fashion clothes

Mother's Day is upon us. As a doula, I've been blessed to bear witness to many women as they became mothers, as they harnessed all their inner strength, as they fought for the births they wanted, as they held their children for the first time.

This is a topic near and dear to my heart, and it has been since I was a college student reading book after book after book about how much things have changed in health care. It wasn't until I was a laboring mother in that system that I really saw it though, and it wasn't until I became a doula that I knew there was something I could do about it. With my hands and my heart, I have the power to help other women reclaim maternity.

If you talked to 100 women and asked them to describe their experiences with pregnancy and childbirth, there's a good chance that you would hear 100 very different stories. Some of them would be triumphant and inspiring. Some of them would be anything but. Too many of them.

The truth is, pregnancy and childbirth don't belong to us women the way they should. They haven't for a very long time. For any discussion of why maternity is as messed up as it is today to make sense, we have to talk how and why we got where we are.

Since the dawn of time, for as long as women had babies, they have had help.

That help came from other women, most of which had birthed children of their own. Midwives. Without formal training, they learned the craft by hands on experience. They were skilled in breech deliveries, they were skilled in the use of herbs to assist with labor, with bleeding, with nursing. They understood that pregnancy and childbirth were and are a very normal, natural part of the human condition - a requirement of it, in fact, in order for society to perpetuate itself.

All that began to change in the early 1800's with the development of hospitals and the invention of forceps. Men began to push their way into birthing rooms, claiming they had new tools and procedures that would make labor better. By mid-century, more and more women were giving birth in hospital settings with male doctors and fewer with midwives, particularly in urban settings. Hospital births were more expensive, a privilege of those with money, and the perception quickly arose that they were therefor better.

Though the thought at the time was that the hospitals were safer and more advanced, the truth is that they weren't. Obstetricians began demanding women employ the lithomy (laying on the back) position for pushing, primarily because it made their job easier - even if it's not the one most women would naturally gravitate towards. It decreases the size of the pelvic outlet and makes the delivery process longer and harder for the mother. In addition to changing the mechanics of labor, the use of forceps and episiotomies skyrocketed, again for the ease of the doctor. All this must have come with some benefit of better outcomes, right?  Wrong.

Maternal deaths went up as disease spread far easier in hospitals, doctors moving from one patient to the next without realizing that unwashed hands were a perfect vector for illness.  Puerperal fever, also known as childbed fever started killing mothers at alarming rates. Women were also increasingly likely to suffer from sepsis because of the surgical interventions.

Even still, the profession pressed on, declaring their superiority over midwifery. Male doctors pushed for a monopoly on childbirth, and gradually the practice of midwifery was outlawed, even though there was no actual evidence that medicine was better. In fact, the evidence was to the contrary.

By the turn of the century, women just came to accept that births occurred in hospitals. Twilight sleep was frequently employed, leaving the women with little or no conscious memory of the birth. They arrived at the hospital in labor, were drugged, and eventually woke up having given birth, usually with large episiotomies.

Families weren't present, women weren't even conscious. Birth had become an automated process that all happened behind closed doors.

Those women, the ones who were drugged and had their children ripped (sometimes literally) from their wombs?

They are our mothers and grandmothers.

In the matter of a few generations, women lost any real connection to what labor is supposed to be like. It went from a normal part of the human condition, attended to by knowledgeable women, to a medicalized process where mothers were at the mercy of the industry.

Add in the more recent additions of elective inductions and pitocin (the devil's contractor is what I call it) and you end up with countless women who were told that their bodies couldn't labor right, that they failed to progress, that their uteruses were overstimulated, that they needed c-sections. Tethered to machines, kept on their backs and drugged, it's no wonder their bodies didn't cooperate.

This is not what labor is supposed to be like.

And yet, it is. More than that, it's what we've come to believe is normal.

