'll be so cool in here soon," she'd say to us and herself.

By the time we'd reached the store parking lot, we knew something was up. Everyone was hot, but my mom refused to let us roll down the windows.

"We're getting air up here," she'd say. "Are yinz getting air back there? It'll be cool soon. Just wait."

For some reason we spent an inordinate amount of time waiting for everyone to get ready to go into the store. This happened a lot growing up. Like we were always winding up to go into the store. Planning to. Almost going. But something or someone was holding back. A misplaced receipt. A missing wallet. A baby that needed their shoe. So we sweated inside that red box of a Ford for at least 20 minutes. You think no air-conditioning is bad in a moving vehicle? Try an idling one. By the time we got out, my cousins and I literally had to peel ourselves off of each other, our sticky thighs pasted together in the heat.

My mom stayed cheerful. Chipper. She'd felt a bit of the blessed Freon and it was icing her brain. The kids in the back were like gum left in the sun -- touch us and you'd know there was a mess.

I don't remember the particulars of that afternoon, but I do remember piling in there at least two more times between stores, my legs actually chafing in the heat. She repeated it every time we got in: "Yinz getting air yet?"

No, Mom. But -- and this is what I wish I would have known then -- I'll love you more than you know one day in July, many years from now, as I sit in an air-conditioned jetliner of a van in the front seat, blasted with Freon, telling my husband the story through snorts of laughter.

"Yinz getting air yet?"

Yeah, Mom. I finally did. And it's glorious.

The things that stick: Parenting, loss and more in a pandemic

My little boy isn't saying his letters anymore. 

When he was home with us, he was saying them all the time, and grabbing them off the refrigerator door -- they were magnetic gifts to give Mommy and Daddy as they struggled to work and play and teach this little man in the making.

I bought the magnetic letters just before COVID-19 hit. His grandparents had the same set and I thought it might be good for him to practice at home. In his thinking moments, my little boy would lazily chew on the corner of one of the letters. I think the B is the most worn. He knew this one straight away.

Just to let you all know -- I'm sitting here in tears over a chewed magnetic letter that I saw as I cleaned the refrigerator this evening. After work. After bedtime and my baby's last bottle before the long sleep. After everything. 

And mostly after reading this. Read it and you'll understand.

My little boys are back in daycare. It's like we were pulled back from insanity. But is it OK to miss the insanity some too? It's like going through another end of maternity leave times two. And somehow it's all so much worse because I'm still at home. There's nowhere to go off to. I'm sitting here in our home office remembering my little baby gazing up at me as I tried to make work worth reading.

Having two babies in less than two years was a lot, but all that and COVID-19? I don't know how I'm functioning. I don't know how any parent is functioning. The heartbreak of these impossible decisions on a daily basis, if you really stop and think about them, will make you into a puddle in no-time. Do I send them to daycare and potentially expose them to children who are infected? Do I keep them at home and potentially lose my job for some mistake I made in my haste to not have my son swallow bleach? Do I continue to deprive my son of socialization in perhaps the most important time for socialization because his actual life might be on the line?

We're all just supposed to carry on. Yes. Keep calm and parent on.

But I don't think I'm going to keep quiet. This is all just massively stupid. Our world, our nation, our communities need better than this. We need a PLAN. We need OPTIONS.

Our plan when all of this started was to take the kids out of daycare and just do our best and only call on the grandparents and extended family when absolutely necessary.

When those options ran out, I actually seriously considered driving all the way to my mother's home in Pennsylvania, two babies in tow over a weekend's time -- more than 1,300 miles -- in order to find some relief. 

That relief came when I finally did what I do -- I pushed. One Sunday or Monday evening about a month ago, I thought about it and realized what I'd been saying all along -- "This is unsustainable." It had become my end-of-the-day sentence. The New York Times author above called it all untenable. They're synonyms. We were feeling the same thing. We're all feeling the same thing. 

I finally did what I'd feared I'd do. I said, "We're taking the kids to daycare tomorrow," and we did. I think my husband was probably happy I finally pushed hard enough. For so long, we both lacked the resolve to follow through with what each other was really knowing we needed to do. We were -- and are -- still afraid. There's so much to be afraid of.

However, when I say it's been the best thing, it's true. We now have some shred of the normal before the pandemic.

And still, oh-so-torn. The past few months have been amazingly sweet. I felt like a real Mom -- or at least some ideal in my mind. A mom who was always there for her kids. But in the same thought, I remember that the ideal isn't what reality was like. My sons deserved better than stolen moments and half of mom and dad's attention between conference calls. They deserve better than Mister Rogers as nanny. (Besides, he was shite at diapers.)

Now that I'm back working without the kids here, both my husband and I have found ourselves feeling lonely. The house is quieter. We know they're being cared for by the best, but it doesn't stop us from missing them, too. The magnetic letters are on the fridge in the laundry room. I passed them today as I threw in a load of laundry in during a snack break. The moment rushed back: My son handing me the C as I was typing up an article not too long ago. "C," he said. 

I want two of me. I'm sure I'm not the only parent thinking that. Some probably want 5 or 6 of themselves. We want to experience this fullness of life, but constantly are split apart, but never in more stark relief than now.

I imagine this will all be the start of some great conversation -- long overdue -- about parents and parenting and work. Maybe there will be better society that comes out of all of this. Maybe some company will find a way for us to duplicate ourselves. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Let us all be careful about the maybes of now. It's more important, I'm finding, to keep this all close to remind us of how truly impossible it all was -- and is. And yet we've carried on. There's strength in us. 

I'm going to stop bawling at my keyboard and look ahead. This weekend me and my nearly 2-year-old will be out at the drink fridge working with the magnets. He'll be screaming all the letters soon enough. 

Hope you all have a happy Independence Day. May you find liberty and freedom where you can find it in these extraordinary times.

Mister Rogers in the COVID-era neighborhood

I may have mentioned that I’ve watch more than a few MisterRogers Neighborhood episodes in the past few months.

In truth, I think I’ve gone a little overboard with my love of Mister Rogers, but I think that’s genuinely OK, given the times we’re living in. 

Part of this new fascination included purchasing new coffee cup, a DVD set, watching a stellar documentary and reading this children’s book -- loaned from the library – to my young sons. Mister Rogers has been a steadying voice in the background of our current turbulence. 

For myself, I checked out a little tome when the library opened back up. It’s called “Exactly as You Are: The Life and Faith of Mister Rogers” by Shea Tuttle. I fondly gave it the nickname “The Book of the Church of Mister Rogers.”

I mean, the man should be a saint, right? I would wear a WWMRD bracelet. Seriously. I don’t think Jesus would feel slighted in the least. If Jesus wore the bracelet, I think he would smile as he was reminded to feed the fish or feed the people fish. Or something like that.

But anyway.

The book speaks to the theology of the character of Mister Rogers, so close to the actual man Fred Rogers. I always admired Mister Rogers’ universal message of love and kindness and joy in the little things. He didn’t bang his theology over your head. He welcomed you into his neighborhood and let it live and breathe as he did, in sweet, measured and overflowing terms.

I think I remember what many of us remember about Mister Rogers meeting a little boy in a wheelchair. His kind, open comments. I’m always nervous speaking to people who are different than myself, afraid to let them see how I don’t want to hurt them by the things that could tumble out of my mouth. When I read that the segment was not rehearsed -- generally laid out but not scripted -- I felt the love of Mister Rogers even stronger. He was confident in his ability to be OK with making mistakes and saying “I’m sorry,” but even more than that, he was transcending the need for apologies because he expected a connection with that little boy – his name is Jeff Erlanger by the way – that was exactly as he was.

My faith now is of the universal sort. I’m Episcopalian by label. Mister Rogers was Presbyterian. The somewhat exclusive nature of his faith is at times so familiar to me. You’re never quite sure for sure for sure if you’re going to go to heaven. I grew up in an evangelical church. I thought the only way to be a Christian was to believe one way. And even if you were on that path, you needed to continue to re-examine yourself to make sure you hadn’t fallen away. I still believe in examining yourself, but my understanding today is a little less self-flagellation and more love. When I decided that my Christian upbringing didn’t match with the world that I experienced, I opened myself up to more understanding of God’s love in all people. That didn’t mean I watered things down, though many people would probably think that. No, oh no, my faith and love for God has gotten stronger in reaching out to others in my neighborhood. That’s what Mister Rogers was saying all those years ago to us as kids. And he didn’t bang you over the head with it. That’s what makes the message beautiful -- its open nuance is something that, again, I think Jesus would appreciate. Be universal. Bring people in and you will find love and be loved because, after all, God is love.

