One day I'll rewrite this with humor

Hello my dear friends and thank you for coming over to my blog.

Today is a guest post, of sorts, which I don't usually do, not for lack of will but for lack of willpower. But this is just too good not to repost. (Let's pretend President Jimmy Carter, the hero once removed of "Argo," wrote this especially for Natural Born Bleeding Heart, because he could have.) When I figure out how to make this funny it will be my identity anthem, my personal mission statement, my purpose in being, my vocational call, my reason for being born, what-have-you. President Jimmy Carter said it far better than I could, and I'll work on the hilarity of it all later. For now, please humor me and read this whole thing:

Women and girls have been discriminated against for too long in a twisted interpretation of the word of God.

by Jimmy Carter, July 15, 2009

I HAVE been a practising Christian all my life and a deacon and Bible teacher for many years. My faith is a source of strength and comfort to me, as religious beliefs are to hundreds of millions of people around the world. So my decision to sever my ties with the Southern Baptist Convention, after six decades, was painful and difficult. It was, however, an unavoidable decision when the convention's leaders, quoting a few carefully selected Bible verses and claiming that Eve was created second to Adam and was responsible for original sin, ordained that women must be "subservient" to their husbands and prohibited from serving as deacons, pastors or chaplains in the military service.
This view that women are somehow inferior to men is not restricted to one religion or belief. Women are prevented from playing a full and equal role in many faiths. Nor, tragically, does its influence stop at the walls of the church, mosque, synagogue or temple. This discrimination, unjustifiably attributed to a Higher Authority, has provided a reason or excuse for the deprivation of women's equal rights across the world for centuries.

At its most repugnant, the belief that women must be subjugated to the wishes of men excuses slavery, violence, forced prostitution, genital mutilation and national laws that omit rape as a crime. But it also costs many millions of girls and women control over their own bodies and lives, and continues to deny them fair access to education, health, employment and influence within their own communities.

The impact of these religious beliefs touches every aspect of our lives. They help explain why in many countries boys are educated before girls; why girls are told when and whom they must marry; and why many face enormous and unacceptable risks in pregnancy and childbirth because their basic health needs are not met.

 

In some Islamic nations, women are restricted in their movements, punished for permitting the exposure of an arm or ankle, deprived of education, prohibited from driving a car or competing with men for a job. If a woman is raped, she is often most severely punished as the guilty party in the crime.

The same discriminatory thinking lies behind the continuing gender gap in pay and why there are still so few women in office in the West. The root of this prejudice lies deep in our histories, but its impact is felt every day. It is not women and girls alone who suffer. It damages all of us. The evidence shows that investing in women and girls delivers major benefits for society. An educated woman has healthier children. She is more likely to send them to school. She earns more and invests what she earns in her family.

It is simply self-defeating for any community to discriminate against half its population. We need to challenge these self-serving and outdated attitudes and practices - as we are seeing in Iran where women are at the forefront of the battle for democracy and freedom.

I understand, however, why many political leaders can be reluctant about stepping into this minefield. Religion, and tradition, are powerful and sensitive areas to challenge. But my fellow Elders and I, who come from many faiths and backgrounds, no longer need to worry about winning votes or avoiding controversy - and we are deeply committed to challenging injustice wherever we see it.
The Elders are an independent group of eminent global leaders, brought together by former South African president Nelson Mandela, who offer their influence and experience to support peace building, help address major causes of human suffering and promote the shared interests of humanity. We have decided to draw particular attention to the responsibility of religious and traditional leaders in ensuring equality and human rights and have recently published a statement that declares: "The justification of discrimination against women and girls on grounds of religion or tradition, as if it were prescribed by a Higher Authority, is unacceptable."

We are calling on all leaders to challenge and change the harmful teachings and practices, no matter how ingrained, which justify discrimination against women. We ask, in particular, that leaders of all religions have the courage to acknowledge and emphasise the positive messages of dignity and equality that all the world's major faiths share.

The carefully selected verses found in the Holy Scriptures to justify the superiority of men owe more to time and place - and the determination of male leaders to hold onto their influence - than eternal truths. Similar biblical excerpts could be found to support the approval of slavery and the timid acquiescence to oppressive rulers.

I am also familiar with vivid descriptions in the same Scriptures in which women are revered as pre-eminent leaders. During the years of the early Christian church women served as deacons, priests, bishops, apostles, teachers and prophets. It wasn't until the fourth century that dominant Christian leaders, all men, twisted and distorted Holy Scriptures to perpetuate their ascendant positions within the religious hierarchy.