I cannot even tell you how many women I have talked to as they tried to work through what happened. Who break down when I tell them that what they've experienced is real and legitimate and it's called birth trauma. Who didn't realize that they didn't have to go along with every intervention. Who feel like their bodies have failed them. Who are hesitant to ever go through it again out of fear. Who didn't feel empowered to ask questions, to ask for time, to say no.

It breaks my heart.

One of my favorite clients and dearest friends was one of them. Her first delivery had been traumatic. Induced, it took forever for the induction to work. Starving and exhausted, she got an epidural because she couldn't handle the artificial contractions anymore. Then one thing after another happened and she eventually delivered her son in a drama filled urgency of interventions. One of those if we can't suction him out with this push right now, we're rolling you to the OR for a section kind of endings.

She felt defeated by it all, and I remember how scared she was that it would go that way again. She called me in tears when she found out she was pregnant with the next baby. I told her that it might happen again, but that it didn't have to. That things could be different. That I could help her.

Her second pregnancy, with more complications than the first, ended in a dark hospital room one night. Music playing in the background, calm surrounding us. She had to be induced, there was no avoiding that, but I was there to help her work through the pain. She ate. She drank. She breathed. She went into the deepest recesses of her mind when she needed to gain clarity and peace. She pushed for only a few minutes. No vacuum, no forceps, no episiotomy, no c-section, no drama. The baby was healthy, she was healthy. It was beautiful.

