From my sister:
I read and reread the comments to all of my sister’s posts about Tanner. I do follow them but have never made one myself.
I am a strong woman and a mother… I thought I knew what I was capable of, I thought I could beat my demons by pushing my body and spirit to the limit… but I have been brought to my knees, again.
In the comments to yesterday’s post, someone remarked that, in their opinion, any flak that I get for whatever is probably due to the fact that I am incessantly negative and that incessant negativity is irritating. For someone who does live a priveleged life (sic) and has a great family, you spend an inordinate amount of your twitter life telling us how much things suck, wrote this very dissatisfied person. People want to see the happy times, too.
I disagree – I mean, many of my tweets of late have been about Emilia’s imaginary pet dragon, Beauregard, and about my love of Jasper’s bottom, and I think those are happy-making – but still. If my people want more HAPPY, I will give them more HAPPY, because, as I am sure I don’t need to remind you, I am a giver.
Behold, then. THINGS THAT ARE CURRENTLY MAKING ME HAPPY:
Once upon a time, in an Internet far, far away – which is to say, 6 months ago – I tweeted about Air Canada. I tweeted about them a few times, actually – I tweeted that they’d broken my nephew’s wheelchair, and I tweeted that they were working to replace it, and then I tweeted that they hadn’t, in fact, replaced it and had instead left Tanner stranded, immobile, while his mother and I scrambled frantically to reach someone at Air Canada on the telephone and did anyone out there have a number that didn’t start with 1-800 and end with ‘we’re sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to call back on Monday’? – and it kind of started what is often colloquially referred to as a shit storm.
I’ve never written about that shit storm. I’ve never written about it because, frankly, by the time it was over I was sick of the whole thing. I was sick of the whole thing during the whole thing, actually: I was sick of what it did to Tanner and my sister; I was sick of how it took hold of us and shook us and demanded that we explain ourselves, dammit; I was sick of how it spilled TV cameras and reporters into the hall outside our room and how it pulled them along behind us on the sidewalk and in the park and on the subway and demanded that they ask, again and again, does this demonstrate the power of Twitter? Does this demonstrate the power that Twitter gives the little guy? I was sick of trying to explain, yes and no; it’s complicated; this is a triumph, and also not a triumph, and could you please leave that little guy alone? Because that little guy is scared and confused by all of the attention and this isn’t helping.
“I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.” Thus spake Martin Luther King. Sort of.
He actually said this:
Here are some things that Jasper and Emilia love: crayons, art paper, paints, marshmallows, bubble wrap, trains, books, the iPhone, the iPad, video cameras, regular cameras, Toady, me, Kyle, the cats, skateboards, anything Disney, Scotch tape, cardboard boxes, stickers, the piano, and cookies. Only cookies with chocolate, though. They know their baked goods.
Why they love these things, I don’t know. I’ve never really thought to ask that question, except in regards to Toady, who is so unusual (and whose continued existence Kyle interrogates daily: ‘can we get rid of him, PLEASE?‘) that his very presence demands that variations on that question – why are you here? what need or want are you fulfilling? – be asked of him, constantly. (Notice that I fall so naturally into calling Toady a ‘him.’ This is disturbing.) The presence of, and my children’s preference for, all those other things goes unquestioned, I suppose because those preferences don’t read as unusual. Who doesn’t love the iPhone? Crayons? Cookies? I mean, really? So, no, I never asked.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina. More than anything, I wanted to be a ballerina. And so I asked to take ballet classes and I donned pink tights and black leotards and pranced my way through class after class after class. I practiced plies at home, and spent hours standing in front of the mirror, holding my arms aloft, trying to achieve the perfect arc. I read books, and listened to Tchaikovsky, and imagined that I was Margot Fonteyn or Suzanne Farrell or Karen Kain. For years I did this, dreaming of the day that I’d be able to put on toe shoes and do pirouettes and leap across a stage.
That day never came. By the time I was 12 or 13 my interests in musical theater (ask me some day about the time that I directed and starred in my own production of Annie) and writing had overtaken my interest in ballet and I hung up my dance slippers. I forgot, for the most part, about my early dream to be a ballerina until I decided to take classes again in university, at which point I discovered that I sucked at ballet. Badly. I mentioned this to my mother. She raised an eyebrow at me.
“I always knew that, honey.”
… actually doesn’t stay in Vegas when you’re a blogger.
(I need about sixteen naps before I recover my ability to write English in complete, grammatical sentences. Until then, I have nothing to say about Las Vegas and CES but this: SHINY. VERY SHINY.) (Which, as it happens, describes Ms. Alli’s sequined beanie in the photo above. It is always good to match your headgear to your surroundings.)
*****
Catching up on my kindnesses and random generosities: