Losing track of the individual

Mother and children
My oldest daughter, Megan, and her boys

Everyone and their brother has voiced an opinion about the appalling case of Dallasite Kate Cox, pregnant with a badly deformed fetus that will probably not survive the pregnancy and could conceivably cause severe illness, infertility, and possible death for the mother. I have tried in my nightly blog to stay away from hot-button political issues and to ruminate on other aspects of life, without sinking to boring accounts of my day. But tonight, I feel compelled to speak out about this case.

I have yet to hear an opinion that supports Ken Paxton’s cruel challenge of the lower court order. It’s apparent that he, newly having scraped by an impeachment hearing, is glorying in his newly affirmed power, appealing to what he thinks is his base (he may have misjudged that one), and perhaps inadvertently displaying contempt for women. Today’s Supreme Court decision denying permission for an abortion was a surprise to me, as I’m sure to many, and perhaps it’s too soon to hear national reaction. I am relieved to hear that Mrs. Cox will seek treatment outside Texas, and I am hoping against hope that Paxton, relishing his iron sword, does not go after her or whoever drove her to the airport. That would add unthinkable cruelty to a situation that is already outrageous.

I did a bit of searching, spurred on by my indignation. To my surprise, three of the nine justices on the Texas Supreme Court are women. Perhaps it is old-fashioned thinking on my part, but I would have thought women would  have more sympathy for Mrs. Cox as an individual, would understand the heartache of a pregnancy gone bad, the fear of losing your fertility—and possibly your life, with two young children at home. But alas, the women either did not have the compassion I expected or were not able to prevail over six white men. (I say white, because I think that is part of the Texas problem—and maybe the U.S.—we are ruled by mostly old white men). Significantly I found no way for us to contact these exalted beings to express our concern, so they are isolated in their ivory tower, free to interpret the law however. They are all Republicans.

It seems to me Kate Cox is lost in this whole mess, although she has been a vocal and sympathetic presence. Still in their rush to—what? Judgment? Discipline? Punishment? —neither Ken Paxton nor apparently the justices considered Kate Cox as a living breathing human being, an individual who loves and hopes and grieves, who has two children at home undoubtedly affected by this trauma. Nope. They forged ahead following a bizarre set of laws that most of us resent.

My question is what happens when the letter of the law clashes with the wellbeing of an individual? We all know that if you hear of a thousand deaths in a bombing, it’s hard to wrap your mind around the horror. But give us a close-up story of one individual, and it suddenly all becomes real. To me, Kate Cox made this whole abortion mess seem up close and personal. I instantly decided I do not want any of my three granddaughters to settle in Texas, much as I would love to have them all next door to me.

In a way I see Kate Cox as part of a bigger and most unfortunate trend in America. We have lost the individual in a maze of laws and rules and restrictions. I had occasion today to call my bank with a problem where I thought if they looked at the record, they would see that maybe they could bend their rules. I have been a customer/client at this bank at least since the early eighties. I may not have a lot of money, but I have been steady, never bounced checks, kept a good balance in checking and savings. When we remodeled the house and renovated the cottage, a personal banker saw me through the process. But today when I called to ask for reasonable reconsideration of a banking decision, I was met with first a run-around, from one person to another, and ultimately someone who gave me a lot of corporate-speak. I understand that banks have rigid rules, that they depend on credit ratings, etc., but I thought they could take background and record into consideration. Not so.

And that’s what I see as a problem in our society—rules dominate over individuals. I’m not asking for the day when a handshake was good for a deal, but I am saying not all cases or situations fit into one rigid mold. Somewhere there has to be room for compassion, empathy, concern for the individual.

That’s what is missing from the Kate Cox case. I wish her Godspeed. May she have a successful abortion, come home (I wouldn’t be surprised if her family leaves Texas), and have as many more healthy babies as she wants. Texas has done itself no favors in this case, but it has given us all something to think about.

Snowbound mentality

 

Another photo from Hawaii,
just to reassure us that there is sunshine and warmth somewhere.

