Staying At Home

Maybe it's because my youngest child just graduated from high school; maybe not. I've had several conversations lately about how people view, and speak to, stay at home parents, young parents, and especially, heaven forbid, young stay at home parents. It's often not pretty.

I got married at 20, had babies at 20 and 21, and was a stay at home mom. To make matters, in many people's eyes, worse, we lived in small, rural communities for close to 10 years.

Many sincere, well intentioned people had feelings that fell on a scale from puzzled to horrified. It was - it is - a struggle for me to understand why.

I mean, they had reasons, they told me their reasons, but I couldn't quite make out what those reasons had to do with me, personally.

Sometimes, those reasons were phrased as concern for my mental and emotional state. "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were bringing in money?" No. I'd still have the exact same IQ, abilities, knowledge, skills, and talents, no matter what I did with my days. I'm really unclear on why people expected the way I felt about myself to depend on factors outside of myself. I was certainly aware that some people thought that anyone who married young, had children immediately, and dropped out of college to be a stay at home parent couldn't possibly have two brain cells to rub together; I just didn't care. It's not as if that opinion actually lowered my IQ.

Sometimes, the wording was slightly different: the clumsily worded, "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were contributing to the household?" Those people got a chilly, "I am contributing."

My responses usually led to an earnest attempt on their part to explain the query that just, from my perspective, dug the hole deeper. Insisting that the way others viewed me mattered more than what went on in my own household was an impossible task, because I will never believe that. Insisting that I "could be doing so much more" led me to point out, "Different does not mean better." If I'd decided to be a doctor, I wouldn't be a practicing lawyer. If I was a teacher, I wouldn't be an accountant. Choosing what you do with your time always means eliminating other possibilities. That's a good thing, not a bad one.

What really made me angry was people who kept pushing, getting into the idea that some jobs are "better" than others, and this makes the people who do them more valuable to society. That just smacks of Third Reich thinking. The Reich started out with policies against criminals, prostitutes (even though prostitution was legal), and Gypsies. Then they moved on to the mentally and physically handicapped. "These people don't contribute to society, but they use up our resources." After a significant portion of the population believed that some people were just lesser beings, the Third Reich had less trouble both expanding the groups considered undesirable and getting people to condone the killing of the country's own citizens. After all, those people weren't as valuable as other people. Any attempt to convince me that a person's worth lies in their employment skill set or employment status will fall flat.

Sometimes, those reasons were a reflection of how they felt about their own lives. "I just feel like my brain cells are atrophying." I never felt that way. I did sometimes crave adult company, but that's because children make no sense. They're irrational little beings, with little in the way of logic.

For instance, one of my daughters had a thing about wrapping up every bump or bruise in blankets and towels. She'd watched some show or movie where someone tore strips of gauze to tie around a wound, and became convinced that wrapping in fabric was the way to treat any injury. She further theorized that keeping a wound warm meant that it wouldn't hurt. I explained, over and over, that fabric strips were bandages, or held bandages in place, when you didn't have store bought, pre made bandages, but she refused to believe me. It was about wrapping to keep warm, she was sure. She'd insist on wrapping an entire blanket or bath towel around her hand, or wherever else she's been scraped or bumped. She'd often howl about how, "It hurts! It hurts!" until the wrapping was done, then tell you how, "Oh, now it doesn't hurt. I feel so much better." Then she'd walk around with a ridiculously mummified hand, until she had to unwrap it to, say, eat, then howl again about how being without the blanket "hurts!" Sometimes, she'd want 2 or 3 blankets wound around it at once, because more is apparently better. This went on for years. Irrational, and resistant to new information; that's the definition of childhood thinking. Sometimes I just needed to speak to people who made sense.

Maybe that's why it was so frustrating when other adults didn't make sense. And, why it was so frustrating when they wanted to critique my life and choices.

When my oldest children were young, I did a lot of work with a university theater company - it was my comfort zone - and that meant spending time around people who were close to my age, but thought that my life was unimaginable, and/or that I was doing things all wrong. Sometimes, they'd snark at me.

I lived 45 minutes away from the theater, (across two county lines) in a small farming community. (Yeah - you can see already that I'd be winning friends on a university campus, right?) Rehearsals or shows often ran until 11. That had me getting into bed no earlier than midnight. Even before I had kids, midnight was LATE to me. I never watched a live episode of "Saturday Night Live." I never saw "The Tonight Show" live until I had nursing babies who were hungry at that hour.

One night, some of us were talking, and somebody groused about how hard it would be to get up for work in the morning. (Her day went work, then school, then the show.) Several of us who had school or work in the morning chimed in. I said, "Tell me about it!" Most days, I dragged through the morning, anticipating nap time after lunch.

One of the young men in the group looked shocked. "What are you talking about? You don't work!" he said.

If you have a Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent (and if you don't, consider it!), put this comment on it.

"I have kids!" I said. Kids don't care how tired you are, how much sleep you got, how you feel, what you have going on.

"It's not like you have responsibilities!" he said. Seeing my face, he scrambled. "You don't have, like, obligations to meet or a schedule to keep." (That Handy Dandy List? Yeah - you know what to do.)

There are certain sentiments that one might find on a bumper sticker or T-shirt to which I wholeheartedly subscribe. One is, "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and annoys the pig." Explaining life to this guy was looking like the equivalent of trying to teach the pig to sing - an exercise in futility. But, I simply cannot let certain kinds of ignorance stand.

"What happens if you have a bad day at work?" I asked.

"What?"

"What happens if you have a bad day at work? Do you get written up, maybe get a demotion, get docked pay?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"If I have a bad day at work, people die." Most of the 20-somethings worked retail (the most talented guy in the group at the time was a grocery store bagger). To think that a retail job was more responsibility than taking care of human lives was an astonishing and inaccurate judgement.

He looked shocked. "Isn't that being a little overdramatic? I mean, it's pretty much babysitting."

(Pig! Singing! Handy Dandy List!)

"Why do parents hire babysitters?"

"Because they want to go out to dinner or whatever."

"Yes, but why do they need a sitter? Why don't they just leave the kids alone?"

He stared at me.

"Because a babysitter's entire job is to keep the children alive. If they are left alone, they may not survive it."

I did not point out (pig! singing!) that a parent's job is indeed NOT babysitting. Sitters might, occasionally, be asked to serve a meal or give baths, but their entire purpose is indeed to keep the children alive. Happy is good, fed is good, amused is good, but alive is a must. Plus, their job has a start time and an end time. Parents are constantly (even when the kids are with a sitter) responsible for the children's health, nutrition, character, cleanliness, manners, education, chores, and relationships. They are legally, financially (and occasionally, morally) responsible if the kids break any laws. It makes me just crazy to hear a man refer to staying with his own kids as "babysitting." Nope, Pop - you are a parent. You can babysit other people's kids, but not your own.

"Have you done much babysitting?" I wanted to know - because it seemed pretty obvious that he'd spent very little time around children.

"Some."

I thought, uncharitably, that he might have spent an afternoon or two plunking kids down in front of the TV, so they don't "bother" him.

"Well, you might want to do some more. Overnight, or maybe even for a whole weekend. Then tell me how easy it is. Then think about the fact that I do that every day."

It still astonishes me when people who are not parents think they know what it's like. I don't care if you've worked day care for 20 years, you have no idea what it's like to be a parent unless you are a parent. And yet, non-parents are so often just sure that they know as much, or more, about it than parents do.

A couple of years later, someone again voiced one of those opinions that was so egregious in its inaccuracy that I had to speak up. In fact, I fairly ripped the guy's head off, verbally.

Again, we were in rehearsal for a show. It was early in the process, and there was some "getting to know you" stuff going on. Someone asked, "So, what do you do?"

"I stay home with my kids."

As usual, there was some surprise, and some tepid smiles. One man, probably mid-20s, said, very jovially, "Oh, gosh, great hours on your job!" Seriously? Parenting is a lot of things, but the hours are not great.

"No, not really," I said. "I don't work 8 hour shifts, or even 12 hour shifts - I work 24 hour shifts. I don't leave my job at the end of the day, and go home to relax - my job is at home. I get no days off - no weekends, no holidays, no sick days, no vacations. If I want to take a vacation, my job goes with me. If I ever want to leave my job, for even 15 minutes, I have to find someone willing and competent to do it, and I, personally, have to pay them, even though I, myself, do not get paid."

He looked stricken. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's not about me being offended. It's about accuracy."

I don't care how people feel about my religion, my job, my family, politics, world news - I do care that their opinion is based on facts.

