#WeAreNotThis

In case you missed it, the Pope is on Instagram now. Pretty sure he's just copying my favorite @circuspadre, but it works. Today, for Good Friday, he posted a photo from outside the Colosseum in Rome with this caption: "Everything in these three days speaks of mercy."

If only the North Carolina General Assembly would speak with mercy this week.

Instead, their legislative voice spoke only of fear and discrimination as they went into special session on Wednesday and voted to (among other things) prohibit cities from passing nondiscrimination laws, exclude groups of citizens from protection against discrimination in North Carolina and ban transgendered people from using public bathrooms that correspond to their gender identity.

As I binged through Twitter and Facebook yesterday (see #WeAreNotThis), searching for some reasonable answer as to why my state legislature has its head up its collective ass, I found nothing to help -- although this clip from John Oliver at least made me feel less alone. Then I saw a post from my friend Mamie, who happens to be a Presbyterian minister and a generally fabulous person. Although she no longer lives in North Carolina, she's still very much a Tar Heel -- and she's still fighting for those of us who are here.

With her permission, I'm sharing her post with you here. It's a letter she's sending to the CEOs and consumer affairs divisions of NC-based companies who have not yet spoken out publicly against the ridiculous discriminatory laws passed this week.

***

As a Tarheel born and bred, I have been horrified to see the changes happening in my home state. Living now, as I do, away from North Carolina, I see the pity and concern people have for those who are “unfortunate” enough to live in a state wracked by hate and discrimination, evidenced publicly by the repugnant actions taken by the current legislature. Any doubt remaining as to their oppressive intentions were put to rest yesterday when House Bill 2 passed into law with the signature of Gov. McCrory. The law goes well beyond its name and supposed intent to monitor bathrooms around the state. It takes away local protections for LGBTQ citizens, veterans and pregnant women as well as flaunts the desire of our forebears to be free of discrimination because of religion.

You have no doubt seen the threat that Walt Disney Studios has made to leave the state of Georgia if it passes a bill not unlike HB 2, and my neighboring state of Indiana lost 12 conventions and $60 million dollars after passing their “Religious Freedom Restoration Act” -- a law much closer to that just passed by North Carolina than its name would imply. The economic growth and prosperity of the state is now under threat, as is the reputation of any company who chooses North Carolina as its home. Red Hat CEO and President Jim Whitehurst, Biogen and Dow Public Policy all spoke out against this bill on the day it was hastily introduced. American Airlines, Wells Fargo and even the NCAA are concerned about this legalized discrimination. You can join their chorus in continued pressure to change the law so that equality and fairness are not undermined in North Carolina.

You are a leader in industry in the state, and as such, I urge you to speak out in favor of diversity and justice and against the codification of fear and weakness. Being based in North Carolina, your name and balance sheet are also on the line, and any silence you choose will speak. Your ability to attract a full-range of highly qualified, critical thinking, flexible and compassionate work force will be damaged by this law, and no tax breaks are worth diminishing the humanity of others. Please make the weight of your voice heard by the legislators and the people of North Carolina.

***

Everything in these three days speaks of mercy.

Todo, en estos tres días, habla de la misericordia. 

Tutto, in questi tre giorni, parla di misericordia.

Tudo, nestes três dias, fala de misericórdia.

Au cours de ces trois jours, tout parle de miséricorde.

Signs You Have the Right Friends, Part 1

I recently emptied and reorganized the cleaning supplies/medicines/extra toiletries shelf in my linen closet. At left is the photo of items left over and no longer needed at my house that I then emailed to a select list of friends to see if anyone wanted something from the pile.

Within two hours and a dozen email exchanges, I'd not only found homes for all the stuff, I'd also been treated to hilarious stories of children using tampons as toys, requests for an extra box of sanity if I find any and one friend who wondered what category of sponges I was offering because she couldn't see the photo at first.

Nothing profound, but I couldn't stop laughing at the electronic trail we created based on a reject pile.