There’s a definite psychology to being snowbound. The first day it’s kind of fun. You are home all day and can do whatever—all those little chores you’ve neglected, read a book and nap, cook something wonderful. Christian spent yesterday teaching himself how to make sushi. Jacob spent the day in a poker game with friends (with, I was glad to learn, fake money).

But ah, that second day. The snow isn’t quite as bright a white, and the luster of a day at home is dimming. People post on Facebook about boredom and cabin fever. In a new twist I only learned about today, they start looking for Uber drivers with four-wheel vehicles. With that trick, Christian has gone to the rodeo tonight. It is realtors' night, and though the formal event was cancelled, he knows there will be a lot of realtors there.

Me? I’m just as glad to stay home and inside. Spending the first twenty years of my life in Chicago gave me as much snow and cold as I wanted. When the wind came off Lake Michigan, it was bone chilling. I remember cold mornings when my dad would get up early to go to the basement and stoke the coal furnace so that the house would be warmer (never really warm) when the rest of us got up. And I remember leggings—no, not the fashionable, tight-legged leggings of today but heavy wool pants, often lined—we wore them under our skirts to school. I remember shoveling sidewalks, and snow piled in the street almost high as my head.

At twenty, I moved to northeastern Missouri, sometimes called the “icebox” of Missouri. I remember thinking if I could just wake up one morning and not look out on dirty snow, I would be happy. A lot of people in the small town where I first went to graduate school still heated with coal, and the snow got dirty quickly. And the roads solidified into icy ruts—I drove a VW Bug which didn’t fit the ruts at all, so I bounced all over the place. Nope, I’ve had all the winter I want. I sympathize with the neighbor who posted on the neighborhood listserv that she was grateful garbage collection for tomorrow is cancelled, because she really dreaded taking the carts down an icy driveway.

Jacob came out to the cottage for supper, and we ate poor boy sandwiches together. He was elated that there will be another snow day tomorrow—that makes three this year, and as he pointed out, three years in a row where snow has cancelled school. My comment that it was a bad sign, a result of climate change, fell on deaf ears. When you are sixteen, you often don’t think beyond the moment. Climate change doesn’t really mean much. But I am grateful that he’s home tonight—I know he’s safe. It made me nervous that he rode with friends, even if they had four-wheel drive, but he assured me they drive carefully. I asked if he would tell me if they didn’t—he thought about it and said, “Probably not. But they really do.” I am also grateful that he’s home if that foolish Sophie stays out too long. I can call and ask him to go get her—she’s out as I write, long than it takes her to pee.

Tomorrow is iffy—some reports say we’ll get ice tonight, which is a bit worrisome because it could load the power lines down and cause power failures. Jacob said tonight though that it is to snow all night. So far, at nine o’clock, no sign of anything. And the high tomorrow will be anywhere from low thirties to forty, depending on who you listen to. There it is again, that uncertainty that winter storms bring. We just never know who or what to believe.

Jordan flies home on a redeye tomorrow night. I asked Christian earlier tonight if he though her flight would be delayed, and he said not. But there again, I worry. I like to have all my chicks safe at home in weather like this. My Austin family is, I hope, staying home because their weather is as bad as ours. And I heard from the Frisco contingent that their drive is sheer ice—it’s such a steep long driveway that to me it’s perilous in July, let alone in an ice storm. The Tomball folk must be okay, because I saw that Colin was in Houston again today for work. Of course, last week, a tornado hit square on his office building in Deer Park—and he forgot to tell me. Thankfully, the building held, though those nearby sustained damage, and he said driving away from there was chaotic. I once dated a man who said to me, “Once a mother, always a mother” and I find it’s sure true in iffy weather.

Wherever you are, stay warm and safe. This too shall pass, and spring will come again.

Thoughts on pregnancy and motherhood

 

My family, albeit thirteen years ago.
Those babies are teens and older now.