I'm pretty sure she felt like she could conquer the world that day.

~~~~~~~~

As women, we need to help each other feel that way.

Women need to be taught that their bodies almost always know what to do. They need to learn to trust their instincts.

We don't have generations of women before us to teach us these things like we used to, so we need to relearn it all. Then we need to share it with other women. We need to support each other.

Pregnancy is normal. Birth is normal.

It is not a medical emergency unless it is.  It is a necessary condition of humanity.

Complications happen, yes, but not all the time and not to everyone. For those women and their children, often the only safe route to birth is surgical, and for that option we will be forever grateful.

Birth is not something we should be afraid of.

Knowledge is power. Experience is important. Having someone there to support you is vital.

Women should be there, helping each other, whether the births happen at home or in hospitals, whether with midwives or obstetricians, whether for the first time or the fifth time.

We need women who've done this before. Who can tell how dilated you are just by watching your body language. Who can find the place where you keep your tension and release it. Who won't rush you. Who can whisper the words of encouragement in your ear when the doubt sets in. Who will remind you to focus. Who will tell you that you are strong and beautiful and capable. Who will tell you that you can do this. Who will get you through each contraction by promising that it's one step closer to meeting your baby. Who will sit in the hushed silence with you as you wait for the first cry. Who will shed tears of happiness with you. Who know what a miracle birth is, no matter how many times they see it.

Pregnancy is beautiful. Birth is beautiful.

Let's take it back.

Let's take it all back.

One pregnancy at a time.

Welcome to Writer's Workshop Wednesday!  This is my way of paying it forward to all the people out there who want to start writing, but don't have their own blogs yet, or who are established writers that are looking to appeal to a different audience.  I have also opened this up to those who would like to post anonymously about topics that are too difficult to write about publicly. Each week, I will host one or two posts by different writers.

I hope that you enjoy this series, I hope you find some new writers to follow, I hope this helps them out and I hope we can all learn something from them!

This post was just sent to me today, though I've been hoping it would show up in my inbox for some time now. Writing has helped me process my own grief, and has connected me with so many people in this world.  Some of them are people I am lucky enough to know in real life, our relationship made stronger because of what we now know we share. Michelle is one of these new wonderful connections. Through telling my stories about my father, and her sharing the stories of her mother, we have connected as only the children wandering the Earth without a parent can. 

I'm so proud of her for doing this, for taking this chance and writing about her Mom. With love and support, I give you this beautiful piece by Michelle.




Kelly wrote a piece for her blog a few months ago, The Distance Between Then and Now. If you haven't read it already you should (or just read it again if you have.) I know it takes a lot of courage to write and share something so personal. When I read it I cried, and then re-read it and cried even more.

I thought about reaching out to Kelly, sharing with her how her post touched me, but was hesitant to open up at the same time. Days went by and I finally just felt compelled to write her. She graciously offered a guest post to share my thoughts as well. I'm so grateful for this opportunity! She has lost her father to cancer, I've lost my mother to Cystic Fibrosis. And although our experiences with the loss are entirely different, the sentiment remains the same. She just gets it, I felt like I could have written her post. My hope is that my feelings may resonate with someone, make them feel like the aren't alone, just like Kelly's words did for me.

Now that Mother's Day is approaching, I know there couldn't be a better time to let it all flow out. For me, this is the most difficult holiday of the year. I have so much to be grateful for, and I am. Immensely grateful. I have a wonderful MIL who regards me as her own and two amazing children. But every year when Mother's Day comes I feel the loss of my own mother more than any time of the year. The anxiety of the holiday overwhelm me, even weeks before.

Sometimes I feel swallowed by the grief of it all and just try to make it through the day, struggling to hold myself together... I just miss her more than I can describe and feel her absence more than ever. The waves of emotion, the ups and downs of this holiday are just torture on my soul.

My mom passed away unexpectedly from complications of Cystic Fibrosis a month before my 15th birthday. She was not just my mom, she was my best friend, my everything. She was in pain and uncomfortable every day as she struggled to breathe and live with CF, in an out of the hospital every month. She dealt with an abusive and controlling husband. Tremendous hardship on a daily basis. And she never complained. And all I knew every day was how much she loved me and that I was number one to her. I took care of her at a young age when no one else would and forged a special bond because of it. We were especially close, all we had were each other.