The poor guy, to his credit, tried, from then on, very hard to be very nice to me, so I didn't feel shunned. I tried hard not to make him feel judged; but man, I hoped he'd never make that mistake again. (Handy Dandy List!)

I hoped that my children, having been raised in my household, would not make those same mistakes in talking to others. That hope was, apparently, in vain. One of my kids in particular has informed me repeatedly that I "never worked." She also has often said, "You got to take naps!" as evidence of how "easy" my days were.

Sure, parents get naps - if their children are sleeping, or are old enough to avoid death or injury if they're left relatively unsupervised for short periods of time. Our culture considers it perfectly normal, acceptable (and even beneficial) for people to go out drinking alcohol "to unwind" after a day's work. I absolutely will not feel bad about sleeping, in my own house, with my kids at school or in the next room.

I never really expected my kids to fully understand adult concepts while they were kids, but I certainly expect other adults, including those to whom I gave birth, to have a better handle on things.

A couple of years ago, my daughter was again telling me that I had no perspective, and I'd had an easy life, because "You never worked!"

"I was a full time parent. When I was your age, the age you are right this minute, I had a first grader and a second grader. I also had two extras (my niece and nephew were living with us), and I was pregnant. Do you want that job? Do you want to wake up tomorrow morning and do that job, instead of going to work?"

"No." (This is the child who still says that parenting looks like "no fun.")

"Then don't ever tell me that I didn't work." Honestly, it's more aggravating to have my child say this than to hear a stranger say it, because I know what my kids have been told. "And if you're going to measure everything by money earned, I had a second job. When I worked it, I made $100 an hour - and that's a discount rate for the industry." For my entire adult life - actually, starting when I was a teen - I've been a self employed photographer, shooting mostly weddings. Back in the days of film, my husband and I charged by the roll of film shot. When we went digital, we took the average number of rolls we'd shoot in an hour, and used that for the hourly rate. That price has gone up since I was in my 20s, and I'm still less expensive than the industry standard. And you know what - none of that equals my worth.

You know what? The more that I think about it, everybody needs The Handy Dandy List. In fact, we need two - The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent, and The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Stay at Home Parent. I just watched somebody (who thought they were being funny, I'll bet) snark at my nephew online the other day, because he's a stay at home dad. I grew up with my dad staying home, and my mom going to work. I knew it was age related - Dad was retired, and not very Mr. Mom - but I also knew it was a perfectly reasonable way to live.

Go ahead! Get out your phone, or your notepad, or whatever you need, and make lists! If you get stumped, I'll volunteer to help.

Tired

I'm the youngest child in my family. When it came time for me to drive, my mother took me driving once, and that was it. My dad once let me sit on his lap and steer when I was too young to drive. The rest of my driving training came from a friend of my mother's, a 25 year old ex-police officer. "We've already done this three times. I'm old. I'm tired," my mother said. I laughed, and I understood.

I now understand on an entirely new level. I am old. I am tired.

When I got married young, had children immediately, and decided to be a stay at home parent, so many of the people I knew were distressed, to one degree or another. Quite a few tried to talk me out of it. One of the reasons they gave made no sense to me (OK, quite a few made no sense to me). "You'll be so miserable when your kids are grown and gone if you've spent your whole like defining yourself by being their mother!"

"What? I AM their mother. I will always BE their mother."

"Yes, but you need to have an identity outside of that."

"I do."

This is the point at which they'd usually start to sigh, and think that I was a little thick headed. "But you won't, if all you do is stay home and tend children!"

I usually cut them - and I'm using the plural noun because I had these conversations on more than one occasion, with different people - slack for being well intentioned, which I think they were. They wanted me to be happy. Many of them were also about my age, early 20s, and on fire with desire to conquer and change the world, and be recognized as important, and it made no sense to them that I stepped off of the merry-go-round. They thought I should be "making a difference," and I thought that I already was.

To my mind, the line of thought that my kids would be my "only identity" made no sense because I was already a good many things before I became a wife and mother. I was a photographer, writer, actor, theater technician, crafter, reader, traveler, member of a religion and of an extended family. I would continue to be those things while my kids were young, and after they had grown. I could not understand the worry that adding a new title would erase the old ones.

It also made no sense when someone explained this mindset by saying, "Well, most people define themselves by their employment." Why in the world would anyone do that? My dad retired when I was 6 months old. For my entire life, he was not employed, and certainly didn't define himself by employment status. My mother was brilliant, excellent at her job, and indispensable to her employer, and she didn't define herself by her employment. "I don't understand people who think that they are their jobs," she said. And besides, why in the world would I make my life choices based on how other people felt about their lives?

So, the worries of others notwithstanding, I chose to be a full time parent.

When our children were a bit older, we had children, family members, who needed a temporary place to stay without their parents, live with us on three long term occasions, and many weekends and school holidays. The social worker in charge of overseeing one of those placements said to us, when the kids moved out, "We need to get you licensed and get some other foster kids in here!" (The process was less involved for us, since the kids were relatives.) We have a 6 bedroom house; even with all of our kids in their own rooms, we had room.

We felt strongly about helping kids in need - at one time, we took classes to prepare us to adopt from foster care - but we turned her down. We just weren't sure we could handle going through the process with kids we hadn't known all their lives, and might never see again. I felt guilty about that - I know how big the need for foster families is - but I chose my own mental health. "Maybe when our youngest is grown, we'll take on some foster kids," we said. Sometimes we added, "But maybe by then we'll be old and tired."

I have now spent over 30 years, 3 decades, being primarily a stay at home mom. Sure, I still did things that mattered to me - hello, live theater - and I worked, on occasion - mostly for myself - but day in, day out, my primary job was Mom. Here's some of what I learned.

I would do it again. I do not regret it. I never felt that my effort was "wasted" or wished that I'd chosen the Impressive Career route.

I now understand, a little bit, why my friends panicked back in the day - why some panic now. I've watched parents who were full time caregivers be lost when there's no one to care for. Some jump into being caregivers for other people's children. Some founder. Some get depressed and say, "No one needs me any more."

Of course, some do what one lifelong friend does. She now spends almost as much time on vacation, usually cruise ships, as she spends at home. She points out that if I'd stopped at 2 kids, I could have been "free" years ago. She spends no time pining for the days of classroom parties and Easter egg hunts.

People are starting to ask me, "What will you do when (your youngest) is out of school?" They offer things - "Do you want to teach a couple of co-op classes?"

Um, respectfully, no - I am looking forward to not being at co-op. Mind you, I LOVE our homeschool co-op. It's been delightful for me and my kids. I've taught academics, art, speech and more, to older kids, to younger kids. My children loved it. But I want to sleep until noon on co-op day, if I feel like it, then spend the rest of the day in my silent family room with a book. I do not want to plan, explain, organize, grade, set up, clean up.

When I had children, I had a really easy time adjusting to the idea that all the time, money and attention went to my children, and not me. It did not make sense when people lamented what a HUGE shift that would be, and wondered if I was ready, or told me that they weren't ready. I think it would be much harder if I had spent years focused on myself, and then had to change gears. I became a parent so young that it's "always" been this way. For an entire year once, I owned only one dress, a $20, 100% polyester dress. I wore it to church every week, to weddings, to funerals, to a family christening, to parties. My daughters, on the other hand, had a closet full of dresses. That's the way things should be, I think.

And now, I am looking forward to keeping my own schedule, choosing my own activities, impulse buying a cute new top. I'm looking forward to having nowhere to go, and no obligations. I want to head out the door with a pb&j sandwich and my camera, and see what needs photographed. I want to sleep in, to nap, to stay up late or to rehearse for a show without worrying that I'll be miserable or neglecting somebody. I want to sit and read, undisturbed in silence. I want to look up nostalgic TV or documentaries on Netflix, without waiting until someone else's bedtime.

I not only did not lose who I was before kids, I've added some labels, like Rotarian and travel agent.

And if people define me as a waste of their conversational efforts, because I'm "just a mom" when "everybody else managed to be a good parent and have a career"? I will ignore them. I will not waste their time or mine trying to change minds.

And unfortunately, yes, I feel too old and tired to take on foster kids. Yes, I feel guilty about that. But having the exact same conversations for literally years is exhausting. I can't take it on again.

I never, ever imagined, for instance, that I would be dealing with children who got out of bed in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning to sneak downstairs and watch TV. Not forbidden shows, often Disney channel, just at 4 am. I not only never imagined that I'd have a child who expressed their displeasure at us by dropping their pants and peeing on the floor, I certainly never imagined that it would continue for years, until said child's age was measured in double digits. (I never imagined, either, spending those years explaining that urine was NOT "water," nor did it "disappear.")

