A Baseball Diamond

I am the coach’s daughter.  My father coached baseball for 37 years. He had a team of 13, 14 and 15 year old boys for almost his entire adult life.  His first baseball team draft, was the day after I was born.  He was 23 years old.

At the start of each season, once I turned around 12 years old, until the time that I was about 16, my father’s “first day of practice speech” always concluded with…"and if you want to do well on this team, then stay away from my daughter." Let’s just say there were a few courageous boys who ventured into that dangerous ‘territory’, but not without serious reservations and a baseball sized lump in their throat.

“Wild Bill” is what they called my Dad.  He was, for lack of a better word, extremely ‘passionate’ about the sport.  So passionate in fact, that at times he was ejected from the game for an overtly negative reaction aimed at an umpire’s call that he was sure was incredibly unjust. After finally leaving the playing field and entrusting the team in the care of his assistant coaches, he would still try to coach from the parking lot, and he would be thrown out of the game for a second time, if there is such a thing.

My Dad was a great coach.  He loved the sport and the kids who played for him.  To this day, he may not recognize their now adult and aging faces right away, but he could tell each and every one of them their most memorable moment, their stats, or the play(s) that defined them as if they were playing on a field right before his very eyes. He is a true lover of the sport of baseball and those who are involved with the game.

My father taught me and the rest of my siblings to be versatile when playing baseball/softball, any sport, really.  He had the philosophy that we should know the sport we were playing inside and out. We should also be able to raise our hand if any of our coaches was looking for a replacement or substitute, should a team member be sick, out for injury or for any other unforeseen reason.

When I got engaged to my husband, 17 years ago, after my father congratulated me, he then asked “When’s the wedding…not during baseball season, right?” We will never find out if my father would have been there or not, because I planned my wedding in the fall, for obvious reasons. Way ahead of you, Dad.

Now, I have two kids of my own who are involved in team sports: Football, Field Hockey, Basketball. I have witnessed what I will refer to as “adults behaving badly” on numerous occasions.  I have seen parents who yell at the coaches, or question their skills, or worse, parents who yell at their kids to the point of embarrassment while they are playing their sport. I have seen parents writing letters to heads of organizations threatening to pull their child from a team because their child did not play enough in that day's game. Ridiculous. There is more than likely a good reason for the lack of time on the field and that is the coach’s decision. This did not happen to my Dad often.  He was respected. People had faith in him. I learned from my Dad that, for that time of the year, when any kid is on a team, it is best for parents to hand their kids over to their coaches. 

I recently attended an Athletic Department meeting at my son’s High School. One of the things touched on was the value of the “one instructional voice.” Kids benefit best when they have one voice instructing them on a sport.  It doesn’t mean that you can’t play catch with your kid in the back yard or give them pointers. It means trust and let the coach make the decisions for what is best for them.  As long as my child is not in danger, I will always let the coach decide what is best. I will not question his or her decisions when it comes to the sport. Another lesson learned was that kids generally don’t like when we parents rehash the events of the game, after the game is over.  Going over plays, what went wrong, what went right, etc…let your kid lead you down that path. If they want to talk about it, then great. If not, zip it.

Something that really resonated with me was when we were told about one player who commented on how much he liked it when his grandparents came to watch him play.  He appreciated it so much because, quite simply, his grandparents would say to him “We love to watch you play”…and that’s it. Nothing else. He mentioned that as far as his parents were concerned, he would rather that they NOT come to his games. Ouch.

One young lady revealed that she chose a college on the other side of the country that offered her a basketball scholarship, so that she would no longer feel the pressure of having her parents attend her basketball games. They had been very vocal on her instruction of the sport in the past and she was happy to be free.

I really don't want my kids to feel that way about me. I have decided to take the advice of these wise teenagers. Yes, I said it...wise teenagers.