As the distance between then and now increases (especially as I've become a mother and entered my 30's), I am constantly reminded how much she taught me, how much her selflessness, strength and loving nature molded me to be the person I am today. I push myself further, take that extra time to really connect with my children on a deeper level, even at 11:00 at night after a long day. Because I remember that even laying in a hospital bed after the 5th surgery that year, alone and scared, she took the time to listen to me. To make me feel heard, important and loved. I hold myself to a higher standard because of her. I am better because of her. When times are hard, I reflect on her life, remember how she was always smiling for me and making me feel special.

Kelly spoke about the distance between then and now. She said,
"Time puts more miles between then and now, for sure, but it doesn't make things easier."

She's spot on.

It's been almost 17 years since I lost my mother. Distance doesn't make it easier, just different as you move on the best that you can. You learn how to cope with the emotions of it all. It's impossible to understand unless you've been through it. A beautiful moment becomes painful for a minute… or that moment is ruined completely. It's like a kick in the gut, sometimes a quick jab that you can quickly dismiss, sometimes it just doubles you over and you struggle to catch your breath.

The random song on the radio, the smell of perfume as you walk through a store, watching my MIL with my children. Reminded once again that my mother was never able to meet them. My children will never know this unbelievably strong, courageous and loving woman that raised me.

In writing this I realize that I must find a way make this holiday different this year. Embrace the grief but not to hold onto it too long, feel it and then move on. Immerse myself in my children and family, enjoy the day with them and honor my mother's memory by being strong just like she was. She wouldn't want me to wallow in sadness and grief, she would tell me to grab my kids and hold tight. To make them feel blessed to have me, just as I have felt blessed to have her for the little time I did.

Bring it Mother's Day. The distance between then and now has given me more perspective and strength.

I'm ready.

Hello there Hive.  Is that what Kelly calls you?  Hive sounds goddamn fan-fucking-tastic. 

So, I'm that crazy broad who writes The Insomniac's Dream.  If you're wondering why in the good goddamn I curse so much, well I normally do.  But this month is special.  It's The ABC's of Swearing. 

So, she's crazy and she swears like a gaytastic sailor? 

I know, I know, you're in love already. 

Today I am here to whine like a baby complain like a bitch rant like a goat-fucker tell you how, every year, my birthday and Mother's Day go by seemingly without fanfare, lost in the shuffle that is Tiny Artist's birthday.

If you haven't read his story yet, go on, I'll wait.  Now, you see he was but a gimp's ass hair away from being born on both my birthday and Mother's Day.  While that would have been super duper neat-o, and I could have understood being forgotten for this goat turd (and I say that lovingly) . . . It did not happen that way.



The above goats express my rage well for me.

I am here to demand, DEMAND my two days back!

Okay, I'd settle for one day.  Just one day that is about me, my day of birth, a day to celebrate that I let children rip their way out of my stomach like Aliens.  One.  Goddamn.  Day.

One.

To not be lost in the frenzy of a young boy with his greedy eyes gleaming in prospect of cake, ice cream, goodies, and presents.

Then, matters got worse. Last year, we got two kittens.  Can you guess when their birthday is?

These gonad lickers (well, they're female so I suppose they're gooch lickers) just so happened to be born on the day between Tiny Artist and I's days of birth.

We all know that in the eyes of young boys, kittens are more important than Mom.

So this year, I'll be celebrating year one for the cats, year nine for the boy, and . . . We'll just skip my birthday and Mother's Day.

(Or go out to dinner and "pretend" it's for me, when it's all about Tiny Artist.  Same as every second weekend of May for the last nine years.  Gay.)

On a serious note, folks, I love my son.  He's not really a goat turd or even a goat fucker.  Sometimes an asshole, often a demon, but never a goat ass licker.

Happy Birthday Tiny Artist!

Happy Birthday Callie and Tortie!  I love my cats, but unfortunately they really do lick their gooches.

Tuesday.

The gift that keeps on giving.

Insanity Pleas
James Holmes, better known as the theater shooter, officially entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity today.

Basically, what this means is that people like me will be glued to the tv for the entire trial because it's going to be the definition of a three ring circus. I cannot even imagine how they are going to argue this defense.

It's not just the level of premeditation involved with the purchases of the weapons or the stockpiling of the ammo. It's not just the fact that he bought and was wearing full body tactical armor (and incidentally why the fuck can people buy shit like that in the first place)? It's not just the fact that he booby trapped his apartment. It's not just the fact that he calmly went in, bought a ticket, propped open the doors, went back out, put all said tactical gear on, snuck into the propped doors and opened fire on a sold out theater of people.

It's all of that.

Is the guy nuts?  Yeah, almost certainly. Normal people don't do that. However, being crazy enough to commit such an unimaginable crime doesn't mean he couldn't appreciate the wrongness of his actions.

He didn't snap one day, buy some guns and shoot up a theater in a moment of delirious rage.  He planned this attack for months and was far too deliberate to claim he had no grasp of the gravity of what he intended to do.

