Novant Health: arming 6th graders with too much information.

Any parent could have told Novant Health that the result of educating eleven year olds on the symptoms of  stroke was going to be, well… Blogosphere, I’ve been diagnosed with stroke symptoms several times in the past few weeks.  It’s just all-stroke, all the time.  And I don’t want to make a joke of this, because what if I do have one someday?  I’ll be lying on the kitchen floor, the stroke damage becoming more permanent with every passing second, while my children navigate around me, saying “Oh, Mom’s just messing with us again.  Whatsa matter?  You paralyzed, Mom?”

And so, with every muscle spasm or foot fallen to sleep, I submit to Matt’s stroke test.

“STOP!” Matt commands. “Smile!”

I smile.

“Hold it, hold it,” he says, as he checks first one cheek and then the other, comparing them for symmetry.

We go through all the steps of the test, finishing once I’ve clearly enunciated the words  ”You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

I’m hoping that Matt will mellow once this information is no longer so novel, much as he did after going through the school’s D (drug) A (abuse) R (resistance) E (education) program last year.   After his D.A.R.E. education, and newly armed with more knowledge of illegal drug use than your average flophouse junkie,  it took a year for that program’s effects to fade.  A year before I could pour the occasional glass of chianti and not have my son react by looking at me–a haunted, crack-baby look in his eyes– and asking, “Moooom?  Are you an alcoholic?”

On the other hand, many parents are probably unaware that their children have been involved in Novant Health’s stroke awareness program.  Were they to know this, they  might appreciate a bit more concern as they are lying paralyzed on their kitchen floors, thinking: “I’m lying paralyzed on the kitchen floor and you’re asking me for more ice cream? Did you not learn F.A.S.T.? Do the T, child, the T!”

I’m just saying that perhaps the people at Novant Health, when they decided to sponsor this educational unit in the local schools, were on drugs or something. Because there are good reasons why we don’t put eleven year olds in charge of our major medical decisions.

“Oh, that would be great, ” I say.  Karen’s Dad is in town, and it will be nice to see him. ” What can I bring?”

“A ring.  You can bring a ring. ” says Karen.  ”A solid gold ring, with the Bells of Canterbury on it.”

“Piece of cake,” I say.

“And I want the bells LIFE SIZED–”

“Oh honey, I was going to run to Canterbury to get you the ACTUAL bells, and mount them right on the ring for you.”

“Well,” says Karen, “that would be nice!”

I am thoughtful when designing my pretend, ridiculous jewelry.

“Or!” I say,  ”Or!  Maybe the Liberty Bell, instead?  It’s closer.”

“Ohhh, I like liberty,” says Karen.

“OK, then.  I’ll go get the Liberty Bell, and I’ll mount it on a ring for you and bring it to dinner.  Anything else?”

“Yes,” says Karen, “I want the word ‘LIBERTY’ written on the ring.  On the outside.”

“No problem.  In big letters?”

“Yes, an inch high.  And, I’d also like the poem from The Statue Of Liberty inscribed on the inside of the ring.”

“The ‘bring us your poor, your huddled masses‘ poem?”  I ask.   I need to be clear about what poem it is that I’m inscribing.

“Yes.  That one.  The whole poem.  On the inside.”

“Sure!  I can totally do that!  Anything else?”

“I want all the ‘i ‘s’ dotted.  With diamonds.”

“OK.  So.   Gold, Liberty Bell, the word ‘LIBERTY,’ the huddled masses poem, diamonds for the dots over the ‘i ‘s’, by dinnertime tonight. Is that all?”

“Yes,” says Karen.  ”And I’d like you to deliver it on a white horse.”

“Naked, a la Lady Godiva?”

“Yes.”  Says Karen.

“And your price range?  What’s your budget?”

“Five dollars.”

I think that’s fair.

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She’s right, of course.  And others have, unprompted,  made the same comparison: I’m like a hummingbird.