As parents, wanting what is best for our children is instinctual. Protecting their safety is present on a very cellular level. As long as a child will not be harmed by another adult, we must give them over to the care of their coaches and teachers.  Step in when the instinct tells you, but stay back when it’s your pride or ego talking. Kids will do their absolute best when they are able to feel free to make mistakes, take risks and learn what they love.

September Mourn

Most days blend from one into the next for me.  At some point, they all start running together in a blur.  I will often forget that I need to stop and get a gallon of milk, so my kids end up having toast for breakfast.  Occasionally I will totally space a doctor’s appointment and feel just terrible about it. I often forget to pay my electric bill until I get the shut off notice.  Not any of my other bills mind you, just the electric bill, don’t ask me why. Then there are those milestone and momentous days that will forever stand out when I am a beaming parent or my children have the best days of their lives. Those are embedded and burned into my brain in a very detailed fashion. Those aside, there are very few days that I recall so vividly and emotionally as September 11, 2001.

I, of course, will start off by telling you where I was. I pulled down the long driveway of my friend Lynn’s house, arriving a few moments before the start time of our 9 am playgroup, with my kids seated in the back of my green minivan. Nestled in their seats, sippy cups and goldfish crackers tucked beside each of them. The day was perfect. A beautiful, clear, blue skied day with the faintest chill in the air. Playgroup was a lifesaver of a gathering for me.  As a stay at home mother of two small children ages 4 ½ and almost 2, living in rural New Hampshire, I looked forward to these play times as much as my kids did, for the interaction. We met weekly with somewhere between 4-7 other mothers and a significant gaggle of kids, all under the age of 6 years old. To label them as a rambunctious crew, would have been a slight understatement. As I pulled in, I noticed that one of the other mothers was sitting in her car, her head down.  I released my children from their seats, grabbed my bag of goodies and began to make my way into the house. I noticed that the mother in her car had not moved, head still down. I stopped by her driver’s side window, waved, and she looked up at me with a blank look on her face. She opened the car door and said, “I am listening to the radio. A plane just struck one of the twin towers in New York.”

We both went inside amidst little bodies in full throttle, doing what they had grown accustomed to do.  It was loud and chaotic, but full of all the things kids do best.  The adults had begun to come together and talk softly about what was going in New York City and we decided to turn on the television in another room, away from the kids, to see what was going on. We were going to watch in shifts.  My friend Kim left to take the first shift. She was gone only a short period and when she returned, she had a grave look on her face. She quietly informed us that a second plane had hit the South Tower, and that more planes had reportedly been hijacked. Amazingly, collectively, we all had the same reaction: silence. More than silence it was pure shock. And nothing hit us mothers in the gut harder than being in a room full of children and getting this news. We, as a nation, were clearly under attack. The gravity of it paralyzed all of us as we watched our babies play without a care in the world.

Navigating the next few days was difficult.  Not being able to fully explain to two small children what was going on in detail, I felt compelled to sit in front of the TV (something that I rarely do) and watch every minute, almost in zombie fashion, experiencing periods of raw emotion, crying and utter disbelief. I didn’t want to leave my house.  I didn't want to eat. Nothing will stick with me more than the sight of that plane hitting the second tower. The underbelly of the plane looked so familiar.  I remember the eerie, silent skies above in the days after. I will forever remember the stories of those trapped in a stairwell together and surviving that horrific day. I will not forget the faces of the people who were frantically searching for loved ones.  I will not forget the calls from loved ones as they reached out to family to tell them how much they loved them as their planes hurled towards devastation. I will forever remember the bravery, the courage, the sacrifice.

In the days that followed, I did not care about my privacy, or profiling or being unfair. If I, or anyone else, needed to be inconvenienced at the hands of our government to protect more lives from being lost, then so be it.  The hard realization hit that we, as a nation of people, are hated by some, and there is very little protection against this extreme form of hatred, without some kind of cost. In some cases hatred is a necessary part of life. How can we possibly have intense love, without some form of hate. And, for the first time in my life, I felt true, deep hatred rise up within me.