It’s late, and I am tired. I was not going to post on my blog tonight because it’s been a long day. Long, but a good day. I actually began to come to grips with my new project—a biography of Helen Corbitt, doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus. I hope to fit her into the dramatically changing foodways of America in the fifties and sixties, the years she was at Neiman’s. But writing such stuff is slow and hard going, and my brain is tired.

So, tonight I read a bit on a novel I’m currently intrigued by—more about that another time—and I scrolled through Facebook, partly because you can do that without truly engaging your brain, but also because I want to read everything I can about the decisions coming out of our rogue SCOTUS. I am alarmed that they dismissed charges against two physicians convicted of pushing opioids, that they upheld a coach’s right to pray at the sidelines in a decision which is being widely heralded as giving teachers the right to encourage students (Christian, of course) to pray in class, that the court will probably issue a decision limiting the EPA’s power to enforce environmental protections on the states. Are they rushing—for they do seem in a hurry—to destroy every facet of American life? Rumors are rife that they will next take on contraception and gay marriage. And of course, somewhere along the line, I’m sure they will enforce book banning and governmental dictation of school curriculum? Slavery? No, no, you can’t teach about that. The Greenwood Massacre? Never mention it.

But the abortion ruling is much on my mind. I have thought about what I have to contribute to the discussion, and I don’t know that it’s that much. But here I go. I am pro-life in that I am opposed to abortion, but I firmly believe that’s me, and I do not have the right to force that opinion on anyone else, not even my daughters. When I married, I had never given any thought to whether I would have children. But my then-husband, a physician, desperately wanted babies. After five years of marriage, endless tests, and more than a few embarrassing moments—the hospital nurses who asked, “When are you two going to put a baby in our nursery?”—it was clear that I wasn’t going to conceive. One completely unexpected miscarriage sealed that conclusion. I had been given fertility drugs, and I have always thought since that God knew what he was doing. That fetus was not meant to come into this world. But that experience speaks to me as I read of women accused of infanticide because they miscarried. And it also left me with the profound belief that being able to carry a pregnancy to term and deliver a healthy baby was a gift from God.

We adopted—four beautiful children. I, the one who wasn’t sure about parenthood, turned out to be the parent. My husband moved on, out of the marriage, and I, more than a little frightened, raised four babies by myself, from the time they were ages twelve to six. Today, they are four wonderful adults—good gravy, can you believe three of the four have passed fifty? They make me proud every day, they have given me seven beautiful grandchildren, and we are a huge, rowdy happy family.

If one of those girls—my two daughters and my two in-law daughters—had ever wanted to abort a pregnancy, barring a severe threat to their health, I would have been heartbroken. But I would have kept that to myself, and that never happened. We all rejoiced in the arrival of every baby. I often think that we live a life of privilege—and I sometimes ask God “Why me?” because I know the circumstances of my life could be so much harder. But we were blessed—each of my four were able to provide for their babies without hardship (yeah, there was a bit of careful budgeting early on) and they have been able to give their children comfortable and happy childhoods. (Ask me about family get-togethers sometime.)

So that’s where I am: pro-life and opposed to what I might call casual abortion, but a firm advocate of abortion in cases of rape, incest, danger to the mother, or a severely deformed infant. And an advocate of every woman's right of sovereignty over her own body. What I find frightening in the states’ trigger laws that the Dobbs decision enacted is the inflexibility, that “one size fits all” mentality, the refusal to listen to medical science but instead to follow what passes for scriptural law.

If anti-abortionists want to follow God’s word, they need to realize that the Talmud, that source of Jewish wisdom, advocates abortion in the case of the mother’s health. And the Bible, the ultimate source for so many Christians, never mentions it. What the Christian Bible emphasizes is love.

Whether saving babies or keeping women out of power is the real purpose is another subject for another time. But I am a worried woman tonight.

Halloween, family, and all good things

Alter family witches
Jamie, Judy, Christian, Jordan

Years ago, a man I was dating said to me, “Once a mother, always a mother.” It’s a sentiment I embrace, and this mother’s heart was gladdened yesterday when third child, second son Jamie came for the day. Jame lives in Frisco—not that far—but he works (safely from home these days) probably at least twelve hours a day. A lot of his business is done by internet and phone to people in countries in far different time zones, so his hours are irregular.

