Family

Steve and I spent a long Memorial weekend in a very chilly LA.  It was a chance to visit Steve's parents, as well as our newlyweds, Patrick and Rachel.  This June marks the 5 year anniversary of Patrick's service in LA.  I can still recall the day he set out, with no place to stay, no contacts, and a determination to check out the world of TV writing.  He ended up driving scripts to actors as his first touch of glamour.  He tussled with darkened doorways, coyotes and writers who would dawdle until 1 am before allowing him to reproduce their magical verbiage, and bind it.  He would shove these treasures into envelopes and deposit them on the doorsteps of the actors.  I guess the early morning thump of a script on one's doorstep is an envied perk in Hollywood.  Sure, script changes could be faxed or e-mailed. But what if they were intercepted by a media pirate? How could the stars exist if their neighbors did not get to witness this evidence of their success?

It was a start for Pat, whose experience working in the Pulse Copy Shop at Northwestern would be his highest qualification for the world of writing.  I was proud of his work ethic- he had, remember, never lived in LA, much less driven.  When interviewed, he responded that he was the Christopher Columbus of North America:  he would find any address.  He did not have GPS, nor did he acquire one.  He now knows every short-cut, back alley and neighborhood where an up and coming star or an established talent would live.  

He has has about 10 different jobs since then:  as writer's assistant, production assistant, personal assistant, and Jeff Garlin's fantasy league superintendent.  Only one of his shows made it for a season:  The Class.  He has worked pilots and series.  The reality craze has reduced the number of shows made.  The Writer's Strike has  changed the industry.  There will be fewer writers employed, fewer pilots made, fewer scripted shows.  He was on the brink of marriage when the strike left him job-free.  He began to write for a Fantasy Sports website, Rotoworld.  That is his current job; he can do it from any location with WiFi.  Rachel is a skilled, bi-lingual teacher, who has worked for the past five years in Phoenix, and now in Los Angeles.  She has also studied at night, currently taking a 14 hour course load, to obtain her Master's Degree in Reading Education.  Armed with these credentials, my first born and his amazing wife are coming home.  She will serve as a teacher mentor at a charter school in Chicago.  Pat will continue to parse scores and injuries for the fantasy sports world.   I am elated.  

LA is beautiful, with its 365 days of sun and flowers.   It is not the town of beach and surf anymore.  It is a town built and perpetuated by the fantasy performing arts world- music, cinema and its bastard child, TV.  Fantasy used to be a day at Disneyland, with family memories and embroidered ears.  Now it is a cunning climb to power, and a desperation-imbued strategy to stay there.  There are no loyalties, no hands held out to the people you hung out with on the way up.  Moving up requires new friends, new clothes, new hang-outs. This is the norm in the world of music, TV, cinema, talent management, real estate, catering, hotels and restaurants. When you are "in", you wield your power like a sword, stabbing and slashing to retain your spot.  There is no worse place to be than on the down side of "it" status.  Success is not relative: you are in or out, now or has-been.  It is cruel,  and stunningly contrary to life in the Midwest.  I want my family to have the benefit of deep roots and sustaining values.  

Steve's folks are part of Old California- the place you could toddle around in without being gazillionaires.  They could drive down to Mexico and eat fish tacos grilled on a drum-grill in Ensenada.  They have a lovely home, that would require a minimum down payment of a few hundred thousand dollars to buy today.  They timed it right, and they have a great life.  Today, the gap between the haves and have nots is so great that the French Revolution comes to mind.  The sad thing is that the have-nots work crazy hours, drive on congested freeways, scramble to get educations, while dreaming of owning part of the American dream, a home.  A one bedroom doll-house in Pat's neighborhood, (up and coming, but not there yet) with room for a Smart Car  to park is approaching a cool million.  How many dreams must be deferred to own a place like that?  Too many.

We enjoyed every moment of our trip:  Rachel's dazzling, busy classroom, their bungalow apartment, Steve's parents on their boat, Wolfgang Puck's too-chic restaurant, Cut, a Rodeo Drive Hotel.  It was easier to leave the kids knowing that they soon would be be right here, where hard work and a work ethic usually helps you move forward, rather than barely survive.  

Who knows?  Maybe some day Pat will write the great American novel, it'll be optioned by MGM, and Matt and Mike will star in it.  Maybe Pat will get a star on Hollywood Boulevard.  But I'll bet he will always call Chicago HOME.  It is a more complete home for me, too, now that my kids are heading here.  

Anna Quindlen

When I was a young wife, with the three boys somersaulting here and there, I still read the paper every day. I felt like it kept me connected to the world at large, and also nudged my brain toward an existence beyond spilled milk and sibling rivalry. In those days, I believed that my voice was embodied by Anna Quindlen, whose syndicated column ruminated about her home front. When she decided to end her column and write novels and occasional opinion pieces, I mourned. I think I had abandonment issues. I've forgiven her, of course. I have loved many of her novels, filed her commencement speeches in my documents folder for recycling to graduates, and mourned her lost pets as I have mourned mine. She still speaks for me very often, as in her Newsweek essay, which was reprinted in today's Sun Times. Click on the Anna Quindlen title at the top of this post.

Politics is only the beginning

I think we are all weary of the primary season. Most of us are of an age where the temptation to be a cynic is impossible to resist. We live in a state where the State House too often leads to the Big House. Right now, the ineffectual lawmakers in Springfield have the State budget in a cryogenic state. Projects all over the Lincoln kingdom are on "pause" because no one is prepared to allocate funds. And closer to home, Toddy keeps streamlining basic county services so he can shift the costs saved to employ his pals. And ex-offenders. I believe in a second chance as much as the next person, but come on! Is there no shame in Cook County? The city is a system unto itself. Enough said.

On top of the local mess, we have recently lived through contentious campaigns, muddy election results, and the use of false data as the basis for a war. It is a small wonder that the message of change is seductive. It is also tragic that the mantra "cannot get any worse" is applied to all of the current candidates. We are setting the bar pretty low.

I have attempted to hold my heart back so I can get to the root of the candidates. I admire John McCain's tenacity and patriotism. I am awe-struck by the energy level and intelligence of Hilary Clinton. I am seduced by the possibilities inherent in sending a newbie to DC, and Obama's message of CHANGE appeals to me. Most of all, however, I am ear-weary of the talking heads and the microscopic attention paid to side issues. Pantsuits. Ministers. Tempers. Enough!

Just when I thought I could not be affected by the rhetoric or the verbiage, I saw a picture of Barack Obama, speaking to 65,000 people in Oregon. It is not the patina of the candidate that had me spellbound, it is the spirit of everyday Americans who were pressing together to be part of the process of electing our next leader. If they had shown up for another candidate, my reaction would be the same: how fortunate we are to live in a country where the power derives from the people. Sure, there are bumps and bruises, and sometimes the people may get it wrong or be temporarily blinded. Every four years, though, we get a "do-over".

In recent years, the art of politics has become a blood sport, and the art of statesmanship has evaporated. We will doom ourselves to more of the same if we do not encourage the art of compromise and cooperation. Obviously, there is much work to be done at this fragile time. No matter who ascends to power, I, for one, still have the audacity of hope. After voting in 8 presidential elections, however, it is tempered by reality. For our children's sakes, I am pulling for change.

Woo-hoo

How cool is this? Thank you, Ed and Steve, for helping me set up my own little corner of the electronic world. I hope that I will be more invested in my own page, and that I will learn to upload stuff to share. I am a much bigger internet time waster than Steve, and I send him links that he rarely uses- so now you will be the beneficiaries of my ridiculous, random web-exploration. I will try to be a good i-friend. Steve did not boot me from his page- I asked for my independence. I hope I do not bore you!

I am a slow learner, and none of the internet wizards live at home, so this will be fits and starts for awhile. I know you will cut me some slack.

Happy Mother's Day

A delayed Happy Mother’s Day to all!

Whether a woman stays at home full time, or commits to a life of juggling the intricacies of kids and work, mothering is a job like no other. Nothing prepares a woman for the tidal wave of passion and protectiveness like nuzzling the damp head of your new baby. 27 years ago, I crossed over from the world of self-involvement to a new mission statement. I glided through the years where a shower is postponed until bedtime, hair brushing was a luxury, and grocery shopping was my outlet. I never cared that the boys left peanut butter stains on my pant legs when they ran to hug me. My world got a little smaller, and a lot messier. And I loved it.