I mean, I expected to have to explain things - I just did not expect to explain them every day for literally years, only to be ignored.

Sometimes, the English language itself made this difficult, like when we spent two years, years, fighting the battle of heating and cooling; trust me, it's not what you're thinking.

We didn't have air conditioning in our cars until the older kids were hitting puberty. One day, when my child was about 6, we were making a familiar 45 minute drive, and a voice from the back seat said, "Can you turn on the heater? It's hot back here."

I explained, "The heater blows hot air. It will make it hotter."

My annoyed offspring announced, "NO, the heater blows warm air, and I want to be warm, not hot!"

"The heater will make it hotter," I repeated. "To make it cooler, we'd need air conditioning, and we don't have it."

Outrage: "I don't want to be cool! I want to be warm! Can you please turn on the heater? It will make it warm."

We spent at least 30 of the 45 minute drive engaged in this discussion. I thought I had explained it to death, and that would be the end of it. No. the next day, and the next, and the next, the SAME conversation took place. "I want to be warm! The heater will make it warm!" I had the children - the other child had now picked up this line of thinking, and parrotted it - hold their hands in front of the heater vents, to feel what came out, at various settings. I explained heaters, furnaces, all manner of non-open flame heating, but to no avail.

Then, one day, a new request. "Can I at least have a blanket, to keep the heat off?"

I clarified this request - it was not a request for window covering, or otherwise building a shade. My hot child wanted to bundle up. "Wrapping up in a blanket is what you do when you're cold. Right now, it will make you hotter."

"It will not! It will keep the sun and the heat off me."

I reminded my children of all the times they'd bundled up when cold, but to no avail.

For days, this continued. Finally, I thought, I am not giving the kids the chance to learn from their choices. I'm a big believer in natural consequences and learning by doing. OK, I thought, let's give them their way, so they can see how it turns out.

I did worry, especially when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw their flushed, sweaty faces above the blankets they had pulled up to their necks and tucked in around them, that I was being an accessory to heatstroke.

After a drive that had us all miserable, I asked, "Do you see now why blankets are a bad idea when you're hot?"

The answer? "You gave us a blanket that was too thin. It lets the heat through. If you'd give us a thicker blanket, it would work."

"No! If I gave you a thicker blanket, your brain would start to cook! No more blankets! Unless it's COLD!"

We continued to have these ridiculous conversations on an almost daily basis. One day, I sat in astonishment in the front seat, and wondered what planet I was on, as my child yelled in outrage from the back of the car, "I can't believe it's this hot back here and you won't even give us a blanket!"

Then, finally, the weather cooled, and the arguing stopped. Ah, I thought, we've moved on. Nope.

We had an evaporative cooler instead of an air conditioner. It was a bit too big for our house, which made it fantastic during the summer. One day that winter, my child said, "It's cold in here. Can we turn on the cooler?" And it all started again.

"No. We run the cooler in the summer, when it's hot. Now it would make us colder."

"No. It would make us cool, and cool is better than cold."

And thus went the winter.

The next summer, when "it's hot, turn on the heater" started again, I said, "We have discussed this over and over. I never want to have this conversation again." But guess what conversation I had all summer that year, too, and what conversation I had all that winter?

I demonstrated mixing hot and cold water for their baths. I pointed out that the furnace was on all winter, and the cooler was on all summer. We discussed and discussed - and my children could not believe that I was so dim that I didn't "get it."

I am just too tired to spend two years having these kinds of conversations again. I. Am. Tired.

Of course, it's not just when the kids are small that you have conversations that you never thought you'd have. Sometimes my kids seemed incapable of simply saying, "OK;" like when I said to a teen with their driving permit, "You went through that corner pretty fast. Slow down through the corners."

The response was, "I don't think I need to."

"I think that you do. Slow down."

"I don't think so. I think I'm fine."

"I didn't ask what you thought. I asked you to slow down. Who's been driving since before you were born, and has a perfect driving record, and who's been driving for a grand total of about 5 hours?"

"I just don't think I need to slow down. I think I'm doing fine."

"Well, I am the driving instructor, the parent, and the owner of the car. You will slow down going through the corners."

"But I don't think I need to!"

I. Am. Tired.

Then there are the conversations that I knew I'd have, but I thought that there was an expiration date. Telling a teenager who's old enough to be holding a job to use toilet paper and to brush their teeth seems ridiculous, but I've spent far too much time doing so. How tough is personal hygiene, really? I mean, toilet paper? Seriously?

When I felt compelled to point out to a teen who worked in a food serving capacity, "Customers will not want you to serve them if you have body odor or bad breath. You don't want them to complain to you or your boss," I was unprepared for the response to be, "You are ruining my self esteem!" Really, Child? You know what will really do a number on your self esteem? Complaints from customers or reprimands from your boss! I sugar coated this message as much as I could - they will not.

When a high school senior repeatedly complained that they "don't have time" to hang up their wet towels instead of leaving them in a heap on the floor (directly under the towel bar!), I demonstrated, by counting "one one thousand, two one thousand," that it took literally two seconds for them to pick it up, fold it, and drop it over the towel bar. And yet, the insistence of, "I don't have time! Why can't you do it?" continued. Finally, after realizing that I'd been fighting this battle since the children were old enough to bathe alone, I said, "Fine. Next year, when you're off at college, and your roommate says, 'Didn't your mother teach you how to pick up after yourself?' you'll have to look them straight in the eye and say, 'Yes, she did, but I ignored her.'"

My child looked stunned. "Because they will say it, I guarantee it," I said. "You think your roommates are going to want to pick up after you? They'll be far less patient about it than I am!" This possibility had not occurred to my honor student.

I. Am. Tired.

Of course, it's not just the conversations with the kids; it's the conversations with the other parents. "Connect with other parents," the experts say. "You'll feel less alone." Nice try, experts. In actual fact, talking to other parents can be extremely alienating.

Take the hygiene issues: When my kids were young and I'd have these conversations, people would say, "Oh, just wait until s/he hits puberty. S/he'll become obsessed with cleanliness." HA! I mean, no offense, Advice Givers, but HA! And it's not just one child. I have a teen who spent an entire week at camp in the same swimsuit, never changing or bathing. (Child's take: "I was so clean! I went in the lake every day!") I've had to almost forcibly remove favorite but dirty clothes, not from my little kids but from adolescents who were sure that wearing dirty "cool" clothes was better than wearing clean "uncool" clothes. I had one child with, unfortunately, very naturally stinky feet who rebelled at the thought of washing their smelly sneakers. ("You want me to wash my shoes?")

And I've gotten (too much) advice on the subject, too. Some people tell me that, once they hit the teens, the child(ren) should to be left to their own devices, to be as smelly and dirty as they want, because the reaction from their peers will squash any ideas of doing it again. Some people tell me that I should do whatever it takes, including forcibly bathing and/or restraining the child, and preventing them from leaving the house unless they're sparkling clean and great smelling, because otherwise I'm an uncaring parent who will cause their child(ren) to be ostracized. Some people tell me that children would only behave this way if no one has taught them proper hygiene. And I want to scream.

You name the subject, and the advice pretty much mirrors this. I've spent too much time hearing, "All you have to do is..." when I have, and, "Have you explained...?" Until I'm blue in the face, thanks - and I'm articulate.

I. Am. Tired.

Even when discussions with other parents go well, it can be hard. I was once speaking to the mother of one of my then-17 year old's best friends. She said something about chores, and I said, "Yes, well, (my child) is convinced that all of the jobs in our house and yard belong to me, and the only reason I have anyone else do any of them is because I'm lazy and mean."

She looked shocked. "No, she doesn't."

"Yes, she really does."

"No! She's 17! She knows how a family works!"

"No. She really doesn't." Not for lack of our explaining it to her - she was just convinced that we were wrong.

The other mom was starting to give me a look that said she was wondering why I would say such outrageous things. So, I said, "Do me a favor - ask her. Ask her when I'm not around, so you know she's not directing the answer at me. And ask her when she's in a good mood, because when she's in a bad mood, she'll agree that I'm responsible for WWII."

Then we changed the subject, and I didn't think much more about it. I know that I have no control over the behaviors or opinions of others, so I don't tend to dwell on them.

A couple of weeks later, this mom pulled me aside. "Remember that conversation about chores? She actually does think that. I had no idea." Yeah - I know.

The kids are bright, capable, talented, articulate. I would give my life for any of them. And yet, all children are irrational.