In the weeks that followed, I remember hearing how there was a increase in the divorce rate, the break up rate and the reconciliation rate after 9/11 due to people realizing how important it was to not let those that they loved, or could love, slip away. It became equally apparent how critical it was to end relationships not worth being in. Letting people go is just as important as keeping those we love close to us.

In the years that followed the simple realizations became this: We are not safe without diligence. But more importantly, never leave anything unsaid. Especially when it comes to those that you love most. Say it.

In the last 10 years, I have slipped back into my same or similar day to day routine. So much of what I took away from September 11, 2001, has always stayed with me, but I have let some of the elements creep back in that I promised I would not.  I need to forgive more.  Say what I feel, when I feel it.  Never forget to say “I love you” when my heart says it and never take one single person that I have in my life for granted.

Let this tenth anniversary of the worst day in the history of our days be a reminder. Never forget.  Never forget those who used courage, bravery, strength, faith and love to its ultimate, fullest potential. Never forget those who sacrificed. Never forget all of the things that are worth remembering.

~<3

* feel free to use the comments box below to share your experience of where you were on 9/11/2001

Flight of the First Day

Alarm clock…snooze.

Alarm clock…snooze.

Alarm clock…2 feet on the floor.

Shower…thank goodness for hot water. Bathrobe. Hair wound tightly in a towel.

Two kids systematically running around the house making breakfast for themselves…hallelujah!

Empty lunch box on the counter.  Slap peanut butter and fluff on 2 pieces of bread and bag it up.  Bag goldfish. Wash apple. Granola Bar. Rinse, cut up, bag and LIGHTLY salt celery. Ice pack. Juice Box. Water bottle.

“Do you have your binders?”

“Yes, Mom”

 “Do you have your bus directions?”

 “Yes…”

 “Do you have ALL of your football gear?”

 “YES, Mom.”

 Write a check to be added to the hot lunch account.

Take a few pictures with fresh, clean back to school clothes, crisp back-packs and freckled, lightly tanned ‘little’ faces with evidence of past peeling noses.

Watch them walk down the driveway to catch the bus. Hesitate and stifle the desire to throw shoes on and walk with them. Notice the chill in the air.

Wave goodbye. Tug. Heart strings.

Get dressed, make up, blow dry, straighten. Prepare dinner in the crock pot.

Drive to work.  Watch other people’s children get on their school buses with clean sneakers and neon laces and fresh haircuts.

Coffee. Two cups.

Work a full day in a dental practice complete with “Why is my bill so high?”, “I forgot about my appointment.” and “I love my new smile…thank you.” Computer needs to be restarted twice. Boss needs to be redirected once. All the while wondering…how are the kids and their first day of school?

Punch out. Drive 15 miles. Pick up one child from school. Unplanned stop for more school supplies, just announced today.  Pick another child up from football practice. Reluctantly stop again for more school supplies, just added to the list.

Home for Crockpot dinner. Learned that Joseph is 2 inches taller and Morgan has a new horse.

The first day of school assessment: Two big thumbs up. Wait…what?

Paperwork.  Oh, paperwork.  General Information, Emergency Forms, Parental Permission Slips, etc. Read school handbook…again.

Dishes.

“What will I wear tomorrow?”

“I think I will use my old backpack instead of my new one.”

“Mom, how much laundry detergent do I use to wash my football uniform?” (there isn’t enough laundry detergent on the planet, my dear.)

Laughter, chatter, laundry…

Freshly showered daughter with wonderfully fragrant hair. One of my favorite smells.

Cuddle.

A warm bear hug from my teenaged son.  He still kisses me, without prompting. My heart smiles.

Goodnight, I love you.

Goodnight, I love you.

I am proud of you both.

Quiet…

How quickly things move. 

How grown up they have become.