The truth is that male religious leaders have had - and still have - an option to interpret holy teachings either to exalt or subjugate women. They have, for their own selfish ends, overwhelmingly chosen the latter. Their continuing choice provides the foundation or justification for much of the pervasive persecution and abuse of women throughout the world. This is in clear violation not just of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights but also the teachings of Jesus Christ, the Apostle Paul, Moses and the prophets, Muhammad, and founders of other great religions - all of whom have called for proper and equitable treatment of all the children of God. It is time we had the courage to challenge these views.

Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/losing-my-religion-for-equality-20090714-dk0v.html#ixzz2JQ5uvHAS

Jimmy Carter was president of the United States from 1977 to 1981.
*

That's how Terri Mork Speirs "C's" it. And if I had $100,000 to get a theological education I would prove it.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

When home is exotic

We are in the season of Tuesday and Friday
night high school basketball games, ala Girlchild
cheerleader, seen here signing an autograph
for one of the adorable "mini-cheer" clients.
I wonder if that little girl knows she's
being attended by the light of my life,
otherwise I'd be home. 

Hello my lovelies and thank you for coming over to my blog.

Last Friday night, circa 9 p.m., if you were in our house you would have seen four digital screens attached to four respective human beings. A flat screen, a video screen, a laptap screen, and an e-gadget screen. Two, possibly three of us were communicating with friends via our screens.

It was cold outside, but inside we were cozy with our own brand of togetherness, including the cats who had many choices by which human to curl up for their naps or yoga stretches.

I asked Bob why would we ever want to go on a family vacation when everything we want is contained in this house, including the world at our finger tips?

There was a time when all I wanted to do was to travel to cool places and let people know I was traveling to cool places. There was a time when my frequent flyer miles afforded me travel to cool places, and I could compare and contrast my coolness with others. I could post facebook status updates with a purposefully understated "I'm going to >>insert exotic country here<<, got any ideas for good places to eat?" and such. I used to love being worldly and interesting and self-important.

These days I long to be home.

It's probably because I'm so rarely there. Home has become exotic. Maybe it's all the early mornings out and the late nights in. We are on year 12 of the "A and A Express" to school. (Resulting from my choice to enroll my kiddos in specialty public schools, meaning that since day one of kindergarden I have been the bus driver. A privilege, yes, but one that keeps me moving.) Every morning as the kids and I drive down our driveway in the dark, barely awake, feeling super rushed and knowing we're late again (both my kids hold record tardy counts and it's my fault), I lift my voice and proclaim "And the A and A express is off!" It's a short but bold pep talk for everyone in the car including myself. We are all off for another 14 solid hours or so. I'm beginning to see the end of the era of the A and A Express. When its over I'll be a-puddle with sadness. I never imagined it could end, but with Girl Child's pending driver's licence (February) and graduation (2014), the end is staring me in the face and mocking me with its paradox.

Today I heard from another mother who is stuck at home, due to two special needs children and lack of support. She said she is lonely. It reminded me of the time we were home bound when Bob's liver failed. We were stuck in our "cave," aka our apartment. It was so dark, quiet, and I'm guessing smelly of sick-stench. (To this day my nose grows immune to stinkiness within a half hour, so I can only estimate the extent of the foul air back then.) We were lonely too. People were nice enough to call on us, in the way that you visit the ill, but I discouraged guests because of the pruritus, the evil itching that kept our constant attention, 24/7, for the fleshy scratching and the watching of a slippery slope to suicidal tendencies. It's no coincidence that visiting home bound people is a pastor's greatest priorities -- being home alone and with great responsibility is a gnawing point of human despair. I'm starting to think that loneliness is the root of all sorrow, and all the addictions and other behavioral problems that ensue. (Can you tell how many hours I spend writing grants for mental illness related issues?)

If only we could all pool our days-in and days-out, trading what we need most. You need a few days out? I'll trade you a couple of mine for a few days in. Deal?

If someone tells me I need balance, I think I'll scream. I need to go to work and take care of my kids. There is no balance. Balance is a myth. Balance is for people who have other kinds of choices. I think I hate that word. Pardon me, and feel free to challenge me if I'm not seeing this right, but presently, I see no possibility  for balance to be in the realm of my daily selections.

Here's a book pick from the master
at making the mundane exotic, an author I
discovered in perfect timing to transition me from
worldly to homebody. When invited
to do travel writing, he wrote extensively
on the nature of his quarter's toilet flush, a story
I tell my kids over and over.

