I used to be a Volkswagen. 2 door, heated seats, manual transmission with a sunroof that was always open. My hair was long, not only on my head but my legs and armpits rarely saw the likes of a razor. My mind was sharp and my fingertips smelled like my last cigarette. My eyes held a sadness, but were overwhelmed with hope of the “bright side.” I tolerated. I smiled. I told you my opinion even if you didn’t want to hear it. My music was loud and my heartbeat was always racing. I yelled “I Love Yous” to anyone who’d listen. Dante was my path and Dostoevsky my wisdom. I was real, but also a glimmer of a cartoon character I created from pieces of novels and film.

Now I am a RAV 4. Still foreign, yet no longer German designed. 4 doors, automatic transmission, 2 car seats, cloth interior with a random cassette player I still question the existence of in a car manufactured after 1987. My corporate coffee is a perpetual statement in the cup holder. My hair is short, my muscles more toned and fingertips have a lingering scent of a glue stick. M. Stewart is my hero and birchbox my truth. I speak in a firm tone although my words often fall on deaf ears. My smile is genuine and my shoes are overpriced.

My heart is content. (thank you, Voltaire) My journey to this destination has been long and winding. (thank you, Paul.) I think I am ready to be a Ford because I am certain that holds the next level of an uncharted path of adventure.

 

I stole her socks. Not on purpose, but somehow it happened. That’s actually not the truth. I stole them, but it wasn’t in a malicious manner in which one might typically think when you use the word “steal.” Maybe let’s just say I borrowed them and then rather than return them, I kept the socks in my possession. There. That’s better. I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

It started something like this. I arrived at the party from a more formal affair. With a long flowing dress and a fascinator suited to meet the Queen, upon my feet were the only shoes that would complete the outfit, the multi-colored, strappy Kate Spade shoes I got on my 40^th birthday. This party was a casual meet and greet held outside where pavement was scarce and everyone was standing around the huge grassy fields sipping cocktails and chatting resembling something out of a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. I had packed a more casual outfit and just as I completed my quick change and headed out to meet the others, I realized the black Prada booties I had in hand couldn’t possibly be worn comfortably without socks. I didn’t panic. I simply walked up to the host and asked if she might have a pair of socks as I had absentmindedly forgotten mine in the rush to get over.

She replied, “of course!” then walked to the back of the house. Feeling a little more than embarrassed that I was walking around like a vagabond with bare feet, I slipped toward the corner of the kitchen to wait patiently for the remedy to my situation. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I didn’t want to be grumpy, but my patience was wearing a bit thin. Standing in the corner like a guilty child who needed to poop was ridiculous. I needed a drink and wanted to join the others outside.

Then I saw her making her way through the crowd, chatting and carrying on with the guests with plain, cream colored, overly fuzzy socks in her hand. It was almost as if she was completely unaware of them. Her hands moving around as she spoke, the socks just stuck within her clutches moving this way and that, simply along for the ride.

“Excuse me…” I tiptoed behind her. “Yes?” she said. “What’s in your hand?” I asked. “Someone needed socks, I think,” she replied peering down at my naked feet, yet lovely painted toenails. “Yes, yes,” that was me I said and quickly grabbed them before she drifted away again.

They were certainly not like any socks I owned. As I mentioned, they were plain and odd beige color and a bit fuzzy for my taste. But when I put them on I suddenly felt a sort of magical tug at my heart. I cannot explain it really, it was just that somehow these socks made me more whole. The soft fabric on my feet felt reminded me of how she used to hold my hand when I was a little girl. And how safe I felt when I knew she tucked me into bed at night.

At the end of the evening, when it was time to start the long journey home I knew I should return the socks, but I couldn’t stand to part with them. I knew if I didn’t mention it she was likely to forget she ever loaned them to me.

So in a nut shell, I stole my mother’s socks. And I am certain she doesn’t remember, so I don’t feel guilty. And while I will probably never wear them again and the scent of her laundry detergent has faded after washing them in my own, they are tucked safely in the bottom of my chest of drawers like a hidden treasure.

I have never been a strong believer in the term “bullying.” Being removed from the school system with only small children, it just seemed that parents around the globe were overreacting to issues at school and they wanted to have an excuse outside of their own parenting skills as to why their child was depressed or not excited about school. Basically, I thought parents were yet again looking for someone or something to “blame” for their unhappy child.

And those so called “bullies,” well, they were just trying to intimidate others because they were not being given proper attention and bad behavior would ultimately result into the attention they were seeking. It can be rationalized at a young age that negative attention is far better than no attention.

