Category: Observations

We haven’t had much of a summer here by the Bay. It’s cold. It’s hot. It’s rainy. It’s cold again. Last week, Lou and I met friends at the park and both of us were bundled in jackets and long pants…. and it is mid-July!

However, there is one thing for certain. When the temperature climbs, so do the number of homeless people out and about. Rather seeking shelter somewhere covered, they can be found sitting outside of the Starbucks I frequent, on a bench at the park, or the curb in front of McDonald’s or Dollar Tree.

“California casual”  being what it is, you can’t always tell by someone’s clothing whether they are homeless or just hanging out. It isn’t until I walk right by them and notice a dirty little coffee cup or a tell-tale sack full of soda cans that I know for sure. I’ll see someone dart towards a trash can, thinking they’re just another customer tossing a used napkin or empty container. Then, I see them pull out a half-eaten sandwich. Sometimes, I’ll spot someone stretching at the park and envy the fantastic workout they must have just had, only to realize that he actually slept there all night.

The last few weekends, Lou and I were lingering outside of Mass. Too antsy and loud for the pews,  we  join the handful of other parents and toddlers who have also been exiled to the courtyard. As I was followed my daughter around the flower beds, ramps, and stairs, a woman caught my eye. She was with her young children too and we exchanged a knowing glance.

“Yeah, we’re in this together, aren’t we?” I mused as they approached. She, in turn, quietly asked if I had any cash I could spare.

“No, I don’t. I’m so very sorry,” I said, which was the truth. I seldom carry cash with me and only when I need to pay my babysitter. I probably could have offered to buy her and her family lunch, but she was no where to be found by the time Mass ended.

The following weekend, the priest gave statement after Mass, asking the congregation not to give handouts on the Church premises. Instead, he asked us to direct these people to the priest, usher, or other church officer, who would in turn direct them to the proper organization to get help.

It was billed as a security risk.

Mike and I heard the same statement, but came away from it with two very different impressions. Over lunch with the kids later that day, we had a long, non-judgmental conversation about it. Here’s how it went down:

He Said:

Mike often mentions that he bought a train ticket on the way home for someone who was stranded at the station. And because I expect it, I just nod and casually ask, “Where were they going?” or just say, “That’s nice of you, Hubby!”

Like me, he rarely carries cash. Usually he’ll only have a tenner or a fiver on him, but if he has it to give he will- no questions asked. He once found a $100 bill in the streets of Crested Butte, Colorado while we were visiting for our anniversary, and gave it to the nearest collection box.

“Someone else needs this more than us,” he said.

So, this gentle little reminder gingerly issued by the Priest did NOT sit well with him, particularly as it came shortly after a homily about the Church being full of people striving to be good and not hypocrites, as is so often the excuse of people who stop going week after week.

According to Mike, the way it came across was that the Priest was asking us to turn away from our duty as Christians to help one another.

She Said:

A few yards from our Church is my son’s school, and I do not like the  idea of random people- homeless or otherwise- hanging around the campus where I drop off my son every day for camp and/or school.  For me, it IS an issue of safety.  As a parent, I insist that the Parish and school administrators take account for everyone moving in and around the place where my child spends his day.

I also like the idea of my community being more aware of one another. Who needs help? What can we do? We contribute to programs in the business of connecting services with needs, not just at our particular parish but in the entire Diocese of San Jose. There’s job placement, St. Vincent de Paul, clothing and food drives, and so on. But is it really enough?

The statement I heard sounded like a response to a considered parent and rightfully so. While I would never dream of complaining about a mother and young children asking for help, I don’t know if I would as silent about a strange man wandering the campus.

I have a tremendous amount compassion for the mother and her children outside of my church that one day, and all of the other mothers and children (and fathers, too) who I don’t see. But, am I actually being a hypocrite for drawing the line at my kids’ safety?

{image credit: by by Михал Орела, Flickr}

This past year was our first experience with preschool and it turned out to be lot more SCHOOL than I had anticipated.

My son’s preschool is part of a program that goes through high school and is treated accordingly. The uniforms, the fund raising, the homework*…  He only goes twice a week, but it seemed like a bit much.

When I pick him up before lunch, he’s happy to see me.  Not TOO happy like he’s relieved. It’s more like joy over having such an awesome day.

“Surprise! Look, what I made for you,” he says as he pulls out each and every drawing and macaroni craft to show me. As thrilled as I am to see this impressive mountain work, I want a thorough report on everything he did, ate, touched…

When I ask what he did today, he just says, “Everything!”

Who are his friends? Are they nice to him? Who are their parents?

I DON’T KNOW!

I expected there to be more hand-holding and a slow easing-in process. I wanted there to be more “getting to know you” and a fair amount of indulgence. This is preschool, after all.

“Oh, you’d be surprised what kids can handle at this age. Besides, Mrs. M is incredible!” another mother cooed.

