To My Five-Year-Old Daughter

 To My Five-Year-Old Daughter,

As I look over at your sweetly sleeping face, I know that the world you enter now is one that is filled with challenges and hardships. Your right to do what you wish, how you wish, and with whom you wish stands on a very tenuous knife’s edge, and I hope that I and the rest of your grown-ups can help leave the world a little better than we found it.

But those are not things I can control here and now, from this desk. What I can control in this moment is what little wisdom I have gained, and what I desperately wish to impart to you throughout your childhood.

Never forget that you are special, beautiful, and powerful. You are special, just as every heart who has ever danced on this plane is unique and remarkable. You are beautiful, because you love with every fibre of your being and share the deepest truths within your soul. And you are powerful, innately, truly, and deeply, simply by the virtue of knowing and accepting the simplicity of that truth. Your power comes from believing in you.

Some will resent your sparkle. Sparkle anyway.

Some will betray your trust. Trust anyway.

Some will doubt your intentions. Be true to them anyway.

Some will try to hurt you. And some will even succeed.

But know this: the way others treat you has so much more to do with them than with you. You are your own incredible self, and others’ failure to grasp your true nature, as painful as it may be for you, is nothing compared to the tragedy they live of never seeing you for the amazing and delightful light that you are, and which you bring to the world.

Know also, that you have brought me a deeper love than I ever thought I could experience. Every laugh that peels is a thousand hugs, every smile that beams is a million sunsets, and hearing you joyously shout “Mommyyyyy” when you see me at the end of a long day heals wounds I didn’t even know I had.

You are getting older now, and this was in no way authorized by me. You no longer need me to help you dress, or eat, or do any of the million things people do in a day. But to me, you will always be the tiny newborn the nurse placed on my chest, straining her neck to meet my gaze. Even as you grow ever so taller and more independent, there will always be a place in my arms, a spot in my lap, and a kiss on any part of your face you’ll let me catch you with. Sleep well, my angel. The world is waiting for you. -Your Mother

In Defense of Robin Scherbatsky

 TL;DR - she was mistreated by every man in her life, including those on the show, and comes by her closed-off nature and wariness of emotional connection or being "tied down" honestly.

The more times I re-watch How I Met Your Mother, the worse opinions I have of everyone on the show except for Robin.

Ted is determined to find his Manic Pixie Dreamgirl, and will shoehorn any woman unfortunate enough to date him into that role, whether it fits her or not. Every serious relationship we see of his except for Tracey starts with a "No." Robin. Victoria. Robin again. Stella. Natalie. Rachel Bilson's character whose name escapes me. Victoria again. He's basically JD with less homophobia and transphobia.

Barney... well. Go look up Rape By Proxy, and realize that that is what The Playbook is. Yes, he grows. But not until the VERY LAST EPISODE and even then, we don't know if that sticks.

Marshall holds everyone, himself included, to impossibly high standards for ethics and morality, and leaves absolutely no space for nuance or ethical ambiguity. He's unhappy when he's making lots of money because he thinks his employers are unethical. He's unhappy when he's working for the NRDC because he doesn't think the man he's idolized his entire career is doing enough. He's unhappy that his wife and his mother don't get along, when his mother is TRULY AWFUL to Lily.

Lily is irretrievably self-involved. I can't marry Marshall, I have to be an artist. I have an amazing husband and we live a comfortable life, but I want to be an artist. Let me put myself into tens of thousands of dollars of credit card debt so I can wear designer clothing on a Preschool Teacher's salary. Let's uproot my entire family, give up the life and friendships I've created, and deny my husband his dream job so I can be an artist.

And then there's Robin. Struggling newscaster who just wants to do something important with her life. Willing to uproot herself multiple times in pursuit of her dreams. Of course she doesn't want to be tied down, she's not selfish enough to want to force someone to move around the world with her. Ted lies to her to get her to come to a party, tells her he's in love with her on the first date, then basically wears her down until she agrees to date him, only to find out he hadn't actually broken up with his girlfriend first. 

First time around, Barney lacks anything resembling the kind of emotional maturity to be in a relationship. To be fair, so does she. But when they break up, Barney is incredibly insensitive, and the gang follows suit. And when they finally do end up together, because they boomerang even more than she and Ted do, despite being so confident he just wants her, he can't stand not being the one in the relationship with all the power.

Don. Starts off by being incredibly disrespectful. Continues to do so by inviting her to a "Party" and trying to pull of The Naked Man, and then criticizes any woman who would fall for it (and yet he wanted her to fall for it?). Isolates her from her friends because he can't deal with the fact that (spoiler alert) SOME PEOPLE CAN ACTUALLY REMAIN FRIENDS WITH THEIR EXES (hi, Claire, nice to meet you), and then takes the job that SHE TURNED DOWN because she wanted to be around him, breaking up with her and moving out of the city. Man I hate that guy.

And we're not even going to start on Robin's dad. You can't be abusive and detached for your kid's entire life and then decide once they're 30 that they're you're drinking buddy. Okay, I guess we did start.

Anyway. I can tell that the writers want to paint Robin as this closed-off career-focus woman who just needs to let herself be vulnerable, but every time she does, she gets totally screwed over.

So yeah, I can see that they were always angling toward Robin and Ted getting together at the end of the show. But for her sake, I kind of wish they didn't.

Gluten-Free Pumpkin Gnocchi

Recipe Tags: Gluten Free, Fall, Pumpkin, Italian, Easy, Vegetarian, Vegan

Start to Nom: 30 Minutes active cooking

Needed: Oven, Stove, Large Stockpot, Baking Sheet, Mixing Bowl, Tongs, Slotted Spoon, Flat Turner

Serves: Up to 4

Ingredients:

2 cups Pumpkin Purree (fresh or canned)

1.5 cups Instant Mashed Potatoes

1.5 cups Gluten Free Flour (any kind)

1 tsp caradamom

0.5 tsp ground clove

1 tsp garlic powder

1 tsp salt

1. Fill stockpot with water and set on high to bring to rolling boil. Set oven broiler on to Low.

2. Combine all ingredients except Pumpkin in large mixing bowl. A whisk works well.

3. Add pumpkin and hand mix until items are well combined into soft, rather dry dough.

4. Hand roll cherry tomato-sized pieces of dough into oblong pieces, roughly 1" by 1/3" inch, and arrange with at least 1" between pieces on baking sheet.

5. Use the tines of a fork to flatten each gnocchi and give it the signature shape.

6. Broil 5-10 minutes on top rack of oven to dry. Do not over broil or toast, this is merely to dry the gnocchi so they don't fall apart in the water.

7. When gnocchi are warm to the touch and the tops look dry, drop each piece one-by-one into rolling boil in small batches. These gnocchi do not double in size as with plain potato gnocchi. You will know they are done when they float to the edges of the pot and sit calmly instead of turning over in the boiling water. It typically takes 3-5 minutes. It's difficult to over-cook them, but disastrous to under cook them, so test one to get the timing right.

8. Remove gnocchi from pot and place on plate or bowl to cool. Top with your favorite sauce and serve immediately. I used marinara in the picture, which I do not recommend because it overpowers the pumpkin. 

Masochistic Omphaloskepsis

A piece on trying to work through emotional turmoil as a writer in a Facebook-heavy world.

Delving into pain, caused by examination of thoughts resulting from a previous injury. A falling out with a… not a friend. Friends don’t abuse you. A person.

Ding! Notification - who is it? Someone who cares? Momentary validation? Antiseptic for the pain my head? Distraction from the cause of my pain?

No, stick with it, Broderick. Delve deep. Deep down. Why did it hurt when they said you were worthless? What was it about being mistreated that made you feel this way? These incisions can’t be fully healed, look, I see a suture still inside the emotional scar tissue, let’s pull.

Ding! Notification.Who is it? Someone with relief? Something funny? Antiseptic to help me pick apart my badly healed scabs. That’s never gonna heal if you don’t stop picking…

So let’s pick some more. Delve. Artists need pain to fuel themselves, right? The great Trent Reznor, writing his opus in his bathtub. I hurt myself today and every day, and I already know I can feel but I want to know how much. How much childhood trauma can I lift up if I just pick right here.

Ding! Notification. Who is it? Some asshole telling me I’m wrong on the internet. No, buddy. YOU’RE wrong on the internet, and here’s a list of reasons why. I’m the queen of the takedown, the ultimate troll, I’m such an intellectual badass, I’m…

God I’m so awful. Why do I do that? Why do I get so worked up fighting with strangers I’ll never have coffee with to apologize for what a bitch I was.  

Stick with it, Broderick. Deep deep delving. Self loathing, that’s the place we need to go. That’s where the real trauma is. You’re fat now? Hey, weren’t you fat before? Didn’t your first boyfriend call you fat? And your dance teacher? And your father? Fat. Fat fat fatty. No self-respect. No self-control. How could I ever be a good mother?

Ding! Notification. Who is it? Nobody. An event coming up that I can’t go to because I’m 1500 miles away. The invitation is enough, though. Totally. You know I would be there if I lived closer. I definitely wouldn’t make an excuse to stay home and pick at these scars.

Delve.

Ding.

Delve.

Ding.

There’s got to be something better. I’d find out what it is, but while I was typing and editing this, I got two, make that three, no now four notifications, and I have to go.

Eating Crackers

Before we begin, allow me to show you this picture so the first image in a share isn't something with profanity in it!:

The Girlchild and I had a great conversation about popularity, perception, and other people's opinions on the way to her summer program today. She started by talking about how the people in her new school weren't always the warmest to her because what they thought of her, and I introduced the Crackers Phenomenon.

You may be familiar with this idea, but in case you're not, here's a handy JPEG:

The version I gave to her had much gentler language, but she definitely got the gist. And then she asked if I ever ate crackers. And I sighed.

There's a person who decided I was absolutely, 100% out for her blood. I dated some people in her life and I also took a job where she had once worked, and in her mind, these were indications that I hated her and was trying to destroy her. Thing was, until I learned this through mutual friends, she wasn't even a blip on my radar.

Now, of course, I hate that someone thinks these things of me, and so when my girl asked if I ever ate crackers, I had to be honest. I gave her a very watered-down version, and we had a great talk about how perception is everything. We even got a handy-dandy case of mistaken identity in drivers on the road to drive the point home.

Flash forward to the end of the day, and she's helping me out in the classroom, and one of my students asks "Miss Claire, do you eat crackers?"

I look straight at my girl and say, "All the time."

Jizanthepus

As some of you may know, I am a preschool teacher. And I'd like to tell you about one of the most awkward conversations I've ever had with a parent*.

I teach twos and toddlers, which means lots of diapers. And there's this one child whose parents are latino and black. Now, something I have learned by changing the diapers of many ethnicities is that children with dark skin have poop lighter than themselves, and children with light to medium skin have poop darker than themselves. Then there is this small sliver of children whose poop is the exact same color as their skin.

Let it show that I am not saying their skin is the color of poop, I am saying that their poop is a similar color to their skin. Just a little crowbar in there.

Well, I am changing this child. And he has pooped... gloriously. If you're a parent, you know what I mean. And I have to clean him up, and I can't miss any. Because again, if you're a parent, you know that if you leave poop behind, it will do one, two, or all of three things: embarrass you, disgust you, and give them a rash.

And then there's Jizanthepus. If you've watched Louis CK, you may be familiar with this term. A Jizanthepus is... well let's say that preschool teachers love all their kids. And some of them make it more difficult than others.

Anyway, Jizanthepus is one of those kids who will do exactly what you're asking them not to, while mad-dogging you. And it doesn't matter what you say to him. No amount of "Jizanthepus. Excuse me Jizanthepus. Mister Jizanthepus! Jizanthepus no thank you! *Gasp* Jizanthepus! Danger, danger!" is going to convince him to do what you're asking.

Jinzanthepus doesn't care. Jizanthepus is convincing all of his friends to go be Jizanthepuses with him. Jizanthepus is Lord of the Goddamned Flies. And the worst part: he knows it. He knows that I'm changing a diaper. He knows that nothing he does will cause me to walk away from the child strapped to the changing table, and there I am, all alone in the classroom with him, my changing kid, and five Jizanthepuses in training.

And so, I meet his eye, and use the only resource left to me as a teacher. Because if I make a threat in front of the whole class, I better be prepared to follow through with.

"Jizanthepus, I swear to Christ, if you don't stop this instant you will be the VERY LAST to have snack!"

And that's when his mother walked in.

*This story is not true, but is inspired by real children I teach.

Untitled

Millions of people marched today in solidarity with women around the world, and in protest of the rhetoric of the most recent US presidential election. Many of those people were my friends, and I thank and celebrate you all, and applaud your efforts and the way you exercised your first amendment rights today.

I did not march today, not because I don’t support the cause, or because I’m not an activist, or even because I don’t support the goals of the organization. I stayed home for my safety. I’m extremely claustrophobic in crowds, and my network of people who can bail me out in this new city I live in should arrests be made is nill. Many friends posted Senator Warren’s warning, which listed that you should have a going to jail plan, which I definitely didn’t. And so, things being how they are, I stayed home and cheered from the sidelines, researching next steps and possible female candidates to follow in 2018.

All of this would have been fine, except that a person took it upon themselves to question my activism. To chide my anxiety. To shame me.

Let me first say that nobody has the right to tell anyone else how to spend their spoons. If you don’t know what that means, check out Spoon Theory. But back to my point, it is not your role or your job to tell any adult how they should be spending their energy. Maybe your spouse or your children, but even then they may tell you where to go.

Second, not all activism looks the same. Some attend marches. Some write letters, or speeches, or songs. Some go to city council meetings. There are as many ways to be an activist as there are activists, and there’s no such thing as a wrong way to do it, except not doing it at all.

And finally: behold the problem with our rhetoric in political discussion. You have to agree with me. Not only that, you have to agree with me on all of these different intersections of politics, behavior, science, and logic. Not only that, you have to agree with me in the specific way I want you to, otherwise we disagree and you’re wrong and also Hitler.

Does this sound familiar? Because I am tired of it. So very weary. And to use a phrase which has been beaten to death since November 9th, if you think and act this way, you’re part of the problem.

Spoiler alert: most people don’t agree 100% with everything on their party’s platform. People have different views on different topics, and varying degrees of importance for different topics as well. Some people *really* care about the economy, while some *really* care about social issues, while some *really* care about the environment, and most people don’t have enough energy to care about all of them equally, and certainly not all at the same time.

We need to stop thinking that there is a Right Way to be a Democrat. A Republican. An American. A Person. People disagree. People agree and still act differently from each other. People given the same information as you may reach a different conclusion. It doesn’t mean either of you is wrong or right. Because as I’ve said entirely too much lately, it’s all about worldview.