How important some things are…

How trivial some other things are…

A Mutha

I am 18 years old.  Well, my brain feels 18 years old.  I am actually, technically, 42 years old. The incredibly unfair thing about parenting is that you (the parent) are actually still a young person in an older person's body. And…you are a complete DRAG…to your kids.

I look at my two children as one is entrenched in and the other is rapidly approaching the teenage years, and the inner know-it-all teenager in me is screaming: “I get it! I GET it! I REALLY DO!!  Don’t roll your eyes at me!  I am older, but I AM ONE OF YOU!

I am a seasoned pro. I excelled at being a teenager. I used to troll for boys sitting on the rock wall of my church. I blew a stop sign one night and came within milliseconds of God only knows what.  I have skinny dipped. I have inhaled, snuck out of the house, skipped a LOT of school, ran from the police and…before I go any further…let’s just leave it at that and say that I am well aware of what it feels like to be a teenager.

Sadly, none of that matters. I am not a teenager in 2011. And in my children’s eyes,  I am sure I appear old and that I could not possibly understand what it's like.

The other day, as my son was packing for a week long trip that he was taking with his best friend to Maine, we got into an argument about the proper way to pack.  My son did not like my recommendation to bring a backpack in addition to his suitcase to take care of some smaller items, as he and his friend were going to be in air-soft gun tournament while in Maine. Air-soft paraphenalia is plentiful and consists of some small pieces, made to be misplaced.  He insisted that it would be acceptable to just lay them out individually in the car.  Not my car, mind you, his best friend’s grandfather’s car. He was the one hosting and driving them to Maine.

For real?

“No, hunny, you can’t do that.” I said, “You are not the only one in the car taking stuff with you. I am sure it would be easier to bring them in your backpack.  Now, go get it.”

“This is how I did it last year.” He defended, meticulously laying them out on the counter in the kitchen.

“I don’t care how you did it last year, this year you will be taking all of those little pieces in a backpack.” I said, “Now, please go get the backpack.”  He went to respond again and I put my index finger up in the air as if to say ‘wait a second who do you think you are talking to?’ and he stopped with a huff and stomped through the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. Who does that? Who puts their finger in the air?! A rancid old mother, that’s who!

“Why do you have to tell me how to pack?” my frustrated son asked as he returned with the backpack.

‘Because I have been packing for 30 plus years and you’ve been packing for all of about 10 minutes." 

Yes, of course, I played the “Mother knows best card.” I am after all, a Mother. The teenager in me absolutely hated myself.

Wouldn’t it have just been great if I could have just let him go and find out for himself after he loses one of those valuable items in his air-soft gun arsenal? Shouldn’t I have just let him learn from his mistakes instead of being a “helicopter mother”? Wasn’t that a ‘teaching moment’ that I just let slip by?

I often get a sinking feeling in my stomach after an altercation with either of my kids and this time was no exception. I let guilt take over and I imagine what it was that I should of said that would have made me ever so slightly cooler. I should have said something like this:

“Hunny, those small, valuable little items would be much better suited in a backpack, but let’s see how your idea works first.”

Whatever.

I hear that after the teenage years are over, that children come back.  That kids that grow into adults return with some sort of inner apology and wrap their arms around you and say “You were a great Mother” and they really mean it. They get it.  Or maybe it happens when they have their own children.

One thing that I know for certain is that while being my child’s friend sounds fabulous, I am first and foremost their parent.

A nagging thorn in their side…A cramp in their style…A thwart in their evil plan.

 Hopefully, I am as much of a friend and confidant that I can possibly be to my own offspring, without ‘losing cred’. My children have many friends. My job, while less glamourous, is to be the tortured teenager in the adults body and the annoying voice in the back of their mind.

The little argument between my son and I is a small representation of what happens in day to day life.  Of course on occasion as well as in the future, the disagreements will get bigger, more meaningful, more heated.  The biggest lesson that I am learning is that force creates resistance. The more I push, the more my children will push away.