I was a different Mom to each of my boys, because they all had different needs.

Pat was lucky enough to have me to himself for two years, but I made my rookie errors on him. I knew he was perfect. His special language charmed me: I could understand everything he communicated, although there was a gibberish element to it. Once when Pat appeared on Steve’s show, a caller opined that he sounded retarded. Still, I thought the caller was rude, not that Pat was developing inappropriately. A microscopic exam by an ear specialist eventually confirmed that his eardrums showed evidence of perforations from continuous ear infections. He had never even whined or tugged his ears. He got started talking and he never stopped until he had talked his way into Northwestern and into Rachel’s heart. Despite my benign neglect, he turned out fine.

Mike was a colicky boy, sensitive to touch. He liked to be bound like a papoose, and rocked or bounced aggressively to go to sleep. He was time intensive. I had less time, and a bit less patience. It took two or three attempts to get his shoes on with the sock seams aligned. All tags were cut from his undies and shirts. Mike took things at his own pace, walking late, never really crawling. I had learned from Pat’s ears, though, and so I dragged him to Loyola for evaluation at 18 months to figure out if there was something wrong with his legs. The pediatric orthopedic Doc said Mike was fine, but I had Suburban Mom Syndrome. It’s a good thing he retired. Years later, I had Mike in physical therapy to re-wire a part of his brain that was cluttered by infant reflexes that had not been weaned out, blocking his brain’s cognitive wiring. I would have diagnosed the doctor with Condescending Medical Center Syndrome. No harm, though-Mike managed to create excellent brain function and ended up at U of I. He turned out fine, too.

Matt was an unanticipated gift, and his conception altered my life for good. I still had “job” on my to-do list, because Steve was still a bad boy at the time, and was on his third job in five years. With Matt’s birth, my law degree went into the linen closet, where it remains. Matt was the beneficiary of a more confident Mom. I did not care how many ‘lovies” he had, and the crusted nature of them did not gross me out. Matt was amenable to a binkie, and I was grateful for the silence. I never obsessed about toilet training. I just stayed home until he went so I would not be embarrassed in public. I took him with me to exercise class with slippers if I couldn’t find his shoes. I do not think of it as lowering the bar for Matt: I think of it as expanding his boundaries. Compliant as a baby, Matt bumped harder against those expanded boundaries. He fought me on my expectations, and worked hard to confound them. He saved his challenges for high school, when I was worn out. He can go from rebel to angel in a heartbeat, and the rollercoaster is a ride I avoid. But I shared the ups and downs with Matt. Today, I can hear what is going on in his life by listening to his web cast, but I can take his emotional temperature by talking to him on the phone for 30 seconds. He supports himself by waiting tables now, but he pursues his radio dreams via web casting. He gets his frustration out and his creativity in during the day by pounding drums and playing with his new band. His adaptation makes me proud. He has some options percolating, and as his Mom, I predict the broadcasting thing will turn out well for him. He has turned out fine, just like his brothers.

Yesterday I was able to look around and see the fruit of my life’s work at an amazing brunch. They were all spruced up, on time, and bearing lovely gifts and cards with words of gratitude. Rachel, and Mike’s friend Kathryn added beauty, while Rachel’s parents gave added incentive for the boys to use party manners. Steve orchestrated it, and I know he would rather do Pilates than dress up in a sport coat to serve himself a brunch buffet. When I looked around, my heart swelled, just like it did when I first nuzzled their soft sweet skin. The job of Mom has terrible hours, no retirement, messy fringe benefits and deferred gratification. You take your “finished product” and hand it off to someone else to care for. You pray that they can love and understand their special gifts, or difficulties. Being a mother requires that you take leaps of faith every day, without taking time to check for the net. It generally appears.

Once a year, the kids rally round to say thanks, but every day I thank the God who put me in this wondrous place. If I knew in advance how hard it would be, I might have taken a moment to consider my options. And I would be incomplete.