Good luck with that, Mr. Holmes.

The War on Women Rages On
The GOP realized that they aren't going to win too many races without the help of women after the last election. This most recent attempt to butter us up, though, really???

They've come right out and said that they are planning to use "mommy blogs" to target female audiences in predominantly Democratic areas, in an attempt to garner support for their most recent incarnation of flex time legislation.

Here's the thing.

First, though I refuse the label, some consider me a mommy blogger - which is a wonderful label lumped onto all women who write, even if they hardly ever write about their kids. Please, pigeonhole me more, society. Even still, you'll be happy to know that in my publishing network agreement with BlogHer, you'll never see ads financed by the GOP or conservative groups on my page. You won't see them because it's my page and I can decide that.  Suck it.

Second, pandering to women in the wake of all the anti-women legislation that these elected representatives have authored in the last year is ridiculous. It seems to say that they're perfectly willing to tell us that we don't deserve equal pay, that we can't decide what to do with our own bodies...but when it comes to this particular topic they think they can trick us into joining team Red.  We won't. Here's why.

The plan sucks. It's not really about providing flex time options to working mothers (or fathers for that matter). It gives time off in exchange for overtime, uncompensated at overtime rates. Companies can basically employ policies that say to women, oh, your kid is sick, take off a day when you need it...but your ass is mine on nights and weekends until you repay those hours.

This isn't a real flex time option. It actually would hurt more women in the workplace than it would help, which is exactly why most women's advocacy groups oppose it.

Bleeding Misogynist Zombies (oh and the other one too...)
A gun target manufacturer has taken to making life sized bleeding zombies, perfect for really expensive twisted target practice. Two have recently come under fire. One of which looks an awful lot like the Commander in Chief (which they claim is just a coincidence....right), then other which is called the "Ex-Girlfriend", complete with unbuttoned top, exposed bra and black soulless eyes.



When shot, the zombies bleed.

Because women don't have to deal with enough misogyny and violence in the world as it is. Because it's generally frowned upon to make a threat on the life of the President, but somehow it's okay if you make an effigy of him and slap a $99 price tag on it.  Sure. We'll just call it a coincidence while you imagine killing him. Or her.


What in the actual fuck?

You want to keep your guns? Fine.

But don't for one second think that shooting at something like this makes you anything other than a sick and twisted gun toting lunatic.

Faux Friends
I talked to two friends today, fed up with how they've been treated by people they call friends.

Strike that. It was three now that I think about it.

Friends are supposed to be a positive influence in your life. They are supposed to listen, to validate your concerns, to offer support.

They aren't supposed to blame you for their problems

They aren't supposed to treat you like shit.

They aren't supposed to make you question why you even talk to them.

They aren't supposed to dismiss your feelings.

They aren't supposed to betray you.

They aren't supposed to take advantage of you.

Sometimes people come into your life, and sometimes they leave. Sometimes we have to phase them out when we realize that they can never be the friend we need them to be, the friend we are to them. When it's not a two way street, it's not a friendship. It's a parasitic, drama filled dysfunction.

I'm too old for that shit.

I had to work pretty hard on cutting the list down this week. There are a lot of things pissing me off right now, not the least of which is that I absolutely hate it sometimes when I suspect something about someone and then it turns out I am right.

I really hate that.

Goddamn intuition.

Anyway, these are the things that you may have heard about this week in the news that are chapping my ass.

Oh, and The Musings of Munch decided that I needed a logo for Tuesday, so here ya go.



Kidnappers
This week, three women escaped the home that they had been kidnapped held captive for close to a decade or more. At least one of them gave birth to a child during that time. As the days and weeks progress, more details and information about their captivity will come out.

There are things that we can surmise from the limited information already available. Assumptions that it's probably safe to make, the main one being that these girls were taken and abused for all those years.  That even if they may have physically been able to escape at some point in the past, there is a psychological aspect to kidnapping that damages the ability of the captive to think that way.

I think there is much value to be gained from what other women, freed after years of captivity have said. Elizabeth Smart is one who can educate us about how and why these monsters are able to manipulate these women. She can give insight into why the way that we teach children about sexuality can help or hurt them if they ever find themselves in these situations. Her cause now is to fight against abstinence only education, as she says that part of the reason that she didn't try to run when she could have was that she believed she was like a used piece of gum, flawed and ruined in the eyes of a society that is unforgiving towards women who've been abused, regardless of whether any of it was her fault or not. That is powerful information.