I. Am. Tired.

So, here I am, not regretting having kids, or staying home with them, or taking on extras now and then. I do not feel lost or diminished or like I have "no identity" or purpose. I'm excited to be able to have "me time." And, I'm so tired that I just can't imagine taking it all on again. Not physically tired, but a deep, philosophical fatigue. I just can't handle the thought of having the same discussions again, over and over and over. Or having new, ridiculous, repetitive discussions. And this makes me, with my empty bedrooms, feel guilty.

One of my religion's books of scripture cautions that, "It is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength." I think that taking on more children might be running faster than I have strength. But I still feel guilty.

"I am old. I am tired."

A New Brother

Like most people, I'd watched Ancestry.com's commercials for their DNA analysis. I'd seen the great Internet videos with happy people crying over their revelations. I wished the test were less expensive, but one day I decided, this is available, and I can afford it - I have no reason not to take the test.

I was hoping for mysterious and exciting news. I wanted to be one of those people who said, "I had no idea!" when they discovered that they had, say, Native American ancestry.

Instead, sophisticated analysis confirmed what I already knew; I'm so white that I practically glow. All of my ancestry came from white Europeans. There were possible "trace" DNA matches of roughly 1% from elsewhere, but they tell you that the plus/minus on the calculations can be up to 3%, so that wasn't terribly exciting.

The biggest surprise is that my German and Polish relatives - I'm the third generation of that line born in the U.S. - had Brits in it, as well, because my British percentage is 53% without the 5% Irish included; add in the Irish, and almost 6 out of 10 of my ancestors were at least in part from the British Isles. My Eastern European percentage is 23%, with another 9% coming from Western Europe. I would have assumed that was higher, since my great great grandparents arrived here from Germany and Poland.

Well, no big exciting reveal, I thought. It was still fun to have the information.

Ancestry.com asks you if you'd like to make your DNA profile and/or your family tree available for others to view and compare. Sure, I said.

And then came the exciting reveal.

Just after Christmas, I came home to a message from my sister on my answering machine: "Call me back!" There were two more messages in my e-mail; she knows I read e-mail more than I talk on the phone. There were capital letters and the message: "CALL ME.  Ellen phoned me and asked me who someone on her Ancestry DNA list is...and I looked on there (haven't been on for a couple months) and found a "close family" relative AND a message from that person's wife, and I think he is our half-brother."

Ellen is our niece, our half sister's daughter, so that narrowed any relative down to my mom's side of the family. Another brother? All my life, I've had one brother, my genetic half brother. He's the oldest, and I'm the baby.

I went onto my Ancestry.com account, and found the same message sent to my niece and sister: "My husband was born in Reno, Nevada in Feb.1949. It was a closed adoption, but the ancestry DNA shows that he as a close biological relationship with you. Do you know how?"

Holy cow! I have another brother!

We made some phone calls, did some digging, and the information we all had matched up with my mother being this man's mother.

Our mom graduated from high school in 1946. Here is her graduation photo:

She was just beautiful. Here's another of my favorites, taken when she and her cousin Joanne spent some time staying, by themselves, at my grandmother's cabin on Houghton Lake.

We knew that right about this time, she was dating a young man named Jim. All I remembered was that it was a bitter breakup, and she never wanted to discuss him. My oldest sister remembered a bit more - that Jim's family had been well off, and they hadn't approved of him dating a farm girl. I once came across a photo in Mom's album of her, Joanne, and two young men. "Who's this?" I asked, pointing to the man standing behind her, with his hands on her shoulders. Mom's response was, "Oh. I thought I burned all the photos of him."

"What? What? Who is this? What did he do?" She was very calm, but unwilling to say anything else. And Mom wasn't the "reassure me, or keep asking, and eventually I'll talk" type. If she didn't want to discuss something, it would not be discussed.

Mom likes most people, so it was enough for me to know that, if she didn't like him, there was a reason. Now I wonder if his, or his family's, reaction to the pregnancy was the reason they broke up.

We knew that Mom and her sister, my Aunt Jeannette, and Jeannette's husband Fred arrived in Reno in the fall of 1948. The story we'd all heard was that they were on their way to San Francisco, and stopped here temporarily, but temporary became permanent when they loved it here. The part they left out was that they stopped temporarily in order for my aunt to establish residency in order to file for divorce from her first husband, a serviceman she'd married while he was on leave back home in Michigan. It was apparently an ill-advised marriage, short lived; Aunt Jeannette never mentioned it. It took six weeks to be granted resident status; as a resident, she could file for divorce. Fred probably didn't drive out with them, but arrived later. After the divorce, Jeannette and Fred got married.

We knew that Mom decided to come West because she wanted a change, something new in her life. That made sense. He sister was coming out here - why not go with her? What we didn't know is that one of the reasons Mom left home and traveled literally across the country is because she was 19 and unmarried and pregnant.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I admire my mom. Imagining her at 19 brought an entirely new and fierce admiration of her. Think about it - it's the 1940s. She's a pregnant teenager, unmarried, not even seeing the baby's father any more. She's moving across the country, so she's arriving in her new home with no job. She's living with her sister. Every single day, she feels the baby wiggle and kick, knowing that she will not raise him/her. She takes good care of herself, so the baby will be healthy. She gets bigger and bigger, and more and more uncomfortable. When she's out in public, people start to ask her about the baby. She goes through all of it not because it's easy for her, but because it's best for the baby. And she gives him his best chance at a happy life, a life she can't provide.

I'm not sure if she told her parents. They were divorced; she could conceivably have told one and not the other. My grandfather died before I was born. I love my grandmother, sincerely, but she was an overbearing woman; if she had known, her reaction would have been, "Let me tell you what we're going to do, Beverly," and she would have mapped out every decision. And I can see my mother incurring her wrath by saying, "Not we - me. I will decide what's going to happen."

I'm not sure if she put on a ring and invented fictitious answers to deal with all of the strangers who would inevitably ask personal questions, or if she told them the truth and let the judgement or pity roll off of her back. Either would be in keeping with her character - feel no obligation to share things that are none of someone's business, and take no grief from others.

She found a job in a legal office; she'd work for attorneys for the rest of her life. That's probably how she met the attorney who arranged the adoption; she'd later retire from the firm that bore his name, working for one of his partners. This attorney was a personal friend of my brother's adoptive parents, and handled the private, closed adoption.

I hear that, at the time, women were routinely sedated during labor, and often did not remember the birth. It was also usual policy for the birth mother to be kept from seeing, holding, feeding, or naming the baby, if s/he was being placed for adoption. It was considered less traumatic for them if they never saw the baby. Sometimes, they weren't even told if the baby was healthy, or if it was a boy or a girl. My 19 year old mother woke up in the hospital without the baby. (In almost exactly a month, she turned 20 years old.)

My brother's wife and his daughter told me the story of when his parents met him. They received a phone call saying, "Your baby is here," and drove an hour to the hospital. The babies being adopted were kept together. They walked into the room, and a nurse tried to hand her a baby. "Here's your son," she said. The new mother walked straight to the bassinet with my brother in it and said, "No, this is my son." The staff tried again to give her the other baby. "No, Mrs. R, this is your son. That baby isn't doing well (he was experiencing "failure to thrive"), and when he's better, he's going home with another family." She was not deterred. "NO. This is my son!" The hospital finally decided, two babies and two families meant that she could take my brother home. "He's always known that he was not only adopted, but very much chosen."

I'm sure that my mother worried, and hoped his family was a happy one. In fact, his mother was literally chosen "Mother of the Year" for our state. He was happy, loved and healthy. He grew up with two (adopted) sisters. When we met, he teared up as he said, "If I could, I'd thank her for getting me to my parents. If I could have chosen, I would have chosen them."

He'd had his DNA tested to learn what his ethnic background was, and to try to find blood relatives. Ancestry.com couldn't tell us that he was my brother, just that he was a close relative.

He was surprised by finding Eastern Europeans in his background. As soon as he saw my mother's maiden name, he recognized it as Polish, "and I thought, 'There it is!'"

At almost 51 years old, I finally got the announcement of a new sibling. I had a new brother! Well, he wasn't new, but the news was.

And so I added to my family my oldest brother, Allan. With him, we also added his wife, Jenny, and their nine children. I almost doubled my nieces and nephews! Many of them have spouses and children. My family suddenly got much, much bigger!

I thought of conversations with my mom years ago, when my nephew and his girlfriend placed a child with adoptive parents. They didn't tell the extended family until all the details were in place. They were concerned, his mother said, that the extended family might be opposed to the adoption. None of  my nephew's relatives were.

