I’m not sure how we got on the topic, but the other night my husband, son, and I were talking about the ways phones have changed over the years.  To put things into perspective, my husband and I are forty; cell phones didn’t become a regular part of our lives until we were adults.  Whereas the first iPhone came out in 2007, and our son was born in 2008, which makes him a member of the generation that is growing up with cell phones as a permanent part of their daily lives. 

My first cell phone was about the size of a brick.  My parents gave it to me with strict instructions that it was to be used only in the event of an emergency.  At the time, I was a college student without a car.  My daily commute required six buses and a round-trip commuting time of between 3 1/2 and 4 hours.  The cell phone was supposed to be a bit of a safety precaution; luckily I never used it.

Before that, when I lived with my parents, our home phones used to be firmly planted in place.  There was one that hung on the kitchen wall, and even with an extra-long phone cord, you could only pull the phone so far.  It was a big deal in our family when we added a wireless phone in the living room.  Suddenly, you were given freedom and the opportunity to move about while on the phone.

But then our memories took us back to Rotary dial phones, and we tried to describe to our son the rotating-motion involved with dialing “back then.”

For our eight-year-old son, “back then” may seem like a long time ago.  For my husband and I, it really doesn’t seem like that long ago when we were eight years old.  And the surprising/shocking/scary thing is how quickly technology changes, and as a result, our lives. 

In case you didn’t already know, we’re a basketball family.  (Here’s a link to an earlier, basketball-related blog post you might enjoy:  https://wendykennar.com/2016/04/20/thoughts-from-a-fellow-76er/)

And although it doesn’t involve our favorite team, the Los Angeles Clippers, we’ve been watching the NBA Finals.  It’s a big deal in our family to be able to watch a basketball game on TV, because unlike many other families, we only have basic television channels.  Which means that for most of the basketball season, we watch highlights and recaps, but rarely are able to see a whole basketball game from start to finish.

Last week, we had a special night planned, and our son was super excited.  It was his last day of second grade, we ordered in pizza for dinner, and we had promised him that he could stay up later than usual to finish watching the game. 

But — the commercials.  Without exaggerating, it felt like during every commercial break my son and I were turning our heads away from the TV.  There were commercials for movies and TV shows that just weren’t age-appropriate at all.  And the commercials we did watch, really didn’t make us, as a society, look very good.  There were a multitude of commercials for fast food establishments, cars, and beer. 

Even on a night when I was anticipating a low-key, low-Mommy-energy-night, I still  had to be “on.”  “On” meaning in vigilant, Mommy-teacher mode.  Explaining what I could (when my son asked), trying to determine within a few seconds which commercials we could and could not see, and reminding my son that it’s still basketball — a game in which grown-ups run back and forth and attempt to put the ball into the hoop.

And maybe one of these days I’ll realize there really is no such thing as a low-key, low-Mommy-energy-night after all.

A very good friend gave me a copy of Cheryl Strayed’s book Brave Enough.  It’s a collection of quotes, and each day, I read a different one.  I’m a bit more than twenty pages through, and have tagged a few quotes with Post-It notes.  Here’s one I’d like to share:

“You go on by doing the best you can.  You go on by being generous.  You go on by being true.  You go on by offering comfort to others who can’t go on.  You go on by allowing the unbearable days to pass and by allowing the pleasure in other days.  You go on by finding a channel for your love and another for your rage.”

That quote seems to speak for many of my days.  I go on, simply trying to do the best I can.  I try to be a good person, showing kindness and respect to others, modeling behavior I hope my eight-year-old son will emulate.  And, I go on knowing that some days, or even parts of days, will feel unbearable and will lack much pleasure. 

My family feels my love, sees my love, hears my love.  My rage though is quiet — sobs in the shower or while I’m alone in the kitchen.  Rage won’t change my situation.  Rage won’t make the pain go away. 

But love will keep me going, slowly putting one foot in front of the other.

 

I don’t know if I have an answer to that question.  Yet.

But, I have a written personal essay that discusses my thoughts on the matter. The essay was recently published at Mutha Magazine, and I’d like to share it with my readers.  

Here’s the link:  http://muthamagazine.com/2016/05/can-acknowledging-my-weakness-actually-be-a-sign-of-strength-asks-wendy-kennar/

 

Dear Readers,

This week, I’m pleased to share that Mamalode.com has published one of my essays for this month’s theme, “Cherish.”

But I need your help.  Mamalode compensates writers based on how many unique views a post receives.  Minimum payment requires 500 views within 30 days, but of course, the more the better!

Please use the link below to view my essay on all your devices! And please, share the link with others and ask them to do the same.

Thank you so much for your support!

http://mamalode.com/story/detail/dear-ryan-you-are-the-best-of-me

 

When I was in my early years of elementary school, I thought I might grow up and write “stories.” 

