Hannukah music

I've written before about my love of bluegrass and how, at the age of 27, my particular love of the banjo spurred me to ask for one when my mother asked me what I wanted for Hannukah.

At first, I played all the time. I was young and single and childless and had endless time to hang out with my musician friends, singing and playing and drinking bourbon. Then I got married and had children and didn't live in places where my circle of friends all played the guitar or the fiddle or the upright bass or the mandolin.

That's still where I am. I pick up the banjo from time to time. My kids ask me to play songs for them. But my friends are almost all married with kids, and my limited social life does not involve picking parties full of song and bourbon and bonfires. And banjo isn’t really a solo instrument.

I love music, though. I always have it playing, often I'm singing along, often my kids are often singing along. It turns out Zeke has a beautiful voice. He's in choir and was selected to be in the all-city choir group and is going to audition for the Denver School of the Arts. I don't know if he'll get in, or even if it's a good fit for him, but it's cool that it's an option.

It also turns out that he's taken to playing the piano. His after-school babysitter has a piano in the house and she encourages the kids to bang away at it. Zeke has learned/taught himself a bunch of songs, and is always fiddling. Let's just say that while we were at my parents' house for Thanksgiving - they have a piano - we heard a LOT of "Heart and Soul."

We didn't mind too much. It's catchy.

Hannukah is early this year. When we got back from Thanksgiving, it was upon us. Like my mother did for me 21 years ago, I asked Zeke what he wanted for Hannukah. Like I did 21 years ago, he responded that he wanted a musical instrument - a piano.

I looked on Craiglist. Turns out you can get a rehearsal piano for practically no money. And I would have happily bought one, except that I don't know where I would put it. We could put it in Zeke's room, which is huge, but that would entail getting up the stairs. No thanks.

But there were also a gajillion electric keyboards for sale. Some people the next neighborhood were getting rid of theirs. It's in perfect shape. It has a ton of different settings. It came with the stand and a seat. I got some cash out of the machine and Zeke and I went and got it.

It's in his room and he loves it. And best of all, it has a volume button.

When Josie came back to me after being with her dad, I asked her the same question. "What do you want for Hannukah, JoJi?"

She thought about it and said, "a guitar."

So today we went to Guitar Center and got her a guitar that's the right size for her. My parents gave her a set of lessons that will start after the new year. She has a case that allows her to carry the guitar on her back. I got her a book to get her started, and I'm teaching her the basic chords.

It's made me want to pick up my banjo again. We can have a family band and go on the road.

I'd need to learn "Heart and Soul" on the banjo.

Happy Hannukah, everyone. May your lives be full of music.

If you are going through hell, keep going

Sometimes when I think I'm going through something rough, I think about some of the awful things that other people have endured, and that are much, much worse.

People who have been enslaved, or raped, or tortured. People who deal with chronic or terminal illness and then die way too early. People in California who have lost their homes and possessions or, God forbid, family members to raging fires.

I don't have to deal with anything like that.

My children are healthy. I am healthy. I have a good job and live in a nice house and wear nice clothes. I live in a beautiful place and I am able to take advantage of what it offers. I have the means and ability to travel. I having a loving family and wonderful friends.

I know how fortunate I am.

It's not a comparative analysis, though. People get to feel bad about things even if other people are dealing with things that are worse.

Anyway.

I was thinking about Thanksgiving coming up next week. As we always do, the family will gather at my parents' house. My mom and I will walk Buster together. We will cook together.  My dad will take the kids to the Air & Space Museum, or to play at Clemyjontri Park. On Wednesday night, we will go to Tony Cheng's for dinner and then to the hockey game. On Thursday morning we will participate in the SOME Trot for Hunger and then have breakfast at the Metro 29 diner. On Friday we will have our open house and eat leftover pie with our friends. Lisa and I will plan our trip to India next summer.

(Did I tell you I'm going to India with Lisa next summer? I'm going to India with Lisa next summer. Soooo excited.)

I love our Thanksgiving traditions.

Like most people, when we sit down at Thanksgiving dinner we go around the table and everyone says what they're thankful for. Or if you're going to be grammatically correct, we identify the things for which we are thankful.

Family is always up there. Health. Love. Prosperity.