He came yesterday to bring me a camera for my computer. It sits on top of my remote monitor, so now I don’t have to pull out the laptop, juggle things on my desk, and struggle to go to a Zoom meeting. When he first set it up, I took one look and protested, “But I look so old!” Jamie knew a magic adjustment, something in settings that essentially says, “Make me look better.” It sort of worked. When Jamie repeated this story to others later in the evening, Jordan said, “But, Mom, you’re only fifty-five.” In my dreams.

Jamie could have come, installed the camera, and made it a short visit, but he came to spend the day, bringing his computer and his own remote monitor. We talked and we laughed and I caught up on his family—one of my granddaughters is a senior in college and the other a senior in high school—and we both worked. We ordered sub sandwiches for lunch, which was great even if they did put olives on mine! And just about the time I wanted to nap, Jame announced he and Jacob were going to hit some golf balls. Perfect timing!

Last night, our neighborhood had a pre-Halloween celebration for neighborhood kids, in an effort to avoid spreading contagion. Jordan went to a lot of trouble to provide sealed bags of treats, tables out by the sidewalk, etc. We were all prepared—but as she said, it was like giving a party and no one came. We had very few trick or treaters. We live on the edge of the neighborhood and later heard that streets in the interior had lots of visitors. Meanwhile we sat on the porch with a few friends, enjoying a smoky pinion fire.

Halloween is Christian's holiday
He puts up the tombstones--and you should see inside the house
The trick-or-treat delivery method is Jordan's

Jamie put his work aside to join us on the porch—the almost Hunter’s Moon was smashing! But when I got too chilly, he and I came back to the cottage—more talk for a couple of hours. We talked about family and holidays—we are sad we won’t all seventeen be together for Thanksgiving—and his work, in international sales for a huge toy company, the pros and cons of working from home, and so on. When a child will spend that kind of time talking to you, a mother’s heart can't help but be gladdened.

Tonight of course is the real Halloween. Traditionally neighbors give out well over a thousand treats, our streets are crowded with neighborhood kids and many from other areas. Traffic comes to a standstill, with cars stopped in the middle of the street. The local ambulance company brings two severely handicapped children, with proper medical attendants, to have a taste of Halloween. Houses are lavishly decorated. This year, several households have elected to stay dark, and the handicapped kids are not coming—no one wants to expose them.

We have no idea if anyone will come. Avoiding those crowded sidewalks was part of the impetus for last night’s pre- celebration. But will they come tonight? Will pandemic keep families home? If they come, will they wear protective masks?

Jordan is prepared with plenty of snacks and a plan to serve us hot dogs for dinner. As I write, it’s six o’clock and barely dusk, so it will be another hour before we know how many trick or treaters we’ll have. The whole thing has somewhat split the neighborhood—some families insisting on the traditional date, others willingly embracing the alternative, many saying they would give out candy both nights. Jordan and Christian have elected to celebrate both nights. Having gotten thoroughly chilled last night, I will stay in the cottage tonight, although the temperature is more moderate tonight.

But I plan to stick my nose out to admire that moon. You should too.

And a bonus from my good day—Jamie left his remote monitor here, hidden behind my couch, for the next time he comes. So that means he’ll be back sooner or later.

Of laundry and motherhood

Happy mom with her four children

I am growing weary of hearing about Amy Coney Barrett’s seven children. Some days I really wonder if she is being considered for Mother of the Year instead of a seat on the highest court of the land. In fact, I wonder if she’s such a dedicated mother how she will have time for the judiciary

Today I heard that a senator even asked her who does the laundry at her house. Are we kidding? And do we care? Truth we all know is that she has hired help to do the laundry, in spite of her proper reply that she encourages the children to each take responsibility. Can you imagine seven children fighting over whose turn it is to have the washing machine?

When my four (see I can understand her a bit—she just outdid me!) were young, they were on a kid’s TV program called “Hobab” which, so they told me, meant helper. The moderator asked each in turn what they did to help their mommy at home, and my little angels reported that they made their beds and picked up their clothes and did any number of other household chores.

