Pieces of Mary
Melanie, Claire, Allison, and Mary in Riverside Park

I keep finding pieces of Mary. They're all over my house. An empty Poland Spring bottle. Bagels in the fridge. "Quality" chocolate in the box she left me from her kitchen. "Jo Jo's" bib hanging on the stove. "Car Cars" strewn around my son's room--remnants of early morning play with his friend.

Today I am sad. My friend, our friends, have moved away and we feel the loss of their tangible presence--vacated for an intangible one whose introduction brings tight throats and damp eyes.

I have noted recently that we as Americans tend to record loss as quickly and as minimally as possible and then move on--rapidly, frantically filling time and space with insignificance in order to flee . . . well . . . significance. But there is so much to loss that should be embraced. In recognizing and idleing in loss, we honor, acknowledge, and value that which was lost. To quicken away feelings pulls up the roots with which our lives are made deeper by.

So today I will miss Mary--all of the pieces of her that made my life more vibrant. I will miss tea with milk and no sugar. Brioche for moms and bagels for kids--or brioche for everyone. Dancing with the children to British children's music--or Van Morrison. Hearing "OHHH, Joseph!" and watching her fly across the playground to rescue him from certain death! Seeing her number on my phone in the morning in anticipation of plans for the day. Watching Jo Jo, Levi, Natan and Ellen together--at the park, the playground, our apartments, the museums. Talking through "poos", and naps, and night-waking. Sharing laughter and heartache and everything in between.

And it will continue to be the daily, seemingly insignificant pieces that tug at my heart. Glancing down the path and wishing to see her red stroller in the distance. Levi asking over and over again for "Jo Jo". Catching the scent of brioche baking at Silver Moon.

I am confident that as days and weeks move by, life will make arrangements for our friendship to exist in new and important ways. But for today, I will allow myself to feel loss. I will allow my mind to steady my eyes on memories as they come, even if they make me sad. I will not usher this loss out in an untimely way. I will honor and celebrate my friend by missing her--all of the pieces of her. posted by: Allison at: 6:47 PM -  15 comments

For Levi It is late in the evening on your first birthday. You are sleeping peacefully in your room and I am getting very sleepy as well, but I told myself months ago that I wanted to mark this milestone by writing you a letter because in my book milestones are always marked by putting something on paper--it just seems more official, more significant. So, although my mind feels fuzzy and my thoughts are disjointed, I am going to write you a letter.

Dear Levi,
9 months (well, really 10) cannot begin to prepare someone to be a mother--I don't know that any amount of time could accomplish this. And though I thought about you every hour, every minute of those 10 months I could not have known that you would be who you are today.

There was a point late in my pregnancy with you that I so deperately wanted to keep you inside of me. I feared for your tiny life in this enormous world. I was sure that the only way that I could protect you was to physically shield you from the "outside". Well, as we all know, that is not possible, so on June 12, 2004 at 7:05 in the morning you were born. I will never, never forget your birth. No matter what I accomplish during the rest of my life, nothing will compare to the awesome, holy experience of bringing you into the world and looking into your eyes for the first time. As soon as I saw you I was glad you weren't going to remain on the inside forever.

From that first day I have been enamoured by you--mesmerized by each movement, each glance, each churtle. Nothing can ever come close to describing the intensity with which I loved you from that first moment, and the fierceness I feel about protecting you.

The very best word your Dad and I can come up with to describe you is "delightful". Life and light radiate from you and always have--even as a tiny baby. You have always had a sparkle in your eye and the hint of a smile on your face. Melanie has always said that you have something special that draws people to you, and I agree. You are curious, inquisitive, loving, happy, silly, opinionated and independent. And, of course, had I a lifetime to do it, I could not have created your being more perfectly that our God has done. I would not have been imaginative enough to make you with bright blue eyes, curly strawberry blond hair, a chubby belly, and a mischievious smile. I would not have been able to design the animated curve of your eyebrows and I would not have been able to perfectly place the dimples in your cheeks. Every tiny part of you is perfect to me--your chubby feet, your fair skin, your wiggly fingers. I praise God for making you, and for making you for us.