Misinformation in the land of Plan B
Last week, the FDA recommended that Plan B, also known as the morning after pill, be made available without a prescription to all women 15 years old and over.

The administration is challenging that decision, though the reasoning behind the challenge isn't crystal clear.

What has happened since the FDA's statement is that everyone and their brother has been talking about the morning after pill, what it means, what it does, what the rights of teens are versus the rights of their parents, and so on and so forth.  Unfortunately, though, in those discussions, there is a great deal of misinformation being thrown around. Let's clear some stuff up.

First, the morning after pill is not an abortifacient. It will not work to terminate an existing pregnancy. It interferes with ovulation and/or implantation - effectively stopping a pregnancy from occurring.

Second, while the dosage of the hormones in the morning after pill is higher than a single birth control pill, it is widely accepted as a safe dose.

Third, the risk of side effects from taking the morning after pill are low, much lower than the risks that accompany even the most uncomplicated pregnancies.

Fourth, as much as people want to believe that their children will remain abstinent and talk to them immediately if they have sex, that just doesn't happen in the real world.

Fifth, as many as 20% of teen pregnancies are the result of rape and/or abuse, often at the hands of family members. Those girls should have access to this medication without the involvement of their family members, some of which may be the very ones abusing them.

I could go on and on here, but I will stop. Some of the rhetoric I've seen in the last week scares me, especially when it comes from parents who seem so sure that they can control everything that happens to their children. I remember being a teenager, and I can assure you that even though I was mostly a good kid with mostly good parents, I didn't listen to them all the time. I didn't tell them everything. To assume that your kids will do what you say, even if it wasn't what you did, simply because you decree it from the mountaintop is wrong. It creates a false sense of security and does nothing towards equipping those children with the information they very well may need to deal with life in the future.

In an ideal world, teenage girls wouldn't need the morning after pill, this is true. No one would. But we don't live in an ideal world, now do we?

The Immigration Debacle
Immigration reform seems to be one of the big hot button issues these days, and in the wake of the Boston bombings now people are calling for a re-evaluation of every immigration policy in existence. Decisions made in haste and based in fear rarely go well, and it would serve everyone to take a step back here and be more objective.

The larger issue at hand is that the US is a....wait for it....nation of immigrants. Yet, there are large groups of people here who seem to believe that we need to erect walls and keep out everyone else. We made it here, so let's lock it down.

Walls don't work. Coast guard patrols don't catch everyone. Rogue armed men walking the border in the desert scare the shit out of people like me, if I'm being honest, especially given the truth that those who try to come to this country, whether legally or not, are doing it for one reason - to have a better life.

I struggle the most with the deportations that are happening with increasing frequency that take parents away from children. As of December, that number was over 200,000 parents. I'm sure it's higher now. Those children are citizens, born in this country with every single right that everyone else here has, and yet their parents are being shipped off and too often those kids end up in foster care. Forget the discussion of the rights of those parents...what about the rights of those children?  Shouldn't being raised by their parents be an important enough reason to let them stay?

I don't claim that there are simple solutions here, I don't claim that the system is without flaws, I don't claim that there aren't people who come here illegally with intentions to milk our system. What I do know is this - the path to legal citizenship isn't as simple or easy as most people think. There aren't pathways currently for those people who came here illegally initially to become legal citizens without fear of deportation. Children born here to illegal immigrant parents should have the same rights as children born to citizens, because all those kids are supposed to be equal citizens in the eyes of the law.

A few months ago, my husband sent me an excited text message. Somehow or another, he'd learned that Sonia Sotomayor was coming to Denver to speak, and that the event would be open to the public. He sent me all the links, which told me that we had to wait a few days to try and get tickets, after the students had been given the opportunity to request them first.

The day tickets became available, we both jumped on the website when it opened up, as though we were trying to get tickets to the playoffs or something.

He knew how much I wanted to see her.

Who wouldn't want to see her???

(Okay, so I'm a legal news junkie, a huge fan of historical firsts and not at all normal...but then I've never claimed to be.)

We got tickets, and I was immediately giddy with anticipation. How often do you get to see a Supreme Court Justice?

Many years ago, before we left California, Antonin Scalia spoke. At the time, I really had no interest in seeing him, primarily because I tend to disagree with most decisions he's been a part of during his time on the court, but more because I knew that it would be difficult if not impossible to get tickets because he tends to draw a large and passionate crowd. Looking back, I know that I should have at least tried to see him.