These are my people -- friends who a) don't think it's weird that I'm trying to give them my linen closet leftovers, b) help me clear out my house and c) entertain and distract me in the process.

Sometimes my life feels a lot like that shelf -- everything just kind of jumbled on top of everything else, much of it useful but not always accessible, some of it expired or unnecessary, all of it completely crammed in together. I'm just grateful I don't have to take care of it all on my own.

Learning the #$@&%*! language

As one of the millions of big and small decisions my husband and I make as parents, we agreed that we wouldn't keep words a secret from our kids. And by "words," of course, I mean the "bad words." It's an age-appropriate, as-needed sort of lesson set, but we figured that all those bad words would seem less alluring, less powerful -- and (hopefully) less likely to get hurled at us -- if the kids knew what they were and knew they could ask us about them.

So over the past few years, we (my husband, mostly) have been dealing out a few choice ones now and then during bedtime chats with Junius. We started with the less controversial ones -- like explaining that the S-word isn't actually "stupid" or that the D-word isn't actually "dumb." As he got older, the words got a bit stronger, including the F-word, the A-word and so on.

Junius seems to savor these tidbits of verbal exotica and feels empowered not to use them. In fact, his favorite swear phrase, borrowed from this book, is to shout, "Curses and foul language!" Try it -- t's really quite satisfying.

We've only just started sharing the first words with Pippi, or so I thought. Which brings me to a little story that just needed to be captured somewhere, so here goes...

* * *

One day this fall while we were standing around at school pick-up, my friend H was sharing concern that her daughter (Pippi's friend) had somehow wandered into another person's virtual house in Minecraft and read an inappropriate word that was plastered on the wall. H was consulting Junius, as a former Minecraft fan, about how her daughter could have gotten into someone else's space in the online game.

Junius, after clarifying that he no longer played Minecraft (because I guess 5th grade boys don't want to get lumped in with 2nd grade girls), told H he wasn't sure how that could have happened. Then he asked the all important question: "What was the word?"

My friend looked at me, I nodded, then she told him: "Well, it was the F-word."

Junius gasped quietly and looked gravely concerned, immediately understanding why H was worried about her young daughter's experience.

Somewhere during this conversation, Pippi had strolled up unnoticed and was listening in. As she watched her brother frown knowingly about the seriousness of the matter, she leaned in a little closer to H and looked up at her.

"Mrs. H?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Was it fuck?"

* * *

So there you have it. No good parenting deed goes unpunished.

If your kids are playing with my kids and come home with some new vocabulary, you're welcome. And my apologies.

Ten

"Bye, Mom! See ya!"

And just like that, he pedaled down the driveway and into the street, his drawstring pool bag bouncing on his back as he pumped his legs to catch up with his friend.

I tried to act cool, like it was totally fine that he didn't need me. At all. And I immediately regretted telling him that he didn't have to call me when he got to the pool. I may or may not have texted a friend just now to let me know if she was there and could see him.

Ten.

Who knew it would be so big?

Already, in his first three weeks of double digits, Junius has spent a week at sleep-away camp, filled his own Spotify account with Pitbull and Bruno Mars, and started going to the neighborhood pool by himself. He makes his own breakfast and lunch almost every day. He searches the young adult shelves at the library and calls his own friends to make plans to play. He occasionally employs Axe deodorant to combat the inevitable pre-teen boy smell.

Someone please hold me.

Walking away from him at summer camp earlier this month nearly broke me. But I survived -- and, more importantly, he thrived. He made friends, ate new foods, learned to sail, spent the night on the dock, earned a new nickname, did the whip/nae nae (how is that even a thing?). He claims to have mailed me the self-addressed, pre-stamped post card I put in his bag, but it never arrived. The other cards were still packed when he got home because he was too busy having fun to worry about them.

At age 10, he is already stronger and braver than I was at 27.

In spite of all his grown-up-ness, he still snuggles with me occasionally, tells me he loves me, lets me rub my hand across his fuzzy buzz cut, asks for us to read to him at bedtime. I try to remember to enjoy these moments instead of losing them in life's distractions.