And although I have loved every moment with you, at times it has been both difficult and exhausting. I have had many, many times when I had NO idea what to do for you or how to help you. I sat holding you in my arms many times over, and wept tears that dropped onto your face while you looked at me with those intense blue eyes. But through God's grace and the passing of time we have both made it through. You have survived me, and I have survived you.

And as we now work on surviving your passion for electrical cords, cell phones, bathroom fixtures, and anything that is not a toy, I pray that the same God that formed you so perfectly inside me will continue to protect you with His hand, and guide me and I grow as your mother. I am not perfect, I do not know what I am doing, but I love you--desperately, unwaveringly love you. And as we turn the corner from infancy to toddlerhood, I hold each moment of this past year in my heart--both the peaceful and the stormy--and I tell myself that you will always, always be my baby. But as much as I will long to feel the weight of your tiny body cradled in my arms again, I will also look joyfully forward to each new discovery you make, each need skill you meet, each new milestone you pass.

So walk forward my child, RUN forward if you wish because I am your mother, and I will be behind you every step of the way.

Happy, happy birthday my firstborn son--my sweet growly bear! posted by: Allison at: 7:23 PM -  10 comments

Hey, Hey, Ho, Ho - Lactophobia's Got to Go!
O.k., here's a topic I could blog about for years--breastfeeding! I think that even the Bronte sisters in all their eloquence would struggle to find the words to sum up the breastfeeding experience. So, do not worry male readers and females who are not in touch with your bodies, I am not going to detail for you the intricacies of latching on, or the woes of plugged ducts. However, I AM responding to a situation that has recently received national attention that has to do, specifically, with breastfeeding, but on a larger scale with so much more.

Last week, comments were made by Barbara Walters and Starr Jones on "The View" about public breastfeeding. Walters was relating an incident of a woman breastfeeding her child on an airplane next to Walter's and her assistant's seats. Walters said that she felt "uncomfortable" with the situation. In response to this story, Jones replies that she finds it to be "horrifying and disgusting."

Now, in my mind, this is where the television should have gone blank and then begun airing re-run episodes of Andy Griffith. Then, I expected to see a statement siad, "ABC deeply regrets comments made moments ago on one of its programs. The comments made were harmful to both women and children and do not respect the choices of women or the needs of their infants. ABC supports breastfeeding in every way possible and is planning to implement public breastfeeding segments into it current sitcoms that feature families. Again, we deeply regret the comments that were made."

O.k., so maybe this is a little over the top, but COME ON--two high profile women on television get to flippantly make comments without anyone batting an eye? Well, not exactly.

Almost moments after the show aired the Internet circuits almost blew a fuse with the amount of activity. Women were blogging, emails were flying, and within a day or so nursing mothers in the New York City area were ready to fight Barbara and Starr in a street brawl. Too bad it didn't happen.

But was did happen was amazing, unique, empowering, vocal, important, newsworthy, motivating, inspiring. Nursing mothers with children in tow joined together this past Monday for a protest--a "Nurse In" if you will. These self-proclaimed "lactivists" joined forces at the ABC studios on 67th and Columbus and nursed, chanted, chatted and rallied against not only the comments made on The View, but against societal attitudes that sometimes butt up against the very thing our bodies are made to do--feed and nurture our children. The media even showed up! Check out the headline from the Daily News and the picture of my friend Christine in the NY Times.

Oh, boy. It has taken me way too many paragraphs to get to this core issue, but it's coming. On so many levels, these comments made on national TV are wrong. If anyone should be fighting FOR women's issues it should be Barbara Walters. The feminist movement didn't do anything if it didn't pave the way for women to have the RIGHT to do anything--and she, more than most, benefited from that effort.

Many talk about the "glass ceiling" that still exists for women in the business world, and this is disturbing. Nothing bothers me more than a facade--than a mirage that says "you are equally valued, paid, promoted." Any woman out there working her way to the top would agree.