Until the moderator came to Jordan, the youngest and then maybe four or five. She looked at her siblings with amazement and said, “The maid does all those things.” Then asked about the role of policemen, she brilliantly said, “Policemen are your friends. And if you don’t have a Cadillac, they will help you get one.” We have not let her forget those answers to this day, though she has had some hard lessons on who does the laundry and makes the beds and washes the dishes. And she now knows that policemen won’t get you a Lexus (today’s version of the Cadillac).

Last night a friend was telling about a woman who complained that she could barely raise one child, while my friend and neighbor made raising four look so easy. As the mother of four, I had the quick answer to that one: “Tell her that raising four is always easier—they entertain each other.” I didn’t add that with four you don’t have the time or energy to helicopter over one.

I have never forgotten the time a nursery school mother called me to ask if my oldest daughter was free a week from Thursday. I’m sure I gulped. Who in the heck knew? I wasn’t sure what the child was doing in the next ten minutes, and I surely did not keep a social calendar for her. When that same child was ready for pre-school—oh so ready!—she wasn’t eligible for the TCU pre-school where her brother went because of the way her birthday fell. So I visited countless pre-schools. What I found was that many of them specialized in pandemonium. I ruled those out right away—she had that at home, and I sure didn’t need to pay tuition for her to get that at school.

My four kids, the product of a rowdy, happy, childhood, have been known to say to me that they couldn’t handle more than two children. I look at them in amazement, but then each married people who were from two-children families. Is this some kind of conspiracy against big families? Those who married into our family are generally, I think and hope, delighted with our frequent (until pandemic and quarantine) family get-togethers. But occasionally I see one or the other off in a corner with a look on his or her face that clearly says, “How did I get into this situation?”

The other line from my kids which used to crack me up when the grandchildren were little was, “Mom, you just don’t understand how hard it is.” Oh, really? That’s when my thought that four is easier than one or two came roaring back.

Politics aside, I admire Barrett if she is truly that dedicated a mother. Two of her children are multi-racial and adopted (do I have that number right?) and the media seems to invoke sainthood for that. My four children are all adopted, a fact long since put in the past and never talked about because we are a family, a tight, close-knit loving family. And one child is multi-racial or whatever, although as his wife once said to me, “He doesn’t really believe that.”

I am the loving mom of four loving children, and I believe anyone can fill that role. Nope, Judge Barrett, I don’t give you any special chops for having seven children. And, seriously, I don’t think you’re the Mother of the Year.

Thoughts on motherhood

 Jacob’s homemade card for his mom opened with the line, “I love you the yellowest.” Now I ask you, if that’s not wonderful, what is? There was more to it, but I loved that first line.

Nice Mother’s Day. I’ve talked to all my children and most of their spouses, enjoyed my kind of lazy Sunday at home working at my computer. My friend Linda spent the night, plus Jacob had a friend overnight—the boys were good as gold. Linda meant to stay for Mother’s Day early supper but felt compelled to get home to Granbury to do a sick call and catch up on all she’d left undone while gone three weeks visiting her daughters.

So by eleven, it was just Jacob and me—he was on the iPad, I was on my computer, and he was content—except of course that he was hungry. His mom picked him up at three, and his dad picked me up at five. We visited over wine and too many snacks, ate hamburgers (Christian makes the best hamburgers!), and had a pleasant evening.

Now as I sit down to write, I’m struck by two things: the number of loving tributes to moms on Facebook and the fact that I, for whom children and grandchildren loom so large in my life, never thought about being a mother. I just assumed that happened after you married but I had not dreamed, yearned or longed for that status. The fact that babies didn’t come along didn’t really bother me; it bothered the heck out of my then-husband.

Long story short, we ended up adopting four babies—how we got four, including an Eurasian, is a separate long story. But I don’t know how to put into words the importance these children have always had in my life. I cannot imagine life complete without them. When they were infants and toddlers, I constantly delighted in the wonder of them—as did their father. I could go on forever with funny tales about my brilliant, precocious children.