My mind goes a million miles a minute as I zip about in different directions.  A million miles a minute, all the time, except when I’m asleep.  Being on turbo, my mind plays with every thought, every idea, every feeling, exploring it until it comes to its natural conclusion, quickly.   But thoughts, ideas, and feelings usually affect other people–starfish– at a much slower pace.  Left alone, they often come to the same conclusion as I did, just a bit later.

But, it’s the waiting.  I’m not good at the waiting.  I’m not good at sitting on my hands while others puzzle through at their own pace.  FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, can’t we just GET THERE?  CAN’T YOU SEE IT?

And in my impatience, I have trouble staying silent, waiting quietly, and in a way that lets life unfold as it would if I would just……wait quietly.

We’ve  stopped by AC Moore to pick up gesso, and we’re shocked to find they now have a wedding craft aisle.  The aisle is full of….. well, it’s full of really questionable items, blogosphere.  No part of your bridal attire should come from this aisle, and I don’t care that AC Moore says otherwise.  They lie.

Wistfully fingering the tiara, I confide, “We just wanna wait ’til L’il DaWayne’s  outta diapers.”

Karen nods.  Tiaras and potty-trained babies are a reasonable part of wedding plans.

“I wore a tiara when  me and Harlan got hitched,” she says.  ”It was pink with real faux diamonds.”   Karen holds her hands up to her head,  gesturing to indicate that the pink faux diamonds were the size of eggs.

“Ohhhh!” I say, ” Pink diamonds?  Like JLo!”

“Yes m’am,” agrees Karen.  ”They’re the classiest kind of faux diamonds.”

A  woman standing in the adjacent framing department is covertly watching us, listening, perplexed.  Poor dear.  Eavesdropping is tacky, and Karen and I are too classy to notice.

“DaWayne said he and Harlan was goin’ bowling,”  I tell Karen.  I shake my head and purse my lips,   “But they got that whole case of Budweiser, and  I just know they’re going to a titty bar.”

“I know it,” she commiserates, “I told Harlan if I find ONE MORE PAIR OF PANTIES in the pick-up truck….”  She trails off,  and I’m left wondering what Harlan’s fate will be if he’s caught packing panties ever again. It won’t be good.

My heart breaks for Karen; pretend Harlan can be a dog.  My pretend DaWayne is too much of a gentleman to bring home panties when he goes to the strip club.

We’ve moved on from the wedding department, and as we walk through the store we comment on various items we pass, speculating on how we might use them.

Glitter-covered feather boas would be perfect with the tube tops I picked up at The Walmart: L’il DaWayne was NOT good in The Walmart, I tell Karen,  ”…and I told L’il DaWayne: ‘ You eat any more of them Cheetos and I’m gonna SMACK YOU!’ You gettin’ orange all over my tube tops!”

Day-glo panties made for the application of decals: “Ima put ‘PROPERTY OF DA WAYNE’ straight cross my butt,” I tell Karen.

She nods, but she’s clearly not in the mood to consider the same for her Harlan, what with all the stripper panties in the pick-up.  Now I feel badly about pointing out the panties;  panties are a sensitive subject in Harlan and Karen’s pretend marriage.

Plaster columns and pedestals: “We used to have one of them pedestals on each side the door,” I tell Karen, “and my DaWayne used to make me stand on ‘em all the time, and I said ‘DA WAYNE!  I cannot be getting up and down and up and down all day!’  We got rid of ‘em cause they kept falling over on the baby, but DaWayne says I’ll always be on a pedestal to him. But I don’t even know what that means..”

“Harlan says the only reason to put a woman on a pedestal is to look up her skirt,” Karen responds.

Karen is just jealous, but I’m secretly tickled that my pretend DaWayne wants to look up my skirt.

“Well, I am definitely gonna need them decal panties now!”

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Riley, Bill and Ted: Not medieval dickweeds.

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Growing up, it never occurred to me that I might ever be limited by my gender.  I was a Title IX girl, raised by a mother and father who were the type of people who firmly believed in such things, and I don’t ever remember being told that one thing was more or less appropriate than another because I was a girl.  Both my parents pushed themselves physically and intellectually, and my sister and I were encouraged to do the same.  I’m not sure if what was expected of us would have been any different had we been boys.