But when we shift to the world of motherhood, things get a little blurrier. In an effort to climb to the top, many women are scrambling to escape the "maternal," the "feminine," the "natural." If you really want to put it bluntly, they are clammering to become . . . men, and I find this trend extremely disturbing. As I said before, it is my understanding that the fierce battles fought since the 70's were ones that emphasized CHOICE, and in my world, that means that I don't have to give up any part of ME to be all that I aspire to be. I can have a career and raise my children. I can go to the park in the morning, have a meeting in the afternoon, and stop at the local Starbucks on the way home to have a latte and breastfeed my child. I despise even the hint in Walter's comments that the women should not have been feeding her child on the plane. What would Walters propose for her to do--give a bottle, have the child wait to eat until the plane landed, or better yet, walk to her destination!

I could go on for hours. I could talk about the objectification of women and, in turn, the male species' inability to see the breast as anything but a sex toy. I could talk about our societies' constant, unending obsession with finding something, SOMEONE, to banish to the back corner . . . or back of the bus because they feel "uncomfortable." And I think in future blogs I will.

But for today, I will celebrate the fact that I was able to join with smart, savvy, intelligent mothers in New York City to stand up for ourselves, and for our rights to be the best (among other things) mothers we can be. posted by: Allison at: 7:43 PM -  11 comments

To My Mother I am very, very thankful that you are my mother. During the past year I have felt the need to apologize to you repeatedly, because it has not been until this new phase of my life that I realized what commitment, what Sacrifice, my mere existence asked of you. I do not say this dramatically, I say this because I now know, first-hand, what it means for something, some ONE, to truly depend on you.

Babies, and children, and teenagers do not sit patiently and wait for you to finish your dinner, or have a cup of tea, or talk to a friend. They smear you with spit-up, graham crackers, sand, paint, tears, angry words—and they don’t stop to clean you up.

It is an expectation that you will be to them master chef, tailor, inventor, entertainer, supporter, coach, teacher, comforter, healer.

As my mother, I know that you were daily asked to forego what you needed for me. And I also know that no one has ever given you a trophy for that—what a shame!

I wish that I could say that I will “make it up to you” but we both know that I won’t, because that is not what this relationship is about. I will love you, I will call you, I will visit, I will ask your advice, I will give you gifts—but I will not make it up to you. Instead, I will mother my own child as lovingly, as patiently, and as selflessly as I can—using my life raised by you as my guide.

As I write, it strikes me that this relationship between mother and child is really an earthly manifestation of Christ’s relationship to us. He came knowing, to the full extent, what His role was; who He was to be; what His “job” required of Him. And His followers were ignorant of all of this. Yes, they thought that he was wonderful. They wanted to be in His presence constantly and they hung on His words, but they did not know, they were incapable of understanding, the depth of His purpose—of His responsibility to humanity. They could not imagine the sacrifice that He would make; they could not see the full extent of His love.

For the disciples, it was only upon his death and resurrection that their eyes were opened and the glory that was Jesus Christ was truly revealed—and they were paralyzed by the reality of it. They sat for days, stunned at the knowledge of their redemption. And then, with the prodding of the Spirit, their response came. They began to understand that the only way they could go on was as His disciples—daily striving to emulate their Savior. Their sin was before them—Peter denied and Thomas doubted—but they knew the only way to carry this legacy of the cross was to go forth and teach others as lovingly, as patiently, and as selflessly as they could.

And now, thousands of years later, I am in that same position. I know there is no way to “make it up to Him” because I know that is not what the relationship is about. I have known this for years and come to understand it more each day. And as my role as “mother” unfolds, my amazement deepens at His sacrifice.

And my respect grows for you, my mother, who knows more intimately than I these parallel paths of motherhood and discipleship that call us to self-sacrifice, humbleness, and never-failing love.

Thank you. Happy Mother's Day. posted by: Allison at: 7:25 PM -  3 comments

In Vogue? I love dashes--and more specifically, the Em dash. The definition of an Em dash is as follows: A symbol (-- ) used in writing and printing to indicate a break in thought or sentence structure, to introduce a phrase added for emphasis, definition, or explanation, or to separate two clauses.

The origin of this pithy piece of punctuation is from the printed letter "m", of which it shares the same length.