So my new motto is “Pick Your Battles Wisely”.  I need to let my children lose their most valuable treasures on occasion, so that I can keep mine.

A Grain of Sand

Let's just say that so far, this has been a challenging year for me.  I am not usually the type of person that gets stressed out easily or becomes overwhelmed by life, but this past year, I will admit, has been a tough one for me.

On February 4th, my 86 year old grandmother, the matriarch of our family, passed away. This event was, and still is, very emotional for me. I identified with my grandmother's personality so much. Her and I were alot alike. I hate referring to her in the past tense.

My grandmother and I were both the same height, possessed the same turned up nose and deep, blue eyes.  "If you don't want the truth, then don't ask either one of us." That is how I have always thought of our closest similarity. We shared that trait. Let's just call it the ability to be "direct".

Unfortunately, intense family discord and my own medical challenges quickly followed the passing of my grandmother, with the peppering of close personal relationships being tested, the questioning of friendships and their longevity, and ultimately the over extension of myself and my abilities.  Needless to say, by the time the date of July 2nd rolled around, the start of my week long vacation, I was more than ready for it.

I have not had a week long vacation since my honeymoon in 1995. For real. As a family, we go away for a 3 day weekend every Labor Day to Vermont.  Last summer, my kids and I went to Cape Cod for a few days with some friends.  My husband, my kids and I jaunted down there last Memorial Day weekend, as well.  But the four of us have NEVER been on a week long vacation together. EVER.

So, needless to say.  I was due. We were all due.

As a child, I spent all of my vacations, during the first week of August, on Cape Cod.  "The Cape" as we Massachusetts people call it. Below the elbow, if you will.  Argueably, what most life long Cape-goers will insist is the 'real Cape'.  The lower part of the arm of Massachusetts.  Eastham is a quiet, almost sedate, Cape Cod town with minimalized commercialism and not a chain store in sight.  Except for a very snobby looking Dunkin Donuts, with an inconspicuous sign over the door.  A door that has a line flowing out of it at 6:00 am every morning. This particular altered Dunkin Donuts does not make a single breakfast sandwich and only offers 6 varieties of donuts.  Just as long as they have coffee. That's all that really matters.

I was thrilled to be going back again.  I have the fondest memories of my life there.  There are two types of beaches on the Cape.  The 'Bay' side and the 'Ocean' Side.  The Bay side has a very distinct low tide and high tide.  Low tide has many sand bars and tidal pools with all kinds of hidden sea treasures.  The sandbars and tidal pools go on and on, with many opportunities for unearthing razor clams, cohogs, crabs of all varieties, abandoned shells, scattering minnows and many other fantastic salty finds.  The sand is rougher on the Bay side, pebbly, and the water is warmer.  The waves are not impressive. 

The Ocean side offers very little change in its appearance during low tide vs. high tide.  Just a few feet of difference in the shoreline of the 'going out' and 'coming in' of the ocean.  The waves are bigger and the water is colder.  The sand is finer and powdery. Great for toes.

We were Bay side people. I always longed for low tide. The lowest of the low tides. It was my salvation.  At the precise moment that the ocean water would begin to receed, I would follow it out and be gone for hours, with my bucket. By myself.  I was always the truest version of myself out there, and ever since I stopped going to the Cape every summer, I have lost a part of who I am.

My memories of these summers are vivid: Lobsters and steamers.  My mother cemented into a 3 fold lounge chair with a brown belly, a red plastic cup in her hand, and a bright, royal blue cooler by her side. My father always muttering about rip tides and throwing us into the waves like beach balls. My brothers both in diapers and in play pens. Sand bar wiffle ball. Sunburns that crippled you. Great friends. New Cape friends that you met on the beach, sharing a raft.  My great-granparents teaching me how to play cribbage.  We were all there one summer, hovered around the Cape Cod Times, as we learned that Elvis had died.  My father's green Nova with a CB radio. Cape traffic on the Sagamore Bridge.  The salt, the sand dunes, the sand in your bathing suit and often, the sand in your sandwich.