Those are the evergreens of Thanksgiving thankfulness.

This year I am thankful for all those things, as I always am. But I am also thankful for my own strength and resourcefulness. I am thankful for my ability to endure and persevere.

As I've alluded to, my son has had a really hard, traumatic six months or so. For the last two months and change, he has lived only with me. I have found and arranged for services that could help him. I have worked through adjustments in health care needs. I have worked with the school to develop strategies that would help him.

I have done everything and endured everything and arranged everything and paid for everything. I have had in that time maybe two or three nights to myself, when the kids had sleepovers.

It has been so, so hard. It has been so, so exhausting.

Emotionally, I am tapped out. I have gone through periods of intense anxiety, to the point that I had to increase my medication dosage and find others to reduce the feeling that my heart was going to pound right out of my chest.  I have cried a lot.  Many nights I have cried myself to sleep. But in the morning, I still got up and exercised and worked and did what I needed to do.

I have felt worthless and overwhelmed and incompetent and like I would never see any light at the end of the tunnel.

But now I can see it. Because of my efforts - because I loved, pushed, encouraged, comforted, raged when appropriate, held my tongue when I needed to, forced everyone to face the problem and deal with it - the light is there.

I can rest easier knowing that my son isn't in crisis. We can work toward a more normalized schedule. I can try to have some semblance of a personal life again. I can have days when I'm not responsible for taking care of anyone but myself.

So I'm thankful that I was able to do that.  And thankful that I did it.

This one goes to 11

My dearest Zekey-beans.

Today you are eleven years old.


Eleven is a weird age. There isn't the novelty of being in double digits, but you're not quite a teen. You're in full-on tween-dom. Which is weird.

On one hand, you're still a kid, still very much attached to me, still loving on me like you did when you were a toddler. You still hug me and tell me that you love me multiple times a day. You still have an extraordinary willingness to show me your physical bizness as the situation calls for it - "mom, I have a rash!" - while bending over and revealing all. Oy.

On the other hand, in true teen-adjacent fashion, EVERYTHING IS EMBARRASSING!!

You were horrified last Friday when we made our ill-fated trip to a local haunted house and Josie was so terrified of the prospect of what was to come that she burst into tears and refused to go in at all. That wasn't the embarrassing part - what upset you was my effort to go get my money back for the cost of Josie's and my tickets. "Mom, don't!! Can't we just go home???"

I'm not allowed to talk to you while you're playing PS4 with your friends while wearing your headset, because god forbid they hear me telling you to come eat your dinner, or reminding you to get off the game because it's bedtime.

A couple of weeks ago I picked you up at school and you were in tears because your teacher made some innocuous comment that could have possibly been interpreted to accuse you of looking at your girlfriend rather than at your work.

"It's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me!" you wailed.

Sigh.

Things are not easy for you right now.

You're living with me full-time because things between you and your dad are not great. So in addition to the normal mercurial nature of being eleven - the normal feelings associated with early puberty and having crushes, trying to act like you were created in a petri dish so that you can pretend your parents don't exist, generally being a dick to your sister- you're often sad and anxious and grumpy ON TOP of all that.

It's not so much fun for either of us. We fight a lot. We push each others' buttons. We don't get time away from each other.

I get no time to myself, period.

But there will be moments when everything between us feels perfect. Little moments.

Last night you were feeling sore - I think you're having some growing pains - and asked me to massage your back. So I was working on your back muscles, and then I had you lie on your back so I could help you with some stretches. And then I lay down next to you and you curled into me, and we were joking and laughing about something, all snuggled up. I showed you a picture I have on my phone of you as a baby.

"Who's that good looking fella?" I asked.

And we were smiling and talking, feeling relaxed and happy.

You have told me I am your safe person - the one person you feel you can totally rely on when you're sad or upset or scared. You trust me completely. You tell me everything, good or bad.

Sometimes being that person can be exhausting and anxiety producing. You have said, in so many words, "I can't function without you."

I feel so much responsibility to make everything OK.

But in moments like the one last night, I feel the privilege of being the one you open up to. I feel utterly, overwhelmingly loved and appreciated.

You are a complicated, difficult, delightful, intelligent, interesting, beautiful human being. I created you, and you are mine and I am yours. It is a great gift.