Tucked in on a Friday night, browsing my digital screen I came across a photo of a young man laying on cement, almost in fetal position, a pool of bright red blood forming a circle around his head, like a cartoon of an over-sized halo. The grotesque picture was posted by my friend Heba with a caption in Arabic so I couldn't understand, but I guessed it was from the unrest in Egypt I'd heard about in the news. The new government is worse than the old, according to Heba, when I asked her about it. She said 40 young people had been killed that day (Friday).

The first time I saw Heba, it was in the parking lot outside our St. Paul apartment building, about 2003. Her long, thick, black Mediterranean hair* was curled up in gigantic rollers as if she was a 50s housewife. Heba was hollering in her high pitched voice for her little son, "Rafi! Rafi!" My ears heard it like a Middle Eastern version of "Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!" The scene was so folksy, I thought it refreshing. And I said to myself, I want to be friends with HER. Long story short, we ended up having a lot in common and became really close. In the months leading up to her family's return to Cairo, we spent nearly every day together. Our kids and meals and husbands and in-laws and possessions and fears and joys and women's rights became thoroughly entangled.

Now, our friendship is reduced to random Facebook posts. In a rare moment of being still in my own house, I saw her anguished posts for freedom and security. Her older son, a senior in high school who as a young boy used to knock on our door to invite my little Girl Child for the cutest bike rides in the world, has moved from Cairo to the U.S. and it breaks my heart that he had to separate from his parents so soon. These are the choices I do not have to make.

My choices involve chaperoning school fundraisers, pitching-in with church events, writing an occasional blog post, collecting a paycheck, feeding the cats, taking my kids to school, and every now and then, just plain old staying home. Gloriously, staying home. If only I could have a couple hours more of staying home. If only my kids would never leave me. If only my friends could be closer to me. If only the pruitus would go away -- wait, it did. It went away forever. That physiological scourge that tormented Bob (I want to say "us" but Bob was the one who suffered the most) for so long is gone. I suppose that's when so-called balance makes sense, when you compare and contrast the present with the past, or with the other, or with what-could-be, with what is here and now.

I wish you all healthy relief from your own brands of loneliness or insecurity or fear, in whatever form that relief comes in. Maybe even at home with a screen.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart


*I learned later that Heba spent two hours in a local salon when the hairdresser gave up, she said there was nothing she could do with this thick, long hair. Heba's telling of this story totally cracked me up. And so that's why Heba started rolling it herself. In hindsight, she probably needed to find an African American salon or some place that had experience in managing beautifully full heads of hair. At the time, my hair-do was in the middle of a long run as the super short boy-cut. Girl Child recommends I never do that again.

What is January 17?

Ok, this is silly.

I was doing my nightly homework of watching an episode of "30-Rock" and on the show there was a scene that mentioned it was January 17, 2007. I'm thinking, wait a minute, today is January 17. That's weird. On that show, I am a combination of Liz Lemon and the office page. I am thinking of those insecure characteristics of Liz and the inappropriate enthusiasm of Kenneth blended together to make up the perfect me. And then, wait a minute, they said January 17, 2007. I had to dig up the old Care Page journal we kept when Bob's liver failed.

At the time, thanks to the luxury of employer paid family medical leave, my laptop and I took three months off of work and basically held vigil on a rocking chair next to a comatose-like Bob. We couldn't have much for visitors (mostly because of the pruitus) and the generous digital community kept us sane. We lived in student housing at the seminary in St. Paul and were anticipating the results of his next set of labs. I pretty much knew we were on the upswing. Anyway, here's what I wrote on January 17, 2007. Unedited.

January 17, 2007 at 10:59 AM CST
Our darkness is never
Darkness in your sight,
The deepest night is clear
As the daylight.
Taize’

After one overnight on the sleeper train to Calcutta, I felt one with India.
Like I had really connected. Ridiculous, actually, because it’s such a great big
diverse place and I was there for a whole ten days. Yet while others in my group
battled cockroaches or felt afraid in their bunks, for some reason the night
train worked for me. And the next morning as we exited the coach I thought to
myself, I love India and I’m having a great time.