I was elated to hear that a childhood friend of mine and her husband, who I had also known from high school, and their two children were vacationing in Eastham the same week as us. We planned to get our families together while on the Cape. Kristine and I shared a fun friendship and an amazing summer together, when I was 13 and she was 14. We were both a little on the boy crazy side. Her more than me. (just kidding, Kristine).

The first few days on the Cape were spent just as I had planned. We connected with a friend of ours and her son, who were also spending time in Eastham.  We lounged by the ocean, swam, treasure hunted through low tide and played games on the beach with a beautiful sunset as our backdrop. The next few days, we did more of the same.  Filled it in with fried clams, miniature golf, t-shirt shopping and board games. I could tell that my husband and kids had moments of boredom, and part of me became saddened by this as I questioned whether or not this vacation was built for them or just built for me.

Kristine and her husband asked us over for cocktail hour one evening. We joined them, and met their beautiful children and some of their friends. They had a house full.  Our Cape cottage was relatively quiet. Not theirs. I loved it! Part of the magic of the Cape, is the people that you meet while there. 

One of Kristine's friends was also a lifelong Cape goer.  She had always come to Eastham as well.  She told me a story about the first time she vacationed on Eastham on her own many years ago, with her husband and their two small children, who at that point in time, were pretty much both in diapers.  She had me almost in tears, laughing, as she recounted the horror of this vacation that she had once so idealized.  She described her kids as miserable, with sand in every crevace, crying constantly. She had resorted to calling her father at home, playing on the fact that she was 'daddy's little girl', asking him to please come down to the Cape and join them, secretly hoping that he would valiantly scoop up her two unhappy, screaming babies in his arms so that she and her husband could relax and enjoy. He did come down to Eastham, but recommended that she have a gin and tonic and just learn to cope.  He explained that he had been right where she is now. On an unruly vacation with cranky kids, counting the minutes until cocktail hour and even the long ride home. 

Funny, I'm sure my parents had those moments, too.  But somehow, the overall emotion that washes over me is that these vacations were perfection in motion. I am quite sure that I am not the only one who is disillusioned.

Our days in Eastham continued on with kites flown on the sandbars at low tide against orange and hot pink skies, long walks on the beach, fireworks, a visit to Provincetown (or 'P town' as it is called) for shopping, monument climbing, and parasailing. It felt like home to me. I was in my element.

Along the way, we met a little girl, Kendall, on Martha's Vineyard that stole our hearts.  She danced and sang for us on the ferry back to Woods Hole and within 10 minutes of our meeting, she started calling me 'Mommy' and told me that she loved me. She hugged my children as we were all leaving the ferry and told us she wanted to come home with us. I wanted Kendall to come home with us, too. She had to have been one of the most open-hearted human beings I have ever met.

My children and I met a older couple from Chicago, now living in Las Vegas, that were both school teachers.  We had struck up conversation with them when my son and I offered to give up our seats so that they could sit, instead of stand,on an over-crowded shuttle bus. They were lovely.  Just really good, hard working people.  You could just tell. We talked about 8th grade math, raising children, and they told us about their worldly summer travels.

Chance meetings of lives just crossing for a few moments.

Since my grandmother passed away, and maybe even before that, I have slowly felt myself closing off to the people around me.  Distancing myself, feeling incapable of sharing any part of myself with others.  The feeling of not wanting to put forth the effort to connect was starting to infiltrate into my daily life. The events of the late winter made me bitter. Unavailable. Robotic. Non-tolerant.

Since returning back to my home with my family, and reflecting on my time on the Cape and the people that we met and that I reconnected with, I have come to the realization just how off course I have strayed. 