But, turns out stories are hard to write.  As a writer, you have to create these whole worlds and fill them with people who do stuff, who live in certain places, eat favorite foods, and have jobs and relationships and problems. 

And I’ve found that the stuff that happens in real life turns out to be much more interesting, much more funny, much more off-the-wall than anything I could have created.

So instead of “stories,” I write non-fiction.  I write personal essays that sometimes make their way into publications.  (Check out my “Published Work” link to learn more).  I write informational pieces for MomsLA.com.  And I write to try and figure things out for myself.

But, it turns out that there’s still a lot I haven’t figured out.  I haven’t figured out how to live with a chronic medical condition without letting it completely define me but while also acknowledging the limitations it imposes on my life.  I haven’t figured out the differences between jelly and jam and marmalade.  And I still haven’t figured out how to whistle.

Maybe I won’t ever figure some things out.  After all, I’m forty now and the whistling thing just isn’t happening. 

But I’ll keep trying to make sense of life in the only way I know how — one word at a time.  I’ll keep writing.

One of my favorite moments from Mother’s Day happened during breakfast.  While we were all enjoying our treats from Coffee Bean, my husband asked our eight-year-old son:  “What’s one of the things you really like that Mommy does?  What’s one of the special things Mommy does for you?”

I didn’t know what Ryan would answer.  After all, I give him a nightly rub down.  I pack love notes in his lunch box each day.  I always have chocolate in the house.  He can watch part of a DVD every day after school.      

Ryan surprised me with his answer.  He said, “She reads me an extra story at night.”

Part of our night-time routine is a bedtime story of Ryan’s choosing.  Depending on the length of the book, we may only read one book or one chapter.  But generally, when Ryan asks for another story, I have a hard time saying no.  I check the clock to see that we’re closer to 8:15 than 8:30, and read one more story.  After all, there are nights I don’t even get to read any more.  There are nights when I’m merely the book-holder and page-turner, and my son reads to us.  So I’ve got to grab these moments while I can.

And it made my heart swell to know that these moments mean as much to Ryan, too.

On my desk, I have two pictures of my son.  One is his second-grade class photo.  His smile shows a missing front tooth.  He wears a blue polo shirt, his glasses, and he’s in front of a backdrop of autumn trees that he selected.  (The photo was taken in October).

The other photo is from the invitation for my son’s first birthday party.  I look at that face, and I just see everything.  I see all the love, I see all the hope, I see all the promise of a new life.  Everything was still so new — for Ryan and for me. 

We took that photo as he sat on the floor of his bedroom.  He smiled right at the camera as he held a soft little book.  He wore a special “My 1st Birthday Onesie” and jeans.  And his eyes — large, dark Hershey’s Kisses eyes.

Ryan’s second grade picture is the picture of a boy.  A boy who knows how to pose for a photo.  A boy who needs glasses so he can see the board clearly.  A boy who can still enchant me with his dark chocolate eyes.

This week, days before Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of this journey my son and I have been on.  I’m thinking of the journey we’re still on.  I’m learning that it doesn’t necessarily ever get easier.  It gets different. 

One picture shows me where we’ve been.  One picture shows me where we’re at.  And, though I don’t necessarily know exactly where we’re going, I know we’ll be getting there together.

(To my mommy readers, have a wonderful Mother’s Day!  And for my readers who may be looking for a Mother’s Day gift idea, check out this post I wrote for MomsLA.com about easy Mother’s Day crafts kids can make.)

This week, I’m inspired by two different things — a quote by Natalie Goldberg, and a writing exercise I completed in my Advanced Non-fiction course I’m taking through UCLA Extension.

Here’s the quote:

“So let’s pick up the pen, and kick some ass.  Write down who you were, who you are, and what you remember.”    – Natalie Goldberg

And the exercise was prompted by the phrase “Don’t ask, Don’t Tell.”  Here’s what I came up with:

Don’t ask me how I feel and then keep walking by.

Don’t tell me you’re busy.  We all are.

Don’t ask me what my son took to school in his lunchbox.

Don’t tell me what you packed in your son’s lunch.

Don’t ask me how much money we make.

Don’t tell me how much money you earn.

Don’t ask me why I’m not on Facebook.

Don’t tell me to join.

Don’t ask me if the bananas are organic.

Don’t tell me you can taste the difference.

Don’t ask me if we rent.

Don’t tell me to buy.

Don’t ask me what social media I’m on.

Don’t tell me I need to do it.

Don’t ask me why my cell phone is turned off.

Don’t tell me to turn it on.

Don’t ask me if I watched the show last night.

Don’t tell me I need to get cable.

Don’t ask me not to worry.

Don’t tell me to relax.

I didn’t read the quote the same day I completed the exercise, but they seem to go hand-in-hand pretty well.  And as I get older, I am finding that my writing is my way of “kicking some ass.”