It has been in the last 6 months that my mind has been changed drastically. My daughter has become a target for a particular child on the playground. And while I initially passed it off as a few outside games that had been taken too far, it is now obvious that one particular ring leader intentionally intimidates my child specifically. However, it is still not obvious as to why. My little lady pretty much keeps to herself, is interested in playing with anyone and everyone, but is also comfortable playing independently. So on this bullying continues, from taking her jacket off her body and throwing it into a puddle to punching her in the face and stomach. I contacted teachers, head teachers and principals, asking for help, trying to understand why these behavior is allowed or going unnoticed. Well, friends, here in lies the problem, the public school system.

First, “it is normal kindergarten behavior”. Next, “he is really a sweet boy in the classroom I cannot believe he would do that!” Then, “it is a bit aggressive, but this boy didn’t have the opportunity to go to preschool so he’s still working on his social skills” and now, “the parents feel like your complaints are race related”. Are you freaking kidding me? Does anyone outside of my husband and myself give two shits that the little 6 year old white GIRL who was able to go to preschool, but is also kind-hearted and empathetic to the degree that she wants to befriend the raccoon that ate my neighbors chickens, is being hit, teased, intimidated to the point of fear by a BOY.

Wake the Hell up, world! Last time I checked, when the media interviewed folks who knew and or lived near Jeffery Dahmer, after finding hacked up human parts in the nut job’s freezer, they said, “I always thought he was such a nice, guy. Sort of quiet and kept to himself, but nice all the same…”

So really, bullying it is real. Let’s pay attention and not assume someone is calling it out because the color of someone’s skin. My daughter doesn’t even see skin color. And as the human race, can we work proactively rather than reactively so we can support not only the victims, but those who are bullying others? Either give the positive attention that they so desperately crave or offer the guidance to support their personalities so they might find their own level of success. Normal playgrounds do not depict the pages of Lord of the Flies….

So here I am at a concert I would have rather taken a pass for, but whatever, it was important to my husband to see Sarah McLachlan despite her heyday peaking about 20 years ago, when I first saw her live. We arrived via shuttle because the parking was fuller than full and we were directed into the overflow. This evening was taking place outdoors at a well know winery a fair distance from any sort of modern convenience outside of those found in a warehouse district, which really is none, unless you are in search of wine or a patch of grass to rest and pass the time. But here I am, on the shuttle if nothing else, excited to enjoy a glass of wine outdoors without my littles running around asking me a question every minute and a half. After a short ride, we exit the bus and trek the rest of the way on foot. It seems that when planning an outdoor concert at a winery, it is necessary to block all entrances but one to ensure that middle age patrons don’t “sneak in” without a ticket and get in their allotted steps for FitBit tracking. But again, my sights are set on the wine and casual atmosphere so I am trying to not let the minor annoyances ruin it for me. When you’re a parent, a night out is hard to come by.

Once we have been herded in with the masses and a mere, I don’t know, maybe 2 people checking tickets, (really!?), we head for the wine and snacks line, which miraculously is already VERY long. What the hell time did these folks arrive? Anyway, given it was going to be awhile before we got to the front, I decided to take a potty break because who knew how long THOSE lines were, right? I head against the traffic in the general direction I assume the restrooms would be and then I see it. Honey Buckets. And yes, there was already a line. Great! What girl doesn’t love using a porta-potty? They are always so sanitary and consistently smell of freshly washed laundry. However, I remind myself for the umpteenth time, it’s a night OUT, enjoy it. Finally, it’s my turn and well, I got a lovely surprise in the Honey Bucket at the Sarah McLachlan concert. My period. What!? Yes, now normally this would not be a sneak up and gotcha sort of affair, right? I mean, any half- witted female with a regular cycle has some idea of when to expect the arrival, but did I mention I was still breast feeding my 6 month old? No? Well, yes, so at the exact moment of squatting over the dark, disgusting abyss of poo water, I get my period for the first time in 16 months. Well, step right up, folks, because there are no quarter eating machines adhered to the walls of this box to dispense any product to deal with this hand I had been dealt. So I rifle though my handbag for something, ANYTHING to help me out and the only thing outside of a packet of half eaten raisins, a crumpled up tissue, drivers’ license and credit card is my son’s size 2 Cookie Monster diaper. Yep, I’m wearing a diaper to an outdoor concert.

With my diaper on, I go to report the fun news to my husband. We looked around to see if by some miracle there would be someone I could approach for help, but as I scanned the crowd I suddenly feel as if I am at a Neal Diamond concert because it is a sea of grey hair and thick ankles. Seriously? Is this a joke? Are we the only people here younger than our parents? It was like being on a cruise that lasts longer than 7 days, with the hov-arounds parked outside the dinner buffet at 5pm. Sadly, there was no changing my “situation.”

The moral of this story is that being a parent is full of work arounds and new tricks.  Rolling with the punches is crucial for survival. That night I had fun, drinking wine, listening to music, enjoying a lovely night, outdoors in the Pacific Northwest wearing a size 2 Cookie Monster diaper.