Just like tides that ebb and flow, so similiar are the relationships that we build in our life.  Some get washed out to sea and some weather well as sea green beach glass, smooth around the edges. It is the people in our lives, that always make a difference.  Each like a grain of sand.  A grain of sand can be a nagging nuisance in a crevace or the remnants of sturdy a rock, tumbled over and over again by the changing tides.

Political Correctness

"Why is she the only girl?"

That was the question that my young daughter asked as we were all watching the morning after assessment and news coverage following the Republican Debate that aired on a Monday night, not too long ago. She was talking about Michele Bachmann.  My husband and teenaged son did not respond to her question. They both played it off identically, pretending not hear her. Probably for the same reason that I did not jump on it right away.  The explanation and discussion that follwed would take longer than the 8 minutes that we had left before the school bus picked up at the end of our driveway.

"It takes a very big committment to run for President." I said. "We can talk about it later, when you get home from school." I continued with my usual: "Is your lunch packed, do you have your riding boots, is your homework in your folder?"

As I drove to work, I contemplated how I would successfully answer the question as to why Michele Bachmann is the only officially declared 'girl' running  for President. I am sure I will need to explain, as my daughter is already well aware of, why there has never been a woman President in our country's history.

Answering that question sounds easy.  But not if I want to give her an honest answer.

I like to think of myself as a "liberated woman". Sometimes I don't wear a bra (only when I am sleeping). I can do what any man can do (except maybe beat him in an arm wrestling match). My husband and I equally share the household duties (yeah, right - it would send him over the edge). I make the same amount of money as my husband does even after spending many years as a stay-at-home mother (I wish).

This question was a tough one for me and it begs to be answered. Where are all the woman candidates? Are women too emotional to be able to fulfill the lengthy list of gut wrenching decisions that the President of the United States needs to make?  That's really what it boils down to. Isn't it? That is the nuts and bolts of the issue. Or at least, that's what I have always have thought it was. I remember the rumblings when I was a kid.  Is that still really it?

Part of me resents the hell out of the above statement and part of me wants to cry just thinking about it. After all, do we believe that Presidents don't cry? Should a President leave his emotions out of it when making critical decsions. Are women incapable of doing this? Do the emotions of women always govern their reasoning capabilities?

Hardly.  Women leave their emotions out of it all the time when making critical decisions.  I can run a house, my workplace, the lives of 4 people, the lives of 4 pets, any committee, Christmas, birthday parties, bake sales, my checkbook, and many other important life 'things' without really batting an eyelash. All that I require, are just a couple of daily doses of caffeine and an occasional glass of wine in the evening.  If I actually DID let my emotions get the best of me, I would have been living alone, in the Bahamas by now, in some spa resort. Do we women get TOO emotional? Some of us do, at times. But I can literally watch my kid take a nasty spill off of her scooter, with obvious road rash on both knees, knowing that there has to be bloodshed involved, and still say encouragingly from the front steps: "Get up, hunny...you're fine."

"Why has there not been a woman President in our history?   I, myself, have never looked at a candidate for the President of the United States as a man, a woman, black, white, etc.  For me, staying neutral on party lines and just voting based on instinct as to how honest of a person the candidate seems to be, has been my best voting strategy.  I look at where they stand on issues and their previous track record, but being a great President is ultimately built on character. On one particular election day, I actually flipped a coin in the voting booth, not really caring for any candidate on the ballot. On another, I wrote my own name in.

But why hasn't it happened already? Why hasn't some dynamic woman reached that milestone and busted through the ceiling?

This past Valentine's Day, my husband gave me a second Pandora bracelet that he picked out with silver heart beads, beautifully symbolic crimson beads and a decorative clasp.  Upon further examination, I noticed that the clasp was in the form of an elephant's head.  "Hmmm...", I thought, "What is he trying to say?" Elephants are heavy, smelly, they never forget, etc.  Immediately, I felt a pang in my chest that provided stimulus for a knee jerk reaction, that caused me to want to punch him in the gut.  Seconds later, thankfully without uttering a word about the elephant, I had talked myself down off of my ledge, and began minimalizing the meaning of the elephant on the clasp. 