Believing there was nothing a girl could not grow up and become,  in my teens I narrowed my options to pursuing: A) The life of a globe-trotting, beautiful,  impoverished and yet wickedly chic artist going city-to-city, lover to lover, leaving brilliant artwork and broken hearts in my wake when the spirit moved me to move on with no apologies or excuses. OR, B) The life of a globe-trotting, gritty and yet impossibly feminine hard news reporter, going war zone to war zone, lover to lover, traveling light, throwing  back whiskey with the boys, leaving broken hearts and a reputation for top-notch journalism behind me when I left without warning to pursue my next story.

This all seemed so very reasonable,  and yet at every turn my gender pushed me towards the path I walk today.  Just because options are available for women doesn’t mean it’s easy, or even in our nature, to pursue them.

And that’s why I admire Lara Logan so:  She’s doing what the reckless, badass, fearless side of me boldly imagined it would be doing if I were so much less me.

Since the first time I saw Lara Logan interviewed by Jon Stewart –me, sitting surrounded by the accoutrements of my very gender-based choices– I’ve thought she was impossibly cool.  When I see a picture of Lara Logan pop up in a news feed, I almost always stop and read up on what she’s doing, mentally cheering on a woman who makes living a fearless life look easy; who has used her brains, kept her femininity, and set her own limits.   I’m sure her success hasn’t been as easy as she makes it look.

The news of her attack has stuck with me in a way that other, similar stories have not.  I don’t want to believe that men–men who went home to their wives and mothers and daughters after sexually assaulting Lara Logan–could visit such violence upon someone simply because they can, because their victim was a woman.   No woman should have to suffer such brutality, but I don’t want this to have happened to her in a way that’s a bit different from the way I wouldn’t wish this type of horrific attack on any girl or woman.

In a public square with her news team, doing her job, she paid a price for her success no male reporters did, and I didn’t want to believe that a barbaric sexual assault could be one of the hurdles of success she’d have to jump.  Sure, bad things happen, but she’s Lara-F***ing-Logan, living my young woman’s Title IX dream life, and my dream of being a gritty, sexy, hard news reporter did not include “and maybe getting gang raped while doing your job” in its description.

The grown-up part of me empathetically wants to cry when I think of any woman having to suffer in the way she must be suffering, but another part of me feels differently.  The idealistic part of me left over from childhood–the part that my parents nurtured to believe girls can do anything, and women only have the limits they take upon themselves– that part is really pissed off because….well, girls can do anything boys can do, damn it.

Put both those parts together, though, and I’m rooting for Lara Logan more than ever.   She’s Lara F***ing Logan,  and she’s just cool. I hope she shows the world that she will continue living her life on her own terms, because yes, girls can do anything.

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“Hey Patrick,” I say, “don’t pee on my couch, OK?”

“What?”

“Please try not to pee on the couch?”

“Miss Katie, why would I pee on the couch?”  The boy is understandably perplexed.  I’ve known him since he was a year old, and he’s never peed on anything in my house.

“I have no idea,” I tell him now, “but the bathroom is right there if you need it, OK?”

“But…why…..  Why would I pee on your couch?

“I don’t know.”  I say. ” But just don’t, ok?”

His head cocked to the side and his eyebrows knitted, Patrick heads into the living room while Karen grins at me, shaking her head slowly from side to side.

In a moment Patrick returns.

“When did I pee on your couch?”  Patrick demands of me.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

Through a fit of giggles, Emily shouts at her younger brother, “JUST DON’T PEE ON THE COUCH, Patrick!”

“No, wait. ” I put up my hand to forestall another outburst from Emily.  ”He was about to tell us when he peed on the couch.”

“I DIDN’T PEE ON THE COUCH!” Patrick exclaims.

“OK.  If you say so, I believe you.”

“I didn’t.”  He insists.

“That’s great!  And I really appreciate that.”

“So…why are you telling me not to pee on the couch?”