My oldest son asked if he could come with us, and I was a bit hesitant at first. I warned him that it would be long and probably boring in parts for him. Told him that he probably wouldn't get most of the references she would make. Then told him that he could come if he finished all his homework, put on a nice shirt and combed his hair.

Inside, I was bursting with pride that he'd even ask.

His sister wanted to go briefly, until she realized that she'd probably get bored. Sitting still just isn't part of who she is.

We drove down to Denver last week to pick up my husband and head to the campus. We'd been warned in advance that no bags or purses would be permitted in the building, but people are stupid and oblivious and always seem to think that somehow they'll be allowed to bring their stuff in because they are special.

All that meant is that the security line took forever. The Secret Service and US Marshals aren't a very forgiving group, and aren't going to be talked into letting anyone bring stuff in that they aren't allowed to. After almost an hour and a half in line, we finally got through the metal detectors.

You know I laughed at the piles of purses abandoned on the ground, while I simultaneously cursed all the purse owners in my head for making the entire process take longer for everyone.

Anyway, we got in. Barely. She had already started speaking by the time we cleared security.

I walked into the gymnasium to see this.


Yes, we were that close.

She was talking about her childhood, about being raised in the projects in a home where Spanish was the predominant language. About struggling in school until she made a conscious effort to learn English, realizing that the only way to success was through education. She talked about how her cousin, close in age to her, turned to drugs and died of AIDS in his twenties, and how growing up in the kind of childhood she had gave her an equal chance at either fate. It's only out of resolute stubbornness that she is where she is today.

I had a feeling that she would talk about living with Type 1 Diabetes, and waited with baited breath for the moment that someone would ask her about it. She was diagnosed at 8 years old, twice the age my son is now. Though he's not yet fully diagnosed, he very well may end up spending the rest of his life dealing with this condition.

She spoke about how she learned from a very young age that things were just going to be different for her. She had to be more aware. She had to take better care of herself. She had to be present in the moment, she had to remember what happened in the past and she had to always prepare for the future. Rather than being angry or frustrated at the disease that so often altered her life, she chose to embrace it as a child.

It is a part of who she is, but it does not define her.

I stood in the gym, tears running down my face. Here before me, this woman who'd lived almost her entire life with the very thing my son may have, and she sits on the highest court in our nation. If she could do that, he can and will be able to be successful in whatever he wishes. We just have to make sure that this disease isn't allowed to tell him otherwise.

I know there are a few T1 moms who are reading this right now, so I'll just give you a moment.

When asked what she thought the most important Supreme Court decision is, her answer was quick and precisely what I thought she would say. Brown v. The Board of Education. She elaborated by saying that although that decision to end segregation in schools was pivotal, what was more important is what people did with it. The changes that occurred in towns and cities. The changes within individuals. She talked about the importance of equality and how our society must continue to strive towards it.

She closed the event by talking about how essential it is for people to be involved. To use their talents to help their communities. To take part in society. To be active members. To appreciate civic responsibility. To not sit idly and complain, but actually to take steps to effect change. To expose injustices. To do it better.

And that's when I started crying for the second time.

When the formal interview was finished, the Secret Service tried to usher her quickly off stage. Being the security nightmare she must be, she refused. She grabbed the microphone and told everyone in the room that if they'd sit down so that her handlers calmed down, she'd come say hi.

To all of us.

And she did. She walked up and down the bleachers. She stopped and talked with people. She posed for pictures. She smiled and thanked everyone for coming.

The area we were sitting in meant that our section would be the last she would visit. So we sat. And we waited.

Then this happened.


She walked right up to my son, shook his hand and asked him his name. Asked what grade he was in, and if any of his classmates had any idea where he was right now. She told him that 6th grade was really important in her life, as it was the year she realized how important it was to push herself to achieve at higher levels. She asked him what classes he was in, and he told her that he's in the advanced math class, the advanced writing class and is directing his first movie for a school project.

Then she looked at me and said, "Good job, Mom". She reached out to shake my hand.

As she turned to move on to the next person waiting, she glanced back at him and told him to keep it up. The world needs smart kids, the world needs him.

A grin spread all the way across his face, then mine.

She is a living, breathing piece of history. She is a model of conquering a disease that hits too close to home.

She is an inspiration.