To my mother, I said, "The most adult thing they've ever done is realize that they're not ready to be parents. Someone has been literally praying for this child to arrive. Please let him go to his family."

"Oh, absolutely. Absolutely," she said.

My grandnephew's parents offered to let any of us who wanted to come to the hospital be there to meet and hold him before he went home with them, to another continent. I went, but my mother did not. "It would be too difficult, seeing and holding him and knowing that I'd never see him again," she said. I understood then; he wouldn't be back until he was at least 18, and she wasn't likely to be alive then. I understand more now. She'd already done this once.

Before we met Allan and his family, I worried a bit. What if they didn't like me? What if they were critical of my mom? What if he didn't want more relatives? I decided that whatever he wanted, it was fine with me. Baby sister? Yes! Just medical information? OK. It was up to him what he needed from us.

Someone said, "Just because you share DNA doesn't necessarily mean he has to be your brother." I knew what they meant - family is more than blood. But at the very least, here were 10 people whose lives were made possible by my mother. That meant that they were precious to me.

Although he grew up near us, he now lived in a neighboring state. With his birthday approaching, Allan made plans to have his birthday party here, so that he could meet as many of our family as he could. He, his wife, several of his children, children-in-law and grandchildren came, as did his sister, who flew in from Hawaii.

They're wonderful people. We loved them before we even met them. "I can't believe you were all out there, all this time," Allan's sister said.

Finding out about them is both exciting and new, and very familiar.

And my brother was happy to have more siblings - just as we were happy to have him.

Minutes after meeting him, we were posing for photos.

Here's Allan and all of his attending siblings; one sister could not make it.

Here's all of us in attendance; this is not the whole family.

It was fantastic finding ourselves in each other's faces. My niece Bekkie gasped at a photo of my mother at 16, saying, "That's me! That's exactly what I looked like at that age!" I had the identical reaction looking at my grandnephew Trevor. My niece Katie looks like my sister Lynne, daughter Lana and son Alex.

A friend who lives far away saw the photos on my Facebook page and said, "Boy, are your mother's genes strong! Look at all of you!"

Here's the Facebook profile photo I uploaded after the party. 

Allan's had a mustache his entire adult life, so the theme of his party was "Mustache Bash."

Someone asked me, "Are you angry at your mom?"

"Angry? Why would I be angry?"

"Because she never told you."

Oh, no. I understand completely. Especially when I was a child, I would have made her crazy with questions. "Are you sure you can't find him or her? Do you think it was a brother or a sister? Can't you ask someone? They have organizations where you can register - why don't you register? Do you think he or she is looking for you? Do you think they look like me? Do you think they'd like me? Are you sure you can't find him or her?" If I found out that we knew the attorney who arranged the adoptions, I would have been insufferable, urging her to ask him for information, in violation of law and conscience. "I'm sure he knows something!" Oh, no, she did the right thing by not telling me when there was no way to find him.

And I have siblings and a father; she couldn't possibly juggle all of our feelings.

Now, our parents are gone, no one's feelings will be hurt, no legal agreements broken.

Mom died four years ago; Allan's mom died three years ago. Bekkie said, "I'll bet those moms got together and said, 'We have to get these kids together!'" I'll bet they did, too.

They were both great moms; they both loved their children.

And now we have new siblings. I mean, we always had them, but now we know.

Thanks, Mom.

Thanks, Allan.

And thanks, Mrs. R.

How Old Are You?

It seems like a simple, mathematical equation to me - but I keep being told that I'm wrong about it.

In figuring out where I think that "middle age" begins and ends, it seems to me that, well, it should be in the middle of an expected lifespan. Assuming that you'll have thirds labeled "young," "middle aged," and "senior citizen," you'd take an expected lifespan and divide it into 3 parts. Obviously, there are other divisions in those thirds - everything from newborn, infant, toddler to teen to retiree. Still, if you have 3 major categories - young, middle, old - you have 3 equal parts. Follow me so far?

So, I decided on a projected lifespan of 90. It's in most genetic ballparks, and divides easily in thirds. Therefore, my divisions go: young, 0 to 30; middle aged, 30 to 60; and senior citizen, old person, however you want to label the final third, 60 to 90.

I started referring to myself as "middle aged" at 30.

People are routinely horrified by this.

Fairly typical is the conversation I had with friends; a small group, all in their early 30s. They looked at me as though I had just advocated human sacrifice in order to have a plentiful harvest. "NO," one said. "NO. I am young!"

"Well, where does middle age start?" I asked. They were fairly universal in their answer: "40."

"To what?" I wanted to know.

"What do you mean?"

"If it starts at 40, where does it end? It can't just be the one year."

This resulted in a bit of hemming and hawing, but the consensus seemed to be, "Retirement age?"

Well, that's pretty vague. The American Association of Retired Persons accepts members as soon as they've hit their 50th birthday. In my dad's day, 55 was the standard retirement age. That age is now 65. I have a friend who just retired at 54, but went on to take a new job, hoping to retire from it in 25 or 30 years.

"So, you figure people will live as long after they're retired as they did before they hit middle age? You figure that the average lifespan is over 100?" Even this question leaves out the problem of assuming that "middle age" is a shorter time period than youth or old age. If any period were to be disproportionately small, it would be youth. Babyhood, childhood, adolescence, young adulthood are all very short periods of time. It seems to me that the middle, where people do most of their living, working, marrying, raising children, would be the largest portion if life were divided unevenly.

Think about movies, books, any story: you have a beginning, where you meet the characters and set up the situations. You have an end where the story gets wrapped up. Where does most of the action take place? In the middle. If the life divisions are unequal, the middle should not be the smallest.

I pointed that out - a 40 year portion and a 15 year portion and a, what, 20 year portion does not work.

Now the group went from finding me odd to taking offense. Ignoring the mathematical proportions, people fell back on insisting, "There's no way that 30 is middle age!"

The problem here is how people feel about the words "middle age." Many people consider them to be synonymous with unattractive, clueless about fashion, music, and popular culture, boring, and losing their health. This is not the case - this has never been the definition of this term. It means just what it says, the center part of your life.

This aversion to the term, as though it means something negative, reminds me of people's reactions when I use the word "fat" to describe myself. They either say, "Oh, you're not fat!" or, "You're not that fat." Listen, folks, "fat" is not a value judgement. It does not mean lazy, gluttonous, unattractive, or anything else except having an abundance of fat cells. I certainly have them. This does not indicate anything negative about me, any more than my hair color does. When I use the word to describe myself, it doesn't mean that I'm unhappy, or have low self esteem. (It certainly does not mean that I want you to disagree with me.)

"Old" is not a derogatory term, either. I spent most of my younger years saying, "I have no patience with people who feel 'old' at anything less than 70." My dad was 56 when I was born. I learned to spell "retired" in first grade. The idea that old is bad, and that "old" will always be older than you are, annoys me, deeply.

My kids, though, started calling me "old" when I was in my 30s. And not just me; one of my daughters once reduced a dinner party to laughter by referring to a photo of a bikini clad model as "that old lady." I was never ruffled; I claimed it. (I never had a problem being called "ma'am," either.) Keep in mind, when I was 35, I had a 14 year old and a 15 year old, and they were certain that I was ancient and out of touch, with no relevant experience or perspective. If they wanted to call me "old," I'd take it. I'll wear that title, proudly.

The alternative to being old is dying young; never my life's goal.

For years, any time I'd say, "my grandnephew," my son would say, "Who?" I'd say, again, "Andrew. His mother is my niece." And my son would say, "Geez, you're old!" ruffled by the thought that I had a "grand-" anything.

I once had someone pull me aside after I'd said something like, "Well, you know, when you get to be my age," to inform me that I was upsetting another woman in the group. "She's the same age you are, and she doesn't feel old." SIGH. If she's my age, she should be old enough to know that she's not a kid anymore, and that's a good thing. Good heavens, who would ever want to spend their life trapped in adolescence? Adolescents are a stew of hormones, lack of perspective, and angst. It's not their "fault," or a fault at all, but it is a biological and sociological fact, and I would never want to spend any longer than biology dictated that I had to  spend in adolescence.

This is why I do not understand the (fairly new) belief, held by a significant number of people, that "adolescence lasts until you're 30." Oh, good gravy, no. It does not and should not.

One of my dearest friends insists, "No one under the age of 30 should make any important or lasting decisions. They're just not ready." I am not the target audience for this idea. I think that too many people are irresponsible and immature long past when biology would be an excuse. I am, of course, aware that our brains are not done forming until roughly age 25, but that's exactly why I think that mature, responsible behavior should be routine by then. It makes no sense to assume that a person will become more capable and responsible by encouraging prolonged adolescence. We're aware that toddlers do not have fully functioning brains or nervous systems, but we start expecting them to use the toilet, take turns, wait, and other unnatural, uncomfortable things while they're toddlers. We don't say, "Oh, well, this is too tough for them - we'll wait until they're older and more mature. Then it won't be such a struggle." We are aware that the individual and society both benefit if they learn those skills precisely when it is difficult and unnatural.

I've been told that it's futile to expect young adults - let's say 18 to 30 - to be mature, that it puts "too much pressure" on them, and will cause psychological problems. I don't think so. I became very annoyed during the 2014 Winter Olympics, when skier David Wise was described by an announcer as having "an alternative lifestyle" for being married and a father in his 20s. I wrote this: "I mean, if you heard that someone wasn't walking, or reading, or driving, or holding a job, far (in fact, years) past the age that they should be mentally and physically capable, do you think, 'Everyone else should slow down and do it the same way, instead of trying to achieve,' or do you think, 'They should get some pretty intensive counseling and intervention in order to catch up'? In theory, a healthy 5 year old who still crawled everywhere would just be exercising prudence, right, taking all those extra years to mature? Maybe he'll fall less often when he does start walking, right?" ("The Example of an Olympian")

Seriously, how is it that we think that people are mature enough to drive, vote, join the military and go to war, buy a gun, consume alcohol, teach school, be an attorney or a doctor in their 20s, but NOT mature enough to get married or have children?

This is usually when someone says to me (either seriously or facetiously), "Well, we can't all be you." I got married at 20, had 2 babies in the next 2 years, had my first mortgage at 21. I do not think that everyone should be me, but neither do I think that everyone should fear and avoid responsibility, either. Everyone should have the choice to do what I did. I could have studied law, or medicine, or painting, or sculpting, but I didn't - not because I wasn't capable, or mature, but because that wasn't what I wanted to do. If I'd said, "Oh, geez, I really want to be a lawyer, I still hope that I can be a lawyer one day, but I'm just not capable of handling the study and the rigor and the expectations yet! I'll continue doing the same things I did as a kid, in the hopes that, in the future, I'll feel differently and therefore act differently," well, people would have had really choice and unflattering things to say to (and about) me. But when you switch the word "lawyer" for "spouse" or "parent," so many people say, "Good for you! That's the way it should be!" NO. If you decide not to do any particular thing, that's good, that's OK. You should have the option of choosing between many different paths. If you are just not mature yet, well, you'd better be working hard on maturing, and not just counting on maturity to show up because you've waited a long time. If you don't trust your own judgement, that's also an issue.

 I mean, it doesn't seem to me to be a difficult concept, the idea that everyone should be mature enough to make any available choice, not that they should be forced into a single choice - but people frequently tell me that I'm saying that kids should limit themselves. On the contrary - I want them to expand their idea of the available choices. Instead, they hear from society that, for instance, getting married and having a family will ruin their lives and kill their education. That makes no sense to me. I know so very many people like my friend J, who just graduated from medical school and passed his board exams at 30, (after serving a 2 year church mission at 19), while his wife is expecting their third child.

One of my children has been telling me since she was a teen that "nobody is ready to choose a spouse in their teens and early 20s," and "everyone feels like a kid at least into their 30s." Yet, she married someone she met at 19, and dated exclusively, from that time. (She says they've been "officially" together since she was 20.) I find the attitude of, "do as I say, not as I do," and "most people aren't able to do this, but I was," to be far more puzzling and troubling than my stance of, "I'm not that special; this isn't that difficult."

It also annoys me when people say, "Sure, I chose my spouse/school/profession then, but I didn't really commit to them/it for years" as though that's a good thing. I also get very tired of, "Oh, I'm glad I didn't: 1: marry my first boy/girlfriend, 2. keep my first major, 3. stay in my first profession" as a way to negate the idea that young people should be capable of big decisions. Whether or not the average human should be capable of maturity and whether or not you personally adjusted your course are not the same thing.

Neither is the simple math indicating how long you've been alive a negative judgement.

My oldest child turned 30 last year; my second turns 30 this year. Yes, I consider them to be middle aged. Yes, they disagree with me, just like they did when they turned 18 and I referred to them as adults. That doesn't change the fact that, statistically, the first third of their lives are over. And that assumes a lifespan of 90, and I haven't yet found anyone in our family tree who's made it to 90. 80 would be a more accurate prediction, I think. I, personally, am past the age at which AARP will take me as a member, closing in on that last third of my life, and I do not find this to be a negative or worrisome thing.

"Middle aged" and/or "old" does not mean irrelevant, clueless, in poor health, unattractive, one foot in the grave, or anything else negative! It means that you have experience and perspective. Embrace it! I never realized how truly youth obsessed our current culture is until I started watching the mere words cause panic. It's logic. It's math. And it's OK! Really.

A Love Letter to Jason Segel

Dear Jason,

I have loved watching you since "Freaks and Geeks," a show that, obviously, resonates with all current and former freaks and geeks. When I was in high school, we in the theater department referred to ourselves as "freaks" with pride. I'd arguably been a geek - smart but awkward - since early childhood.

But, before I enjoyed watching your work - indeed, before you were born - I loved the Muppets. It is not possible to overstate how much I love the Muppets, how much I love anything created by Jim Henson. The vastly underappreciated film "The Dark Crystal," anything born in the Creature Shop - I love them all.

"When I was eight years old, I discovered the Muppets. I came across Sesame Street on TV, and was delighted, even though I was years older than their intended audience. It was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with all things created by Jim Henson.

I was too old for the instruction on letter sounds and such, but I was captivated by the wittiness of the segments. Since I had a much older brother and sister and had listened to their music, when I heard a Muppet sing, "Letter B," I knew it was derived from a Beatles hit. It was charming and funny, and I felt very much "in" on a secret, since I was sure that preschoolers wouldn't know the original. Anyone who's watched any Sesame Street knows how often those moments crop up.

The musical segments were probably my favorites, but close behind came Kermit the Frog's roving reporter. As he'd show up with his news cap and microphone to report on fairy tales, something always went wrong, and he'd come unraveled. The poor hapless diner always ending up at a table served by Grover had my sympathy. And I felt for Big Bird back in the days when he was the only one of the gang to see Mr. Snuffleupagus.

The idealized neighborhood really appealed to me as well. I've always thought that reality should look something like that – everyone knew and liked everyone else (well, OK, everyone except Oscar), no one cared how old you were or what color or what species. Nobody cared about how much money you had, or what you wore or anything else superficial. And occasionally, everyone would break into a beautifully choreographed song and dance number. It was grand."(from the essay "Come on Down! You're the Next Contestant!")

"The Muppet Movie" and "The Muppet Show" spoke to me, a kid in the theater department, in even more ways.

The fact that I was in the theater department was nothing that I had ever anticipated. In sixth grade, my first year in middle school, I wanted to take art. I had always felt like an artist. My mom and I spent hours on crafts. But, my school wouldn't let sixth graders decide on a single elective; we had to take a class that gave us a single grading period of a number of electives - art, theater, choir, foreign language - so we could try them all out before we chose. At the time, I thought it was ridiculous. Ever since, I've been very glad.

I wanted to be invisible, unnoticed, anonymous as a child. A stage was the last thing I sought. I discovered a few things in that single grading period of theater: a stage wasn't an entirely terrifying place to be, there were jobs besides being onstage, and all of it was as close to actual magic as it's possible to get.

At the end of the year, I stared at the class signups for the next year for a long time - then I signed up for theater. I was never again without a theater class, for the rest of my years in school.

The idea of enthusiastic, scruffy misfits putting on a show spoke to me. And the wit level was off the charts. ("I'm on my way to New York to break into public television." "They don't look like Presbyterians to me.")

It was a great perk that it seemed like everybody wanted to work with the Muppets, between Sesame Street segments, film cameos and weekly TV guest stars.

When I had children, they started watching Sesame Street from pretty much the very start of their lives. OK, actually, they joined me in watching.

Then, the terrible thing happened; Jim died. I was an adult - I had a husband, a mortgage, two children, and I was just undone. You have no idea, Jason; I was beyond devastated. My dad was 56 on the day I was born - I was not prepared for otherwise healthy people to die in their 50s, except maybe in some kind of crash.