A friend recently pointed out that I have eight more summers with him before he leaves for college. That statement sent my heart plummeting into my shoes and my brain scrambling to make plans for every one of those summers so he'll spend them all with me.

But then I remind myself that's what it's all about. Watching him grow and change and yes, even leave me behind -- that's why we're working so hard at this crazy parenting business. It's a gift to see him moving away from me, one bike ride and camp drop-off at a time.

While I was writing, my phone just rang. It was Junius, calling to let me know he's heading home from the pool.

He really does love me.

_______________________

In case you want to join me down memory lane, here are links to past birthday posts about the boy:

• Nine: The Last Single-Digit Year
• Eight: A Champion Boy
• Seven: How Big Is 7?
• Six: Mr. Big Stuff
• Five: Things I've Saved
• Four: Junius Fest 2009
• Zero: The Official Announcement

Music from Lost Time

Tucked way in the very back of my upstairs hallway closet, there's a storage bin filled with pictures, maps, brochures, coins and other bits from the year I lived in Cardiff, Wales. I filled that bin when I returned to my parents house after the year studying abroad and have moved it from house to apartment to duplex to apartment to at least three more houses over the past 15 years.

My intent, of course, was to make a series of photo scrapbooks that would capture all the beautiful places I went and all the things I accomplished that year. I planned to have albums that I could flip through to treasure the memories or share stories with my children of the great adventure mommy had before they were even an idea.

And yet, more than a decade later, everything is still shoved into that same plastic bin -- much to my husband's chagrin.

Thankfully, treasured memories aren't dependent on neatly organized photo albums. Sometimes, a particular scent or sound -- or even a cartoon glass -- can be enough to conjure up the most vivid picture of a day long gone.

Today it was Spotify that served as my Proustian madeleine, courtesy of a playlist built around a mix tape that had been my sound track during that year in Cardiff. A fellow American scholar studying at Oxford became one of my favorite friends that year -- we visited each other and marveled that we, with our parallel lives and similar tastes, hadn't crossed paths sooner. The mix tape she made for me offered an entire Gravity's Pull album on one side, harkening back to the days when we didn't know each other at UNC, and a collection of tracks from Nancy Griffith, Nikki Meets the Hibachi, Shawn Colvin, Del Amitri, Shannon Worrell, Soul Miner's Daughter, Rebecca Riots and more on the other side.

I listened to that tape, my walkman tucked into the pocket of my weather-proof coat, every day for months as I walked to class, to the city centre, to a friend's flat, to the train station, to museums and galleries and castles and pubs. The songs rang of strength and friendship, searching and wonder. They were my constant partner as I found myself able to live so far from home, able to succeed on my own in a way I hadn't been sure was possible.

When I came back to the U.S., I was still listening to that same tape as I walked the halls again at UNC, where I found myself surprisingly ready to meet the man who would be my husband.

This morning, more than a decade gone by, I listened to Dave Matthews hum out his "Christmas Song" on the Spotify playlist that I finally built based on that mix tape. There's no tape deck in my car anymore, but I didn't want to give up the tape -- iPhone to the rescue.

Although I was driving roads in Raleigh, running ordinary errands on this ordinary day, I had the extraordinary sense of being transported through space and time I thought were lost. I felt the blessings of being known by a friend discovered in a moment when I needed that connection more than ever. I recalled the confidence borne out of finding my own way. I pictured the path I walked from my flat toward the capitol, the details of my room, the oceans of daffodils filling the gardens, the faces and voices of people I haven't seen since I returned home after we completed our degrees.

And I smiled to myself, holding the treasure of that year and that entire dusty storage bin in my mind.

Pillow Talk

I love being married. It can be a helluva lot of work -- don't get me wrong -- but as a package deal, it's the greatest plan ever.

Among the things I love most about being married? I'm like a kid at a sleepover. Every. Single. Night.