"It's just a cute little elephant" I reasoned and then I decided to say out loud: "Oh, look, it's a cute little elephant on the clasp. How sweet."

"Yeah, I like the way his trunk curves up an around to close the bracelet." my husband admitted, proud of himself even, for picking this gift out on his own (something that rarely happens). Well, that was innocent enough.

Crisis averted.

Why I would think, that my husband was trying to send me a message in the elephant, I'll never know.  But that was my first instinct. I easily could have ruined the moment and turned Valentine's Day into an argument and a bad memory, if I went with my initial reaction. If I had allowed that irrational emotional sting to dictate my response, I would have most certainly regretted it.

What does any of this have to do with a woman being President?  I am not exactly sure. But, somehow, it kind of sums it up for me.  We have the reputation that as women, we let our emotions get the best of us and we thrive off of them. The generalization is that we think with our hearts first and our brains second. This of course, will simply not do, for anyone who has their finger that close to 'THE BUTTON'. That is the misconception. I believe that certain men have helped emphasize this in women, making more out of it than there actually is. Maybe the emotional deficiancy of some men, has prompted this evaluation. Those men who are uncomfortable with expressing their emotions.  I do not want to bash men. I love men. There are many caring, thoughtful, emotionally healthy men in this world.  Many, many, many of them.  It is largely in part, due to the support of men, that women have been able to get where they are today.

But let's look at the cold, hard truth.  Up until now, politics has largely been a 'boys club'. It's a tough job, not all that it's cracked up to be.  It used to be that being a public servant was a big pain in the neck. A major interruption of one's life. The Presidency has become somewhat glitzy and 'Hollywood'. In a way, it has always been designated for the prestigious, select few, with the 'right stuff'.  Or...lots and lots of money.

The fact that Michele Bachmann raised 5 children and foster parented 23 more, automatically qualifies her for the seat in the Oval office, in my estimation. Anyone who can successfully parent 28 ANYTHING has my vote.  Kidding aside, there is something to be said for multitasking to the hilt, parenting large numbers, possessing superior customer service skills, volunteering for causes, being authentic and charitable, just to name a few.

What some don't seem to understand, is that the natural instinct of a woman is to protect.  It is present in the most molecular of levels.  The need to protect and keep the human race safe exists in every pore of a woman, most significantly in her own family structure, but the ultimate instinct to keep those that are in jeopardy safe, is ever present.  For a woman, when the confrontation arises and the question becomes whether or not to pull the trigger in order to protect, believe me, the trigger is pulled. Believe me.

So, the conversation with my daughter went like this: "The reason that there has never been a woman President, is because change comes slow sometimes.  It used to be the thinking that woman stayed home and raised families.  Men went out and worked. That thinking has changed.  Woman have always been as strong as men, look how challenging it is to raise human beings.  It takes patience, alot of patience.  The same patience is a wonderful lesson in waiting for the time to be right. There will be a woman President, soon.  I can feel it.  Not because she is a woman, but because she has earned the confidence of the people of the United States. The journey will make that woman the strongest she has ever been."

At one point my daughter looked at me and said: "Why would someone think that a woman CAN'T do what a man can do?"  This was such a foreign concept to her.  She just didn't get it and I loved it. My hopes are that the generation that we are now raising will not even understand what sexism is. We are almost all the way there.

I went on to explain: "When we first started out on this earth, it made more sense for the roles of men and women to be defined.  As we have developed and progressed as a society, we now realize, that we are all capable of many of the same things. No matter what we look like on the outside."

My daughter then said, "It would be fun to see a woman be President, I'll bet you, Mom, that one of the first things she does as President, is to paint the White House a different color.  White is so boring."

And with that, my daughter finished lacing her sneakers, picked up her basketball, and ran out of the house to play with the boys.
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