My ticket put me in a section of the car away from my group. Not exactly a world
traveler, I was nervous. A family sat all around me who took me in like a guest
in their living room. That cool way where it’s culturally appropriate to sit
formally with bare feet crossed onto your chair. My Mom would love India.
Personal space is different, as your shoulder would linger on that of a
stranger’s with out a notice. They showed me pictures of a recent family
wedding; I showed them Amanda’s one year old portraits. She’s so cute, they
exclaimed. At official sleeper train bed time, everyone just knew what to do.
Bunks turned down and people turned in, like a slumber party on tracks. Instant
quiet ‘til the morning’s loud ‘Chai! Chai!’ guy making the rounds with tea.
Later I learned that the family was actually a collection of families who just
happened to sit in the same section of the car, like me. They didn’t know each
other either. Isn’t that silly of me – they were all Indians sitting together
and I assumed they were blood relatives. Hello, Terri, you’re in India, of
course they’re all Indians. But really, what amazed me was the way they treated
each other like family during that short time together. Just so comfortable and
friendly. I loved that.

My travel is very light compared to other [international aid agency] colleagues.
Yet I always depart with incredible angst about leaving behind my kids and security. "Why oh why
have I abandon my own children," I ask myself for the duration of the trip,
almost in despair. Yet every single time, I have been led to strangers who turn
to instant friends who protect me like mother hens; and to people who are larger
than life mythical in the way they conduct their lives. That's the privilege of
traveling with [an international aid agency]. I’ve always returned home deeply satisfied and stronger in my world view that goodness prevails on the ground.

You never know what the night brings. I never imagined ours would bring us all
of you, of whom, by the way Aidan continues to be fascinated. Today, I’m
printing out all eight pages of you so he can study your names on his top bunk
in his own time. Last night as we read your names, he would say ‘yes’ or ‘no’
depending on if he knew you. He would trick me by saying ‘yes’ for someone he
obviously did not know, and vice versa. In which case I would have to tickle
him. Over and over, like a Veggie Tale board game, as if you don’t know that
you’re going to be tricked once again.

Our night has brought us you and we’re trying to figure out how we will go about
thanking you all. My neighbor, Kathryn, knitted us the most stunning prayer
shawl you can imagine. Exquisite color and texture. A work of art with beads and
charms. May it remind us that God has known us since we were knit in our
mother’s womb, she said. We’re trying our hardest to send gratitude through our
ceilings and into their apartment. And I’m doing the same through this wireless
connection – trying my hardest to digitize the thanksgiving. I hope it reaches
you.

Today, more bloods with Nurse Nice. Maybe with results by the end of the day.
Tomorrow, consults with Berryman and Talwalker. My prognosis – I’m almost sure
the labs will show improvement. I am not afraid of this night anymore. Even if
the bilirubins go up, for which I’m trying to prepare us all. If only the
pruritus would go away for good then the recovery will push forward like a train
in the night.

*

Thanks, friends! xoxo

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

In celebration of Viggo

Hello my lovelies, I hope you are all safe and warm on this dreary, dark night in the middle of January.

 

I am sharing this sweet little interview clip (below) with Danish actor, poet, and painter, Viggo Mortensen -- otherwise known as my favorite actor who I'll never see in a movie (his films are too intense for me). Why am I sharing this clip? In celebration of getting accepted to present at 1st Annual Learning and Teaching Conference at the Des Moines Area Community College. Yay!

 

Upon learning this news I texted my MFA classmate-in-the-know to double check things. Do I need to actually write an academic paper on my topic? She texted back, yes. A twist of nerves bungled up inside me. Not that I can't write this paper, I can. It's a matter of that commodity that I lack, let's all say it together: time. Bob says I can do it. Viggo, I'm sure would agree. My kids? When I'm happy, they're happy. When I'm busy, they're happy. When I'm not harping on them, they're happy. So I guess its settled, I'm writing an academic paper for fun in my spare time.

 

So why Viggo? Because he plays the role of the protagonist in the movie that I'll never see, based on the book that I never seem to escape, "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. But I'm so thankful for this opportunity. Here's what I submitted in my proposal:

 

Sugar Cookies and Post-Apocalypse: Examining Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” as a Medium for Teaching Composition

 

If it’s true that good writing can be taught through good reading, then “The Road,” a novel by Cormac McCarthy, provides a composition instructor with a one stop shop to teach beginning students a myriad of writing tools. In this proposed workshop, we will discuss ways to apply “The Road” as a unit in a composition curriculum, integrating lessons on metaphor, dialogue, setting, character, style, imagery, evaluation, research, and MLA format. The book offers a learning medium that is both exquisite and accessible with stylistic features such as rich language, ample white space, and short sequences.