I was always that kid at sleepovers, the last one whispering into the darkness "Is anyone else still awake?" I treasured the talking for what seemed like hours in the half-light of sleeping bags and pillows as my friends drifted off to sleep one by one. The conversations never really ended, they just got quieter and slower to be continued another day. 

Many nights now as the clock ticks toward midnight, my husband finally leans over, kisses me and says, "You can keep talking if you want to, but I'm falling asleep."

My love of the (bedtime) chat seems to have been genetically passed on to my children, who talk continuously without breaking for breath during the day and don't really slow down at night either. So I probably shouldn't have been surprised when they started sharing a room. 

It happened at first as a special "sibling sleepover" treat one weekend when I was out of town. Junius moved up to his top bunk, while Pippi assembled her own pillows, blankets and friends on his bottom bunk. They had fun pretending to camp together, and my husband had an easier time putting them to bed when he didn't have to bounce back and forth between their two rooms. 

That was two months ago.

Any day now, I keep thinking she'll want to go back to her double bed and all her own space. Or that he'll get tired of her stuff in his room and kick her down the hall. Instead, the only change they've made is to trade bunks.

They even asked if we could turn her room into a play space instead of a bedroom. I said no, knowing that three minutes after I finish, I'll have to turn it right back. 

But it doesn't matter how long it lasts, this bunk-sharing approach. All that matters is that I will always know -- and hopefully they will remember -- that it ever was. That there once was a time when they shushed each other to sleep because they loved each other enough to tolerate the one sneezing and humming while the other tosses and rattles the beds in exchange for being together just a little bit longer. 

Seven, going on seventeen

Dear Pippi --

I completely missed your birthday month on the blog this year. Not your actual birthday, of course -- for that there was the sleepover party with your besties and the dinner with grandparents and the earlier dinner with your other grandparents plus the museum party with school friends and about 847 presents that were exactly what you wanted.

No need to feel neglected, I just missed the writing about it in your actual birth month. If it makes you feel any better, I was even later writing about your brother's last birthday. It seems to be the state of affairs these days at My Convertible Life. (Although if you're using this blog for some sort of archival study one day, then apologies for having apparently missed last year's post altogether. At least I wrote about turning five.)

You turned seven this birthday. Seven doesn't scare me so much, except that you seem to be seven going on 17 -- and that is terrifying.

Right now, you still love me. You actually tell me that, almost every day. You give me tight hugs and pronounce me "the best mommy ever in the whole universe" on a regular basis. You ask for extra kisses when I drop you off at 1st grade, even when I'm running late for work and being short with you. You want to be my sidekick, want me to be your playmate, want to show me everything.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering when it's going to stop. When are you going to be too big, too grown, too stylish and notice that I am too old, too embarrassing, too out-dated?

I try not to worry, to stay in the moment. I hug you back until you let go first, fill your pockets with blown kisses to save for later, lie beside you and scratch your back at night. I admire how funny, smart and strong you are. Some days I remember.

Then there are days when I forget everything except that, no matter how frustrated I am, I am not allowed to sell you on Craigslist. Those days -- when you don't listen, don't follow directions, don't want anything to do with me -- push me past my limits. And yet still, even on those days, you love me. I hope you know that I love you, too.

When you ask funny questions like "What does Taylor Swift mean when she says she's a nightmare dressed like a daydream?" I know you're just trying to make sense of the lyrics you're shockingly good at remembering. But it also reminds me that there is so much you don't know about, don't understand, might not be prepared for. You are my baby and I want to protect you from all of them.

There will be hundreds (millions?) of things in the coming years that I will get wrong with you -- things that will disappoint or infuriate you. I can already see some of them, but I'm not sure that will help me avoid the mistakes. When those moments come, I hope that both of us will feel some tiny pull back to these days to bind us together.

You are my second child, my last born. When you were brand new, I was able to soak in all your warm, round, sweet babyness in a way that I couldn't in the early terrifying first-born days with your brother. So bear with me while I try to keep you small for just a little bit longer, keep telling me you love me and be patient with me on the days I forget.

I love you, baby girl.
- Mommy