Their father left when the oldest was twelve and the youngest six, and though everyone marvels at my years as a single parent, I think those were some of the happiest years of my life. Oh, sure, we had our problems—teen-age angst, cars (my brother said mine was the only driveway that needed a stoplight), the night Colin didn’t come home until five and then reported he’d been swimming in a quarry (really? Be still my heart!). But we had traditions—everyone showed up for family dinner on Sunday night with extended family and close friends (I often served twenty), holiday trips, regular meals (gone by the wayside now), and lots of other wonderful memories.

A friend once said to me, “My children are my whole life,” and I replied, “Oh, I don’t think we can give them that burden.” So I try hard to diversify—to maintain friendships and a social life, to keep up with my career. But you know what? My children—and now my grandchildren—are indeed my whole life. I am so richly blessed.

Big bonus: they all love and like each other and can’t wait for any excuse for a family get-together. Wait till they hear the next one will be to move me from the main house to the cottage—whenever.

I am so thankful to be a mother—and that’s my Mother’s Day thought.

Once a mother

Once, years ago, I was having lunch in a cafeteria with a man I cared a lot about when I looked at his plate--chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy. "You don't have anything green on your plate," I said accusingly. He sighed. "Once a mother, always a mother." I've laughed over that line a lot in the years since.
Today I wasn't laughing so much. A son is never too old for a mother to worry. My oldest son's wife alerted the family early this morning that he had an "episode" with his Crohn's and was at the hospital. Turns out he passed out twice in their bathroom, maybe hitting his head both times. He doesn't remember. So reports have trickled in all day, and texts have been flying amongst the family, but long story short--we don't know much. Both a neurologist and a gastroenterologist have seen him, scans are ordered, and we know he is to spend the night. He of course swears he's going home tomorrow. We're still waiting for some definitive word. We know the basics--he has Crohn's and it had bothered him the last few days, he lost blood, he fell. But we don't know a treatment plan and so on.
Colin loves to complain I gave him Crohn's because when he was but a week or so old I, knowing little to nothing about babies, gave him undiluted formula with the result that our lovely pediatrician, a friend, came by the house to take us to the hospital where it was found he was fine and I was the culprit. Truth is, of course, that these days research seems to indicate Crohn's is hereditary, but Colin, like all my children, is adopted and we have no parental health record beyond the time of his birth. And what good would it do to know that one of his biological parents had it? We'd still have to deal with it today. I keep thinking it's one of those diseases they're close to finding a cure for, but I fear the truth is that auto-immune disease continue to baffle the medical world.
I am as worried about his wife and children as I am him. I can only imagine what Lisa felt waking up to find him passed out on the bathroom floor, though now I laugh at her first reaction. She thought an intruder was in the house, so she grabbed a baseball bat and her phone. She's tough, and she would have gotten that intruder! Then she realized there was no one in the house and set about calling 911 and caring for Colin. Their youngest, six-year-old Kegan, saw his father on the floor in blood, which is bound to have traumatized him. This afternoon, Kegan and eight-year-old Morgan were at their father's bedside, reading to him. Lisa said she figured it was good for them to see him acting normal, even if he was in a hospital bed.
This is perhaps the third serious episode he's had since his diagnosis some 15 ears ago, but I suspect he just doesn't feel good a lot of the time. I know this is not a life-threatening episode, but I guess I, like all of us, live in fear of the next one for this son who is such a good guy (okay, Jamie, you're a good guy too), such a good husband and father, works out, faithful at church, good at his job as a controller. Colin is the one I turn to for financial advice, input on care of my disabled cousin, and, when he's under my roof, handyman repairs. He is a rock for me, and selfishly I don't want to worry about him. But more than that, I am so glad he has such a happy family life, happier than I've ever seen him, that I don't want to see him hurting. It's like he's a little child again, and I can soothe him by walking round and round with him in my arms as I did when he had an earache. That's really what I want to do.