The Em dash has really come into its own in the last few years, and more specifically in the area of the casually written communique known as "email". Now this is where these darlings really shine! No other element in the grammatical schism can do what the Em dash can--it's sassy, off-handed, and flippant. It says "by the way" and "another thing" and "got to run". I throw it out like candy at a parade--I LOVE the Em dash.

Now, I am fond of other piece of punctuation and believe that many are essential. I mean, nothing, nothing can trump a well-placed, perfectly poised comma, and there is no stand in for a pregnant, sentence-stopping semi-colon.

But I said it once and I will say it again, the Em dash is my favorite and I'm sticking to it.

What's yours? posted by: Allison at: 7:14 PM -  11 comments

Scripture of the Week I told the girls in my class this morning that I would post the scripture that we read together. I have encouraged them to read this and reflect on it throughout the week.

In light of all that is going on with Baby Ira, though, I think it is good for all of us--on so many levels. In the past week I have been angry, frustrated, and hopeful (which is a characteristic I will write about later). I have, as all of those who know the situation have, felt helpless, afraid, and desperate. And I am not even related to this child. I cannot imagine what Joe or Laura feel.

But I believe that there is a God, that He formed us purposefully, and that He knows us intimately. This Psalm directs our thoughts down that path.

Girls, I pray for you this week that you will internalize this scripture and begin to see yourselves, even more than you do now, as important, unique individuals formed and designed by the Creator.

And Joe and Laura, I pray that in the darkness of these hours, these days, you can catch glimmers of this Creator of Ira, and of Sophia, and of yourselves.

Psalm 139

A David psalm
1GOD, investigate my life; get all the facts firsthand.

2I'm an open book to you; even from a distance, you know what I'm thinking.

3You know when I leave and when I get back; I'm never out of your sight.

4You know everything I'm going to say before I start the first sentence.

5I look behind me and you're there, then up ahead and you're there, too--your reassuring presence, coming and going.

6This is too much, too wonderful--I can't take it all in!

7Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit? to be out of your sight?

8If I climb to the sky, you're there! If I go underground, you're there!

9If I flew on morning's wings to the far western horizon,

10You'd find me in a minute-- you're already there waiting!

11Then I said to myself, "Oh, he even sees me in the dark! At night I'm immersed in the light!"

12It's a fact: darkness isn't dark to you; night and day, darkness and light, they're all the same to you.

13Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother's womb.

14I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration--what a creation!

15You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,

how I was sculpted from nothing into something.

16Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you,

The days of my life all prepared before I'd even lived one day.

17Your thoughts--how rare, how beautiful! God, I'll never comprehend them!

18I couldn't even begin to count them--any more than I could count the sand of the sea.

Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with you!

19And please, God, do away with wickedness for good! And you murderers--out of here!-

20all the men and women who belittle you, God, infatuated with cheap god-imitations.

21See how I hate those who hate you, GOD, see how I loathe all this godless arrogance;

22I hate it with pure, unadulterated hatred. Your enemies are my enemies!

23Investigate my life, O God, find out everything about me; Cross-examine and test me,

get a clear picture of what I'm about;

24See for yourself whether I've done anything wrong--then guide me on the road to eternal life. posted by: Allison at: 6:30 PM -  0 comments

GOD BLESS AMERICA! New York is a very “interpersonal” city. Like it or not, we are constantly in contact with others, and this contact is bound to bring about some encounters. In my years of visiting and living in NYC, I have had many of these, encounters. When I first came to NYC in 1993 I remember passing a man on the street who had all of the indications of homelessness, and as I passed he shouted “GOD BLESS AMERICA.” Yes, this exclamation was intended for me. Surprisingly (or not) I was flattered by this reaction that my passing had generated. After moving to New York, I was reminded of this encounter numerous times as others, possibly homeless, that I passed made similar statements, and I reflected on the idea that although these men probably made this comment to each and every woman that passed their way that day, I was still flattered by their platitudes.

But now, as a “ jaded New Yorker”, I have developed a different response to the naïve pleasure of my youth (this is supposed to make you laugh). Now, my question is, “Why do men feel that they have a right to comment on my body?”