His funeral was televised, but I couldn't watch it. I knew the basics - the public was invited, bright colors were encouraged, paper butterflies flown, Harry Belafonte sang - but I was unable to face it. I was unreasonably angry that Big Bird sang "Rainbow Connection." It was Kermit's song, and I could not face hearing anyone else sing it.

(It took me twenty years to be able to watch the funeral. It was just beautiful; I still cried all the way through.)

Aside from the pain of losing Jim, and losing all of the projects he would have developed, I feared losing all of his characters - Kermit, Ernie, Dr. Teeth, The Swedish Chef, Rowlf... I could not handle the thought of losing them all. But, as Frank Oz told a reporter who asked (rather indelicately, I thought), "Can you imagine being Bert to anyone else as Ernie?", he could not imagine it.

Some time afterward - long enough that I was sure they'd run out of pre-death footage, but soon enough that my nerves were still raw - I burst into tears during Sesame Street. For the first time since Jim's death, there was new footage with Ernie. It was a huge crowd scene, and all Ernie did was sing and dance on the back row, but it undid me.

My children, like most children, were fairly oblivious to anything that did not directly involve them, but this, they noticed. "What's wrong, Mom? Are you OK?" I couldn't tell them that seeing Ernie made me cry. I forget what I did say.

When "A Muppet Christmas Carol" came out, I was skeptical. Aside from Luke 2, "A Christmas Carol" is my favorite Christmas story, so I've rarely met an incarnation that I didn't embrace, but this would be the first production of any kind with the new voice of Kermit. I wasn't sure if I should be delighted that we still had him, or angry that it wouldn't be the same. It would be the first film undertaken without Jim; would the magic remain?

When I realized, midway through the film, that I had spent a full 15 minutes just watching, without comparing Steve Whitmire to Jim, I knew it would be OK.

And it was.

"Muppets Tonight" was fun - and who doesn't love Pepe? - but it didn't seem to grab the population the way the original show did.

Then, the Muppets all but disappeared. Fewer people understood why I'd respond to, "It's a myth" with, "Yeth?"

You know this, Jason. Because this is where you come in.

I was a bit leery about "The Muppets." The setup didn't entirely delight me; I'd preferred to think of the gang as doing dinner shows at a beach resort somewhere, or doing nightly cruise ship shows, not as broken up. And, let's face it, you and Walter do not look like brothers.

It was probably about the time you sang, "Yes, it is!" instead of coming up with an obscure rhyme for "fish" that I was hooked. It was witty. It was heartfelt. It was earnest. (As an aside -  I live in Reno, I recognized the casino exterior used as Fozzie's employer, and I'm OK with good fun poked at my city. We even took visiting family out to dinner, saying, "This is the casino from 'The Muppets!'") It had a fantastic cast and great cameos. I even enjoyed the fun poked at the fact that all of their celebrity fans were from years past. (I mean, Mummenshanz, anyone?) And who doesn't love Amy Adams?

I cried, Jason. I just bawled. If I hadn't already been weepy, the photo of Jim hanging on the wall would have done it.

(When you sang, "Am I a Man, Or Am I a Muppet?" I knew what my answer would be - for myself, I would answer, "Muppet.")

That wasn't even the best part. Do you know what was? The Muppets were COOL again, and they were everywhere. Yes, occasionally they're a little too self consciously hip - look at us, we can make drug, sex and alcohol references! Seriously, they never needed anything more than a little nudge and wink, so I hope the whole "it's a new century, we can push those boundaries" thing doesn't overwhelm them. Because they're still funny, still dorky, still bickering and still family.

The fact that they're on commercials, on newscasts, making guest appearances - THAT'S the best part, Jason. You made them cool again. You could lose your mind from here on out, your career could tank, and I'd still have a warm spot in my heart for you. Yes, because your work is good, Jason. But also, because you gave the Muppets back to me. It's no small thing.

It's always time to play the music. It's always time to light the lights. For the lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Thanks,
Sharon

When Strangers Pick Fights

I try not to engage in any kind of confrontation with strangers. (Frankly, I try not to be contentious even with non-strangers!) It usually serves no purpose other than to make tempers flare.

All of us see and hear things that we find distasteful (or offensive, or harmful) while we're out in public. In general, our best bet is NOT to engage people in arguments. My husband and I both cringe every time we remember hearing a father inform his toddler, "You are no son of mine!" Even three decades later, I am still annoyed by the memory of total strangers who walked up to me and told me that I should not be having children.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule.

Over two decades ago, I had two daughters in elementary school and an infant son. One day, my son was feeling ill, and it seemed to be getting steadily worse. We phoned his doctor, who, in the absence of an emergency, couldn't see him until almost closing time. After juggling a sick baby with our daughters' after school gymnastics lessons, I made it to the 4:30 appointment. By that time, the baby was feverish, listless and miserable.

We left the office at 5:00 with a prescription, and urging to get it filled as soon as possible, or we'd undoubtedly end up at the emergency room. I don't remember what was wrong - probably bronchitis - but I remember vividly watching him get, very quickly, worse and worse.

My husband, the baby and I picked up our daughters from class at 5:30, and headed straight to Walmart, one of the only pharmacies open after 5:00 p.m. There was no such thing as a 24 hour or drive through pharmacy, at least not in our town, back then. The line at the pharmacy was huge; the pharmacist said, "Yeah, lots of crud going around," when I remarked on it. Due to the volume of customers, she estimated that we had an hour wait to pick up the medication.

We took the children, two of them having simply pulled pants on over their leotards, to McDonald's for dinner, hoping to both fill the time and feed everyone. My son only picked at his food; he was flushed and beginning to wheeze. A trip to the pharmacy window was unproductive - they hadn't gotten to his prescription yet.

We bought and administered some infant Tylenol for the fever, then pushed a cart fairly aimlessly around the store, killing time. Another trip to the pharmacy, and another long line, frayed my nerves. My son's temperature was over 100, and the Tylenol didn't seem to be helping.

Then things got worse - the pharmacy was out of the prescribed medication AND the generic equivalent. "We should be getting a shipment tomorrow." My husband had just taken the baby's temperature - 104. I started getting frantic.

"No, we need it tonight! He's getting worse and worse! Would another Walmart have it?"

"No, we already called around. You'll have to wait until tomorrow, or find another pharmacy."

"But you just said that no other Walmart has it, and all the other pharmacies are closed!" I was picturing a trip to the ER.

"Costco's open. Do you have a membership?"

"Yes! How late are they open?"

"They're open for another 20 minutes."

Of course, Costco was miles away. Luckily, most of them were freeway miles. With luck, we'd get there in time.

We hustled the kids out of the store and into the car. We still had 15 minutes. The baby looked like a wilting flower. In my panic to get to Costco on time, I did something that I never do - I left the shopping cart we'd been pushing him in sitting next to the car.

As the girls were buckling, someone knocked on my window. I expected a panhandler, and prepared to brush them off. I rolled down my window to an irate woman.

"I just watched you get in your car and leave the shopping cart sitting right there!" she said, pointing to the cart.

"I apologize," I said. "I'm in a hurry." I knew that was feeble sounding, but didn't much care.

She was not mollified. "Show some respect! Show some consideration for others!"

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

You know how some people just need to have their say, and once they've said their piece, they calm down? I assumed this woman was one of those people. She was not. She's the kind of person who gets angrier and angrier, the longer she talks. She ramped it up, expressing extreme displeasure at length, and with increasing volume. She informed me, repeatedly, that I was setting a bad example for my children. That wasn't what really bothered her, though. "People like you are the reason we can't even take our car out of our garage!" She proceeded to tell me the brand of her car, and quote its price, which was more than we paid for our first home. "Not everybody drives a piece of s*** like you do! And we can't even enjoy driving it, because of people like you! If I were to take it out, it would get covered in dents and scratches!"

The next thing out of her mouth was, "I have been nothing but nice to you..."

Hold it right there.

I did something I normally don't do. I interrupted, loudly.

"HEY! Criticizing someone's belongings is not being 'nothing but nice'! Swearing at me, especially in front of my kids, is not being 'nothing but nice'!" I had been quiet and deferential, but now I was loud and angry.

"When I walked out here, I had 15 minutes to get across town to the only pharmacy still open at this hour so that I can get medicine for my baby with the 104 degree fever! And you've kept me here talking to you!" I exaggeratedly started the car. In a voice dripping with sarcasm, I said, "Can I go now?" Yes, I know the correct usage is "may I." It didn't matter; I was going to pull out no matter what she said next.