 

While it can be daunting to approach McCarthy’s bleak subject matter in the darkness of a three hour night class, or any time of the day, this workshop will encourage instructors to sugar coat the discussion by encouraging classroom participants to bring treats! Dark subject matter can also help teachers to remind students that the goal is more about analysis and less about world view. (Although consideration of the immense themes packed tightly into McCarthy’s writing may provide an extra boost in the overall learning process for students and instructor alike.) Whether workshop attendees are familiar with, or even like “The Road” or not, this workshop will be relevant to their teaching.

 

Workshop attendees will be invited to bring their own ideas and experience in applying a creative work (including essay and film) to composition instruction. I promise to bring the cookies if invited to present at the 1st Annual Teaching and Learning Conference of the Des Moines Area Community College. Thank you for the opportunity to propose a workshop. Respectfully submitted by Terri Mork Speirs, Instructor, English 105, DMACC Ankeny

 

*

 

Come! I'm hoping some of my students will also join me in the presentation, to give their take on the highs and lows of using this book to learn. (Or maybe to say what a stupid unit it was. Either way, I'm game.)

 

Thanks for checking out my blog. Cheers to you. Countdown to spring break.

 

With love from yours truly,

 

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

 

 

I sat in back and I liked it

There's the tipping point when your children take over. When they become smarter than you. I mean literally smarter, not just smart alec smarter. There's a point when children take in all the queues of the world and process them faster and better than their elders. When does that happen?

Tonight, in our nightly rounds of driving to and fro around town, Boy Child to karate, Girl Child from public cheerleading club to private cheerleadering club, I sat in the back seat of my own vehicle. Tonight, in our nightly rounds of driving miles and miles, hours after an early morning rise and a full day's work, Girl Child drove. She sat in the driver's seat, pushed the peddles, and steered. She dropped her brother off to karate and since she is at the helm with a learner's permit, a licensed driver, aka me, had to be there. I sat in the back.

And I liked it. I watched the trees and houses and stars out the side window float by in the January early evening dark. Momentary thoughts of panic such as, "Dear God, a child is driving this death trap and I'm in it," I calm myself with a line I heard from my brother-in-law last summer, Amanda's a good driver, she'll do fine. It's funny how it takes someone else to tell you these things instead of trusting your own instincts, or your child's history. I trust my brother-in-law and so I take this statement to heart even now. I tell myself over and over, as a matter of fact yes, my kid is a good driver because someone else told me she was. (It's kind of like the opposite of the parental kiss of death. That's when the parent says X or Y is good or bad, and so the child instantly believes in the utter opposite.)

I'm safe in the back seat. I don't need to pay attention to the driving ahead. Passenger advise not needed.

The back seat is lovely.

That tipping point goes the other way too. When your parents become smarter than you. When all your wise acre smooth operations evaporate into thin air. When your elders know more than you do, they are unlike teenagers because they keep quiet about it. They sit back and let you discover it for yourself. Maybe secretly laugh (which they deserve). I'm pretty sure my Mom is smarter than me, and I'm also sure my daughter knows more than I do. In fact, I've decided I know nothing. I'm at the place in the middle when I'm just trying to get through the day. If there's any discernment at all, I'm discerning which old information to keep and which to toss. I'm realizing that my judgement isn't so good. How do you fill out a bank deposit slip? I don't know, my brave new world is automated. I actually watched a You Tube video tonight to answer that question because I was unable to help my daughter, who is coordinating the cheerleading (public) sweatshirt purchase. (Lesson learned: It's way funner to create the print design than to collect the money, aka harass a group of people who said they wanted to buy it to actually turn in their cash. An age old truth. Don't think I've never been guilty. You?)

Earlier tonight, in dropping off Girl Child to private cheerleading gym, when I was sitting in the backseat like a chauffeured Miss Daisy, because the Boy had long before been dropped off at his destination and I was too settled to move to the front, I was asked to just let the Girl get out of the car as though she had driven to the gym by herself. Fine by me. Truth be told, I sat in the quiet of the back seat for a good ten minutes in the parking lot. Doing nothing. If anyone was watching they would have totally believed that the Girl had driven her own car, and that the vehicle was empty and waiting.

Now is my time to sit in the back.

Thanks so much for coming over the bleeding heart blog. I thank you so much. And if you're the praying type, I ask that you include my deadlines in your prayers. I got a lot of them. (Hence my fascination with the anonymous back seat.)