I am cute. I am not gorgeous. I am a white girl with a J-Lo booty and in today’s society that is not particularly attractive. My husband thinks I am hot and a) that is all that matters b) he is the only one who really knows, so I don’t really think anyone else should comment about it. Soooo, what makes men in our society feel that they have the a) right b) jurisdiction c) audacity d) balls to comment to a woman that they don’t know about her body?

For example, last week I was standing at the door of the gym where I take Pilates and a man passed by and blurted, “Don’t work out too hard—you don’t want to mess with THAT!” There are many directions I could go here—for example, to explore what, exactly, he meant by “THAT”, but I will stick to the topic. Now, I would like to think that he is a man with zero social skills and an inability to censor himself, but the reality is that he was an average (very average) guy walking alone, who felt that he could, at any point, comment openly on the state of any female person he passed.

After leaving Pilates I returned to my building, which I happened to enter at the same time as a group of maintenance workers. Immediately, one held the door for me while exclaiming “Here ya go, Sweetie.” SWEETIE!!!! I am not sweet, nor am I unable to open the door to the building where I reside.

This leads me to my fundamental question as I stated it earlier: Why do men feel that they have the right to comment on my body and/or level of attractiveness? If the feminist movement has done its work shouldn’t we be in a place where we are all respected as human beings with intellect and complex thought—not just big booties? But, ahhh, here is the rub.

It is my opinion that the greatest foe of the women’s movement is, in fact, women. Oh yes, I too want to blame these loose-tongued men but the reality is that when I pass the bodega on my corner the window is plastered with magazine covers of women in little to no clothing just begging for every male, both working and degenerate, to comment. And when I turn on the TV I must look no further than VH-1 to see women provocatively bringing to reality that the best thing they have to offer is their sexuality. It is important to note that the magazines are targeted to both men and women, and the videos are produced by both male and female artists. I thank the entertainment industry for so clearly illustrating my point.

So, I know what “God Bless America” man and “don’t mess with THAT” guy think . . . what about you?
posted by: Allison at: 7:42 PM -  11 comments

The Reason Why I Don't Write Letters So, Jason has been subtly bugging me about blogging and I keep telling him that I don't have the time. This, in all actuality, is a very true statement. I currently spend about 75% of my day keeping my extremely active seven month-old little boy from chewing through the electrical cords in our home. The other 25% of my time is divided between keeping him from chewing on the soles of shoes that have traveled the streets of NYC, preparing "South Beach" friendly meals (much to Jason's chagrin), and of course, working as the Development Director for Shiloh.

However, for the past two nights after Levi has gone to bed I have sat on my couch and done absolutely nothing for a couple of hours. So, why didn't I blog? It all comes down to . . . the reason I don't write letters.

I write for a living. I like to write. The problem is, when I write for work a deadline is involved. I am always pushed to create and develop pieces quickly, and I work well under this structure. When it comes time to write a letter, though, I drag my feet. I hate to write one unless I can cover everything. I want it to be eloquent, articulate, poignant, personal and just all-around lovely to read. I want Mamaw to smell the fresh peanuts roasted by a street vendor though she has never been to New York, and I want my friends in the suburbs to know the efficiency of walking to the grocery store with my child tucked snuggly in his Maclaren stroller. I want my "readers" to chuckle as I vividly describe Manhattanites lying on Cedar Hill in Central Park on the first warm day of Spring--their pasty white skin causing satallites in the outer atmosphere to malfunction.

All of this expectation for one simple letter. So, I never write it. And its the same with this blog. I have tons of ideas--thoughts that come while on the bus, pushing the stroller, watching the news, reading a novel. But without a deadline I put it off thinking "I don't have time to do this idea justice," or "now that's something I really want to spend some time developing." So while others are energetically bantering in cyberspace I sit on my couch just, well, staring off into space.

And Mamaw never gets her letter.

But who knows, maybe this blog will serve as a little therapy for this perfectionist writer (who doesn't even write perfectly), and if I get a minute or two in between Levi's dashes for the electrical cords I might just jot a line. posted by: Allison at: 6:18 PM -  10 comments