There is a passage in the book and also in the documentary “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” about Fred Rogers as he was dying. He asked his wife if he was a sheep. I grieve knowing that he asked this, and I totally understand it. He questioned whether he would be acceptable to God as a sheep and not a reviled goat, as scripture has it. He questioned whether God would bring him into his kingdom in heaven. His wife, Joanne, answered, “Fred, if ever there was a sheep, you’re one.” I guess we’re all going to ask this, but I wonder why our faith has to be so torturous as we lay dying. We all should be able – after a lifetime of struggle and pain and questions – to finally find rest in the knowledge of God’s love and understanding. I really want that. I really want to be able to believe and know that God knows my heart and will find me acceptable in all my flaws and hurts and scars and sadness and joys. Period. End of discussion. Let me just friggin’ die in peace. Mister Rogers. Friggin’ Mister Rogers didn’t have that peace. Can anyone then? Has the faith that we’ve clung to our entire lives going to tear us apart when we need it the most? I hope not. I hope he was comforted in his final days and found rest in the wholeness of God that I think we all need to “get.”

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Aside from the theological business of the book, I really appreciated its look into Latrobe and Western Pennsylvania – where Fred Rogers was born and grew up -- which I miss so much right now amid this pandemic.

This passage by Shea Tuttle is perfect in its description of Latrobe.

“The biblical story of the Garden of Eden is not just a story of beginnings or of any idyll. It is the story of a fall. Present-day Latrobe, though certainly not a fallen ruin, is a city that seems to embody paradox: parking spots are all metered as if in high demand, but the majority of them are empty; streets are one-way, as if to manage great flows of traffic, but those streets are mostly quiet. There are plenty of boarded-up storefronts and spaces for rent, but the city doesn’t feel deserted; there are also plenty of businesses that have been holding their own for decades, and others that are new and thriving. Latrobe gives the distinct impression that it had a heyday and that heyday has passed, but it also has an unmistakable, stubborn, steady hum.”

The town is close to my heart – it’s where I would go thrift shopping with my mom and sister at the St. Vincent de Paul (the best because it’s the cheapest with the best vintage clothes and bric a brac). It's where my beloved grandmother passed. Latrobe has the best sugary pizza you can ever imagine. It’s also where my university’s sister school, St. Vincent College, is located and where I first covered a president in my career (GWBush) at Arnold Palmer Regional Airport.  It’s also where I fly in on Spirit Airlines and curse cardboard cutout seat cushions. I love seeing Latrobe in my mind and in my heart. Mister Rogers and I had that in common.

Mama, COVID Karen and keeping the kids alive

I've tried staying awake to gaze into my little one's face as he drifts off to sleep in the crook of my arm, but I end up rocking myself to sleep, waking at some point with drool rolling down my face.

It's glam, y'all. This mama life is seriously glam.

Three weeks back into daycare amid a pandemic, I really don't know how we did it with the kids home with us and working, both my husband and I full-time. We did it because we had to, but when I think about my nearly 2-year-old son crawling through the baby's jungle gym during an important call with my entire team, wherein I had to keep a straight face (sort-of) while feeding a baby in my lap while my husband had a conference call in the other room, I can't catch my breath. I think back on that me and think how closely we came to everything crumbling.

Hell, who am I kidding? I crumbled. I cried between Zoom calls. For nearly three months, my husband and I walked around in a milky haze of graham crackers, half-folded laundry, Elmo, Mister Rogers and effing Pinkalicious. We did it until we just couldn't anymore. 

The babies are back in daycare, and I imagine I'm being judged out there for that decision. How could you possibly send your babies -- YOUR BABIES -- back to daycare with the pandemic raging in Texas? Have you seen the hospitalization rate climb in your state? Seriously? That's Karen talking in my ear. When she's not calling the police on brown and Black people for doing nothing wrong, she's part-time talking to me about how I'm going to live for the rest of my life with the guilt of potentially sending my children to their deaths via group play and fruit cups.

I routinely tell Karen to put the phone down and just shut up. Because it was all unsustainable and there were zero options. Believe me, I ran them through every night as I cringed thinking of another day so helplessly torn between being a bad mother, a bad employee and an angry wife on the verge of a breakdown.

We've all made concessions. We're all hypocrites just trying to survive as the world seemingly dies around us. Our bubbles are floating in an ether called World Post-COVID 19, and we're all praying that our bubble is not going to burst.

However, being a hypocrite part-time is not full-time. We're wearing masks. We've been tested. We've lived through something that seemingly has no end. But there are many moments along the way. The today of many todays. A minute among the hours to fill.

I lost a friend to COVID-19. Young. A mother just like me. She had a little girl and a life and the world is somehow spinning on without her. I can't help thinking: Did she once fall asleep rocking a sweet, warm bundle cradled on her chest? Did she think how tenuous it all was? Did she wish for just one day more?