She looked stunned, as if I'd slapped her. I don't think it had occurred to her 1. that someone who shopped at Walmart and drove "a piece of s***" could actually string together a sentence, 2. that I might have something on my mind and agenda more important than scratches on anybody's car, and 3. that yes, indeed, it is rude to swear at people and criticize their belongings. For the first time during the encounter, she lowered her volume and took a step backwards. "Well - I still think you're being a bad example for your children."

"So you said. Can I go now?" I said, putting the car in gear, in a voice that indicated that I was leaving.

"Yeah. Sure."

More sarcasm - "Thank you."

I dislike speed. I dislike speeding. But I practically zoomed out of the parking lot, muttering out loud, "If the pharmacy has closed by the time we get there, I swear... If they are out and we end up at the hospital..." I was incapable of finishing a sentence. My rosy child wheezed in his car seat.

My daughters chimed in. "I don't think you're a bad example, Mom! I think she's a bad example!" "I think her swearing was wrong!"

"Yes, well, all I care about is getting the baby's medicine."

I drove, uncharacteristically, 10 miles over the speed limit. In front of Costco, I practically shoved my husband out the door in front of the store, then parked the car. He dropped off the prescription with 2 minutes to go before closing. In 5 minutes, we had the medicine.

I did not start to truly calm down until an hour later, when the wheezing had stopped, and the baby's temperature dropped below 100.

I hoped that this woman would, the next time she felt like shrieking at someone, ask herself if maybe there were extenuating circumstances, of which she was unaware. We never know what's truly going on with others, folks. Refrain from deciding that you know everything.

And in case anyone wonders, if you tell me that you own a car more expensive than some people's homes, I will not be impressed. I will not think, "Wow, that's so cool," or, "They're so classy. I'm just not as good as they are." I will think, quite frankly, that you're not very good with money. I may also think that you're self absorbed. Possessions are not the way to impress or influence me.

If you ever see a parent hustle their kids out to their car, in such a hurry that they're distracted and leaving their shopping cart behind, just grab it and take it into the store. Then you can rightly feel very proud of yourself.

Also, 24 hour drive through pharmacies (which we now have) are a Godsend.

Majority Rules

I posted this on my Facebook page about a year ago. I was annoyed, and I not only quite often communicate better in writing, I can't stand having the same conversations over and over. "Maybe," I think, "if I say this in a public forum, I won't have to engage in repetitious conversations." Yeah, it's never worked that way, but I feel better after I write something. It's like thoughts just need me to give birth to them and set them free.

And some things shouldn't surprise me, but they do - I'm surprised every time someone says, "You know that most people disagree with you, right?" Sometimes they're very gentle and concerned, patting my hand. Sometimes, they're angry, and insisting that I have no right to speak an unpopular opinion aloud.

Here's why the query surprises me - I'm a Mormon. I homeschool my kids. I classify myself as a housewife. I mean, what about my life says, "popular choices"? How does anyone suppose that it's escaped my attention that I'm a minority, in multiple, fundamental ways? I cannot imagine how deluded someone would have to be to, say, belong to an unpopular religion, but still think that most people think and act like they do.

So, I find myself making pronouncements on social media.

Consider with me, People of Facebook -

Photos like the one of the man standing in the middle of a crowd in Nazi Germany, folding his arms while everyone else gives the Nazi salute, go viral. We share them all over our social media, saying, "Be this guy!" We like to pride ourselves on being individualists, on standing out; especially Americans, who coin terms like "sheeple" to deride those who conform. We like to think that we're all about being our own person.

Yet, one of the first things that anybody says when they're trying to sway my opinion, or to explain their own, is how many people agree with them. If I had even a penny for every time I heard the phrase "most people," I'd be wealthy.

The truth is, that guy with folded arms probably faced outrage and indignation from his loved ones. "What are you thinking? How could you be so disrespectful? The man is the leader of our nation! The Fuhrer lifted us out of poverty and chaos and restored us to our rightful place as a great nation! How is it that you can't even lift your arm to show your respect?" Even if they disliked Hitler and his policies, the guy would catch flak. "You're drawing attention to yourself! How can you put yourself in danger like that? What you say or do in the privacy of your own home is one thing, but you're drawing targets on all of us, on everyone you know, on your family, everyone you work with! Think of us! Think of (list of his loved ones and co-workers)."

And that's the people who LIKE him; what about the general public? The truth is, that guy may not have lived to the end of that day. Any number of people would have been happy to point him out to the authorities, in order to curry favor for themselves, because they thought he was dangerous, or both.

It's not just the big stuff, either, but all the small stuff. We're critical of the way people dress, the way they wear their hair, the cars they drive, the entertainment they watch. We decide what restaurants to eat at by checking Yelp reviews. We decide what movies to see by checking Rotten Tomatoes. I cannot tell you how many times I've bought a book or a movie ticket and had people say, "Why would you do that? It had terrible reviews." The idea that I want to decide for myself is often roundly criticized. I've actually been asked, "What makes you think that you know better than everyone else?" That's the wrong question. The more relevant one is, what makes everyone else think that they can, or should, override my own decision making process for my own life? I don't make choices for you; you don't get to make mine for me. Things become both absurd and dangerous if we all decide that we agree with the majority just because they are a majority, or that we need to let others decide for us because they are more qualified than we are.

Being contrary just because we think that it makes us superior or more intelligent is just as ludicrous and dangerous. It should not matter what others think, or whether it's a majority opinion or a minority one, when we're forming opinions. We should take in information and decide on our own, regardless.

Please know that if you say to me, "But most people think/do this," all I hear is a statement like, "This shirt is blue." It may be true, but I can't imagine why it would be relevant.

We pay a great deal of lip service to admiring people who stand alone, but in practice, we think they're odd, and view them with suspicion or discomfort.

So, People of Facebook, cut the oddballs some slack. They may be onto something. And even if they're not, at least they're thinking independently.

And people still say weird stuff to me.

Two of my (four) children have left the religion in which we raised them. We treat them exactly the same way we always have, but I was informed that, "Your child will never be able to be happy if you think that they're doing things wrong." What? What parent thinks that their child has never, ever done, said, or thought anything wrong? That's just silly. I was thus informed that if I think my kid (or, presumably, anyone else) is doing or thinking anything wrong, that I don't "truly accept them for who they are."

I'm sorry, but that's just poppycock.

Still, I'm willing to accede to that world view and say, those people are 100% right. My poor children - they will never be happy, and I don't truly accept them. BUT HERE'S THE THING: If that is true, it means that I can never be happy, because my children think that I am wrong. And those children do not truly accept me for who I am. I mean, after all, if it applies one way, it applies the other.

Plus, my religion is not something like my nationality or hair color, something I was born with, or had handed down to me by my parents - I chose it, on my own. In fact, that's one of the reasons I find this thinking to be so ridiculous; I joined my church, alone, when I was 12. My parents were never members. Yet I did not feel unloved, and they were not unhappy because of me.

Sometimes, too, people will feel judged by the simple fact that I homeschool. We'll be having an ordinary conversation, and then they'll find out, or be reminded, that my kids do not attend school. Suddenly, someone will get defensive, insist that I think they're a bad, unloving, selfish parent who's ruining their child's life by sending them to public school. No, I will say, I think no such thing. I'm in favor of many choices, and I made the choice that works best for my family. And often, I will still be treated to an extensive recital of why they chose public school, as if they need to convince me, or need my approval.

Or, they'll tell me why they don't agree with homeschooling, but will qualify it with, "I'm not talking about you and your family," as though I am somehow an exception to every rule.

And just when I've pretty much forgotten that Mommy Wars exist, someone will tell me that my choice to be home full time has ruined my children's lives, and mine as well. Or, they'll be sure that I'm condemning them for wanting and enjoying a career.

Folks, I am NOT judging you and thinking that you're a bad person if you do things I do not do. I have no illusions that people always will, or should, agree. Sometimes we will be wrong, but that does not nullify our right to occupy space on the planet, our right to live as we choose, our right to express ourselves, or our right to be treated with civility. It does not mean that we do not love others who are different. And if you keep insisting that the simple fact that I do things differently than you do, or think that you're wrong in any way, means that I'm judging you, disliking or distrusting you, or thinking you are a lesser person than I am, I will be forced to conclude that YOU feel this way about ME. Because, I GUARANTEE, even if you're a member of my family, a member of my church, a member of my political party, occupation, or any other classification, there is something I do that you think is WRONG.

You're, of course, free to think that I'm six kinds of dreadful, but realize that fact alone doesn't mean that I think that about you.

Yes, I am thinking of all the election year rhetoric. You are not a terrible person if you vote for a candidate that I can't stand. I am not a bad person if I vote a way that you find to be wrong.