“I wasn’t talking about the kids. I was talking about ME!”

In today’s post for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog, I talk about navigating my way through the preschool scene in a way that seems all too familiar. It’s like I’ve been here before except with better abs and far worse skin.

(Cue the “Twilight Zone” theme.)

* Yes, I KNOW. My preschooler has homework and before you say anything about it, consider where we live…

I too thought it was outrageous when I first heard about it. I would have protested had I not been sitting in a very teeny tiny chair while wearing  a very poorly chosen tight skirt for “Back to School Night”…

Turns out, what preschool homework basically amounts to is a coloring sheet or two with some letters to trace. Not sweating it. Now, if only I remembered to make sure it made it back to school half the time.

A second baby isn’t an addition. It’s exponential.

That basically sums up my long-ish post for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog today.

I promise, my post was so much funnier in my head. I cringe rereading it now, wishing I had spent more time editing and less time meandering. It’s just that I’ve been so frustrated lately that it was difficult to  show restraint. The  whining… er, words just kept coming, but each rings truth.

My son was actually interrupting me every five minutes as I wrote. I set him up with chalk for the backyard, a brand new  box of crayons and a coloring book, water colors, Legos… All futile. He would just run back to my side, begging, “come plaaaaaay with meeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

I would be lying if I told you it didn’t make me feel loads of guilt, but I  DO spend all day with him and his sister.

I play. I feed. I cuddle. I laugh. I do silly dances and make up silly songs. I kiss owies. I wipe bums. I tuck them in with  the library books we chose together after story time. I give them the good kisses and the good hugs. And the next day, it’s  lather, rinse, repeat.

But after the unrelenting exhaustion that comes with that, what’s left for myself? For my marriage? For my LIFE?

Last week, Jillian Michaels of “Biggest Loser” fame made a disparaging comment about pregnancy and the “momosphere” BLEW UP over it…

From what I could tell, the high drama was mostly driven by a headline which read: “Jillian Micheals Won’t ‘Ruin’ Body with Pregnancy”

She didn’t actually use the word ‘ruin’, by the way. That’s just how her actual quote was paraphrased. Even then, I  didn’t understand the outrage. So, I wrote a post about it for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog today.

For all of her narcissism and phony diet pills hard work and discipline, at the end of the day, Jillian Michaels is nothing more to me than a TV personality. She can have her  little thoughts and opinions and I can decide whether or not to listen.

I didn’t buy a Bumbpit and paint myself orange to be like Snooki. I didn’t run out and empty the grocery shelves of cranberry juice the second Dr. Oz told me it would rid my teeth of plaque. My toothpaste does the exact same thing without tasting gross.

The only one who can tell me how to live my life is Oprah, So there! Ha!

I’d love to hear your opinion on the matter, so click over to my post and leave a comment!

I’m not even sure how it went down exactly…

We had just had this awesome day in the gorgeous California sun- a nice lunch, window shopping, listening to live music… Ready to head home, we cut through a parking garage to get to our car.

Mr. D, pushing a napping Scout in the stroller, stopped short to allow an older woman to get into a car from the walkway.

In no particular hurry, we were happy to wait while she inched and fumbled with the door, mumbling to herself the whole time. First her leg got stuck in the door. Then she couldn’t quite fit in the seat.. Who knows? We weren’t exactly watching very closely.

She finally gave up and motioned for us to go ahead, which we did as quickly as possible. Mr. D went first. I followed behind and heard the driver yell at Mr. D  from inside the car, “Hey, thanks alot, A–HOLE!”

Turns out, she was trying to get OUT of the car, not in and apparently our mere presence was making her feel flustered or self-conscious. (And we were supposed to know that, how…)

The whole thing happened in a matter of seconds. It was barely a memorable encounter, but it bugged me the rest of the day.

As anyone who has ever met my husband knows, he is the farthest things from being an “a–hole”. In fact, he’s the nicest, most considerate, generous man I’ve ever encountered.

He’s the kind of guy who lovingly offers to push the stroller and carry the shopping bags, then suggests taking the shortcut through the parking garage because his pregnant wife stupidly decided to wear high heels that day. He holds doors open and makes way for others, whereas I probably wouldn’t noticed in the first place.

If anything, I AM THE A–HOLE.

I drive aggressively (“offensively”, as my dad calls it) and lay into the horn to claim my right of way. I send food back to the kitchen. I demand to speak to the manager and routinely lecture staff members on customer service.

As you can imagine, I’ve been called all sort of names… I once witnessed a woman almost hit a lamppost because her two hands were busy giving me the finger instead of being at 10 and 2. (I think I accidentally cut her off… oh well.)

None of it has ever phased me, but someone starts talkin’ smack about my sweet hubby (or my baby) and I begin to wonder what it’d be like to hit an old lady.