“Because it’s a leather couch, and once that smell gets into it, there is just no getting it out.  I don’t want to have to replace the couch.  It’s expensive.”

“But… why do you think I’m going to pee on the couch?”

“Patrick,” Karen puts up a hand to stop her son’s questions, and with each word clearly articulated says,   “just   do   not   pee   on   that   couch. “

“But, why would—”

“Just don’t!” Karen orders.

As Patrick leaves the kitchen, Karen, Emily and I double over in silent laughter. Each of us knows what will happen next, and almost immediately, it does.

Matt bursts into the kitchen, “Why did you tell Patrick not to pee on the couch?”

“Because I don’t want him to pee on the couch,” I explain.

“No one should pee on the couch,” adds Karen.

“When did he pee on the couch?!” Matt demands.

“We didn’t say he did.  We just don’t want him to pee on the couch.”

“You shouldn’t be peeing on the couch, either.” Karen informs Matt.

“I’m not going to pee on the couch,” says Matt.

“I hope not…..” But Karen sounds dubious.

“I’ve never peed on the couch!”  Insists Matt.

“You sure? ” I ask him, “You haven’t? “

“WHY WOULD I PEE ON THE COUCH?”

“We don’t know.”

And then suddenly the kitchen is full of  boys, all talking at once, all insisting that they have NEVER peed on my couch or any other couch, anywhere.  Ever.

“And no one said you did!”  I explain, “And we want you to keep up the good work.”

Karen sums it up for them, “Don’t pee on the couch. It should go without saying.  Now, we’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”

Muttering and confused, indignant and questioning each others’ urinary histories, the boys leave the kitchen to return to their game.

“And don’t pee on the chairs, either! ”  Emily calls out.

Really, how do people amuse themselves when they don’t have children?

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I’ve just finished this, and my wee little brain is too fried to talk about it.

up from below, 36 x 52 inches. Acrylic and graphite on paper.

www.vakadesign.com

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Awesomeness in motion

The boys’ Dad took them to their Sunday morning games, and this is the text message exchange I had with Matt after his last regular game win, letting me know that there was more awesomeness to come:

Matt always introduces himself to me at the start of every phone call and text. Otherwise, I might not know who he is. I love him so much.

The finals were seriously badass, going into overtime AND requiring ten penalty kicks (one made by Matt) to decide the game.  The final game was similar to the World Cup finals, in case you’re trying to picture it.

Matt is now so full of soccer awesome, you could poke him with a stick and awesome would ooze out.  You could squeeze him like a sponge, and you’d soon be standing in a puddle of rainbow-colored soccer awesome.  He is the valedictorian of soccer awesomeness.

AND, if you want any part of any of his four games reenacted?  He can do that for you, because he is also the valedictorian of soccer play reenactment.

Such awesomeness is very tiring, however, especially for one so young.  The boy and his awesomeness  have gone to bed early this evening.

“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together, ” I sing.

“What are you singing?”

” John Lennon.  It’s a Beatles song.”  I tell him, and sing the lyrics again.

“Was John Lennon on drugs when he wrote it?” Asks Riley.

“No Riley,  he wasn’t on drugs!”  Yes, Riley,  he was on drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.

“I’m he, and he’s him, and you’re me and we’re all together… That doesn’t even make sense.” Riley says. “Mom, he was on drugs, admit it.”

“I does make sense,” I insist, laughing.  ” ‘I am he as you are he, and you are me’… he’s saying that I’m you and you’re me.  That we’re all the same, we’re all one, we’re all interconnected.”

“Oh,” says Riley.  ”So, it’s a song about West Virginia?”

“It IS NOT A SONG ABOUT INBREEDING, RILEY!”

My words come out in another burst of laughter, and because laughter is a rallying cry in this house, Matt has joined us in the kitchen.

“What’s inbreeding?” My eleven-year old asks.

“It’s what they do in West Virginia,” explains Riley.  ”John Lennon wrote a song about it.”

Oh, that one.  What am I going to do with that one?

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