With love,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Where men drive trucks and so do the women

This is the inside of my Dad's truck.
How many gears do you think there are?

Six thirty in the morning is too early for human habitation. Especially in the Midwest when this time of existence is dark and cold for most of the year. And I like dark and cold because that's me, but still, I like it better in bed.

You'd think I would have inherited a more hearty genetic personal time clock. My Dad's wake-up time is 3 a.m. or so when he's on the road. Sometimes 4 or 5 a.m. if he's sleeping in. He's a coast to coast truck driver and the best time to drive 18-wheels and umpteen gears is during the early morning before all the crazy car people come out. I suppose he's had this wake up time as long as he's been driving, more than 50 years. He vacations that way too. (I'm not sure his out-of-truck trips can really be called a vacation, per say, my family didn't do vacations, perhaps vacaTION, singular, but for simplicity sakes, let's go with the general concept of vacations.) Up and out before dawn. He's got places to go even with no delivery deadlines.

Even at 70 years old he still drives a grueling route: Minnesota - Iowa - Utah - California - Oregon - Washington - Minnesota. Over the mountains, over and over and over again. Retirement doesn't come easy. And whenever I mention his route there's a voice inside my head that wonders why I don't know what he's carrying. I really should know because that's the point. Wait, I remember. I believe this route it's windows. Big glass windows. I have no idea how they are loaded, secured, and unloaded. I keep thinking I should.

In this line of work, it really is about the destination not the journey, to flip over a perfectly flat spiritual adage, "It's not the destination, it's the journey." No, for a truck driver it's all about getting where you have to be, and getting there on time. That's it. My Dad does it even better. He gets there 24 hours early to add a buffer for the unexpected.

There ain't no journey. It's the arrival, stupid.

I have a saying about my family: Where men drive trucks and so do the women. There's a lot of truck drivers among my people, menfolk and womenfolk alike, including my Mom. (I was a sissy who didn't dig motors but I did at least learn to drive a four-speed stick shift via the anti-truck, a Ford Pinto.) When my youngest brother graduated high school and went on to vocational school, so did my Mom. At about 46 years old, she got her commercial driver's licence and hit the road with my Dad, like a constant honeymoon. (Actually, they did go in the truck for their honeymoon, for real. Destination Oneida, South Dakota. Population 80. But what did they haul?) When my mother learned how to drive a semi, at five foot zero she couldn't reach the peddles so my dad concocted wooden block extensions and clamped them to the brake and accelerator. These days my Mom focuses more on the book keeping and navigation. If you're ever lost, no matter where you are just call her and she'll find you a route.

I wish she could figure out how to get me out of my daily 6:30 a.m. rude awakening. Or at least muster me some of that road trip grit to persevere through my powder puff eight-hours at the office. It's January and I need some inspiration.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

P.S. My Mom's a much better blogger than me. She, Dad, and their favorite child are heading south. Check it out. Although it's always a bummer when you're parents are sick.

With 12 continuous days off, you would think. . .

Question for 2013:
How early is too early?

In this household, we're getting ready for back to school and back to work early tomorrow morning, after 12 continuous days off. With all this spare time you'd think I'd have come up with some original material for my blog, but no. Instead, I beg your pardon as I repost this piece that was published by the  lovely people  at LivingLutheran.com (especially my editor Jan Rizzo) in August 2012, right before that other back to school time. My New Years Resolution: get up even earlier to write. I know, you'll believe it when you see it. Me too. Cheers!

Of notebooks and daydreams

Back to school shopping has evolved in our household.

This year we bought notebooks with a front cover image of One Direction, a British boy band consisting of five irresistible mop tops. Last year our notebooks featured Justin Bieber, if you’ve ever heard of him.

The year before that we purchased brooding notebooks with images of Edward Cullen, the impossibly beautiful vampire from the “Twilight” series. And before that, we brought home notebooks depicting the Jonas Brothers, a family pop trio of cuteness and hotness. I’m sure you remember them.

I recall my own school supplies of long ago with depictions of Barbie, the Partridge Family, and yes, the Bay City Rollers.

The themes of our school supply purchases are like a child’s daydream. A backpack full of budding discovery. A locker full of emerging hopes. And a shopping bag of full-blown marketing to parents, for those notebooks also hold the dreams of mothers like me.

No matter who is pictured on my kids’ notebooks I still want the same thing and maybe you do too: We want our kids to have it all.

But there’s more to our parental dreams. 

full post