To say that I love you seems woefully inadequate. You are a part of me in every sense. You fill my heart.

Everything's going to be OK. I will help you and make it OK.

All my love,

Mom

Joy to the world

Josephine, my sweet love. My delightfully funny, beautiful darling girl.

Today you are nine years old.

You are with your dad this week, so I went to school this morning to find you and wish you a happy birthday. I was already having a frazzled morning and I wandered around school, not able to find you. I was about to leave when I got a message from your dad that you had come to school late. So I got out of the car and went back in and had to wander around some more because you had left your classroom with a math group you're in.

Something about all the wandering around, not able to find you, made me feel weepy. I wanted to say to everyone I encountered, "where is she?? I just want to wish her a happy birthday, dammit!"

So when I finally found you, I did weep a little bit. I wrapped you up my arms and hugged you and kissed you.

You shouldn't have been that hard to find. Your short, blue-green hair stands out.

We did your hair two weekends ago. You really really really wanted blue hair. I had no problem with blue hair, but I really really really didn't want to spend hundreds of dollars, and many hours in a hair salon, in order to achieve it.

So I did it myself.

The bleaching part was easy, though there were gaps in my application. So when we rinsed and dried it, there was a little bit of a tiger stripe-y effect. Which was kind of cool, honestly.

Then we applied the blue dye. After 45 minutes, we rinsed it out. I realized that when you're paying all that money at the salon, what you're really paying for is access to a salon sink, in which you can tilt your head back and rinse the dye directly down the drain, rather than having to kneel in the shower as blue runs over your hands and your body and gets on everything.

But it was worth it. It looked super-cool.

You're super cool.

You're in fourth grade now. You have tons of friends. Everybody loves you and thinks you're delightful.  You're funny and goofy and strong.  You keep getting taller and taller.

Your brother is having a rougher time right now - he frequently feels like you're the favored child. And he's probably right, for some people. It's not fair, but it's true. You're easier than he is, at least for the time being.

The two of you bicker and get on each other's nerves, as siblings do. But when you were at your dad's this weekend and Zeke was with me, I had a feeling you would miss him. I wasn't surprised when you texted last night asking to talk to him.

You are a kind soul. You still say, "AAWWWWW!!!!" every time you see a dog anywhere, anytime. You're sweet to your friends.  You're funny as hell.

Even though you now have your own room with two beds, you still always sleep with me. "I don't like being away from you," is your rationale. And it's OK. I don't mind. I love waking up with you. You put your hand on my face and say, "I love you."

I love you, too.

There was something about your new hair color that was reminding me of something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then the other day, in an "ah-ha" moment, I realized what it was - the character of Joy, from the movie Inside Out. With her optimism and cheerfulness and zany side.



 You are Joy. You are joy.

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Mom

River deep, mountain high

Dear Emma,

It has been four years since you left us.

Even though in other areas of my life, four years feels like a million, with you it doesn't feel as long as that. The pain, while duller at this point than it was, is still fairly acute and close to the surface.

When we were at the beach this past summer, Zeke was going through some stuff (still is, honestly), and your dad and I did some bonding over the dilemmas of single parenting and pushing through the difficulties. And we talked about you a little bit, and what that is like for him. He is an amazing person and an amazing father, and truly an inspiration to me. I have more respect for his strength, resilience, and grace under pressure than I can possibly say.

It made me think that another reason that your death was such a tragedy - on top of the tragedy of your life having been cut short, and the family's loss and grief - is that you are missing out on the experience of having the love and support and guidance of such an incredible father.

I climbed another mountain for you this past weekend for your yahrtzeit. The only deviation from tradition is that I wore a different baseball cap because I can't find the green Red Sox hat that I usually wear. It actually really bothered me not to have that hat.

Every year the way I approach the climb changes a little bit. So many people I know have lost loved ones recently. I thought that maybe instead of just hiking for you, I would ask people if there was a loved one they wanted me to carry up the mountain as a way of honoring their memory. In the end, I carried nineteen names in addition to yours. I was touched by how much it meant to people, and I was touched by how much it meant to me as well.

We climbed Mt. Democrat in honor of the upcoming midterm elections. I feel like you would have approved of that. Neither Christin nor I had a good night's sleep, but I think that actually portends a good climb, because our best climbs have come on days after a shitty night's sleep.

This was a great climb.

I have been doing some running over the past couple of months. My body hates it - I get weird pains in my hips, my boobs are too big, it's not pleasant for me. But I sure felt the results - I was astounded by how much stronger I felt at high altitude. I only had to really gut it out with 50-steps-then-50-breaths for the last 100 feet or so.

And man, was it ever a gorgeous day. The sun was shining and the aspens are gold and Christin and I could not stop marveling at how lucky we are to live in Colorado.

The yahrtzeit hike presents such a range of feelings and thoughts. It always takes me back to those awful days immediately after your death, because the reason I started walking so much after you died - the reason the climb is at once so fulfilling while at the same time being so wrapped up in losing you - was because of the amazing hike up the Longs Peak trail that Christin and I did 4 days before you died.  When we were in New Hampshire doing our version of shiva, miserable and devastated and out of our minds with grief, all I could think of was that day on the mountain when everything was beautiful and perfect and life-affirming. I was desperate to get back there.

And so I take myself back there every year, in your honor. I get to experience the beauty and perfection that makes me feel the life and strength in my body, while also keeping your memory vibrant. I think that that's what makes reaching the summit such a mix of accomplishment and pride and sorrow - that punch in the gut that makes me catch my breath and cry as soon as we take that final step to the top of the world.

It's like every year, through the joy and effort and flood of memory and emotion that the climb brings on, I re-experience that juxtaposition of intense happiness and then intense agony from four years ago. The climb itself brings you back to life in my head, only to experience losing you again.

As hard as it is, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.

I hope you know how loved and missed you still are. We don't shy away from talking about you - you are and will always be part of us. Our family will never be complete without you. We miss your smile and your energy and your kindness and your generosity of spirit and your sense of humor. We miss hearing about what you're up to.

We just miss you. I miss you. I love you and I always will.

Wendy

Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me

I woke up to the sound of someone walking into the house. I reached out to look at my phone - it was 1:15 in the morning.

I was startled but not afraid. I knew who it was.

I walked down the stairs and into the living room. He stood there looking exhausted and weepy.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, helpless.

"How did you get here, sweetie?"

"I walked."

"You walked here from daddy's?"

It's three and a half miles. It's 1:15 in the fucking morning.

He nodded and started to cry. "I needed to be with you," he said.

I looked down and saw he wasn't wearing any shoes. Three and a half miles. Three and a half miles in the middle of the night with no shoes. Wandering around Colorado Boulevard in the middle of the night.

Three and a half miles in the middle of the goddamned night with no shoes.

"Mom, I'm so tired. I'm so cold."

I sat down on the couch and he curled himself into my lap.  I wrapped my arms around him and rocked him the way I did when he was a baby.

"It's ok, honey. You're ok. I'm here. You're safe."

He nodded and closed his eyes. He was so worn out and relieved to be with me that it brought tears to my eyes.

"Sweetie, let's go upstairs and get in bed. You need to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

He was going through some stuff with his dad. Neither of them was handling it well, but one of them is a child, and one isn't. Sometimes I think adults don't realize the emotional impact they have on their children. They don't think about how their words and actions can make their child feel like the solid ground beneath their feet has turned to quicksand. They don't realize that a cutting remark doesn't just leave a scrape - it's a deep stab.

I was in a constant state of crippling anxiety, worrying about my children, trying to help them navigate a rough time, trying to keep work and the house and everything else functioning.

A woman I know, whose son is friends with Zeke, remarked, "he left his dad's house in the middle of the night and walked to your house without telling anyone? That's such bad behavior. You must have been ready to kill him."

I wanted to say, of course I wasn't ready to kill him, you moron. A ten-year-old doesn't walk three miles to their mother's house in the middle of the night - barefoot - because they're misbehaving. They do it because they're in pain.

It was devastating to think about how desperate he must have felt to do that.

We went to the Outer Banks a few days later. It was as it always is - familiar and beautiful and consistent. I got a good tan. I read some books. I spent some quality time with my brother Josh.

But Zeke was a mess. I was a mess. I felt like my life was a mess. I wasn't sleeping. The anxiety gripped my chest like a vise. I cried constantly. I felt responsible for everything, and like I was utterly failing.

Eventually, after we were home, he and his dad worked stuff out. He's much, much better. School is going well. Everyone is getting along.

You think that the awfulness can't possibly resolve itself. And then, very quickly, it does.

But man, it was a hard summer.

It's not time to make a change, just relax, take it easy

Zeke recently asked me, "Mom, is it OK if I sleep by myself?"

My children have been crawling into my bed since they were babies. Sometimes I have gone through periods of proclaiming "EVERYBODY SLEEPS IN THEIR OWN BED!!"

It never sticks. They are warm and snuggly and sweet. They argue about who gets to sleep next to me. They reach their hands out in the morning to touch my cheek and say, "I love you, Mom."

I'll take it as long as I can get it.

But Zeke is starting to pull away. He'll be 11 in a few months, and he is exhibiting early signs of pre-teen-ish behavior. Spending all hours talking to his friends. Preferring to hang out with them on weekends. Holing up by himself in different parts of the house, away from Josie and me. Being churlish to me and his sister.

"Ugh, he's such a dick!" Josie will exclaim.

"I know," I'll say. "Older brothers can be jerks."

He's noticing girls, and they're noticing him. Sometimes I look at him and am struck by how handsome he is. I do my best to hammer home the importance of treating girls - and himself - with kindness and respect. His looks would make it easy for him not to.

Of course I understand that this separation process is normal. I try to give him space. When he's acting like a asshole pre-teen, I make every effort to not take the bait, and usually I succeed. It diffuses the conflict and his sweet self eventually reemerges and comes back to me.

Tomorrow is the start of the kids' two-week summer stint with Jason, followed by our two week trip to the Outer Banks. I will be using that solo time to set the kids up in their own bedrooms. They have shared a room since Josie was born, but we have reached That Time. They need their own space.

The bummer is that I'm losing our playroom/workout room setup, but the little alcove off my bedroom that I use as an office - which has never actually had much use as an office - will become my home gym. It'll be fine.

I told Zeke that of course he could sleep in his own bed.

So now, most nights he goes to sleep in his own bed.

But most mornings, he still wakes up in mine.

That's Not How Any of This Works: "Home to Roost" (Suits S7 Ep6)

A little bit of background: Yesterday it was chilly and rainy in Denver, so I worked out and then spent the rest of the day lounging around watching the royal wedding, which BBC America is STILL playing on a continuous loop.

Guys. Enough.

Anyway, then I went to see The Who's Tommy at DCPA. I knew nothing about it except for the song Pinball Wizard, so when the story went from Dad is MIA in World War II to Mom finds a new love who wants to marry her but then HOLY SHIT DAD'S NOT DEAD AND HE COMES HOME AND SHOOTS AND KILLS THE FIANCE, I was a bit taken aback. Then inexplicably Tommy is in some kind of weird fugue-ish state that combines aspects of PTSD, autism, catatonia, and who knows whatever else, and then after a Christmas party Mom and Dad go out and Uncle Ernie babysits and FUCKING MOLESTS TOMMY AND WHAT THE HELL AM I WATCHING. Then he gets bullied by cousins, and his dad and uncle take him to a prostitute, i.e., pay an adult to rape a child with severe sensory issues, but the prostitute sings a really catchy song, so I guess it's OK? Also, Tommy's really good at pinball even though he can't see or hear or do anything, and this makes him famous.

Then Mom and Dad decide they've had enough of Tommy's shit and the people with the white coats are on their way. But before they arrive, Mom freaks out and smashes Tommy's head on a mirror and suddenly he's better, which is not how any of this works. He's still famous and he grapples with fame and identity and purpose and then everybody seems happy and it's over.  I'm totally confused as to how this show ever got made.

So I had this sense of "nothing makes sense and that's not how any of this works," combined with royal-wedding-on-the-brain, when I thought, I wonder what Meghan Markle's show Suits is like? And the answer is, hilariously improbable yet not entirely unwatchable. But in watching it, I kept thinking, that's not how law firms work. That's not how law works. That's not how trials work. That's not how any of this works. And it was like I was writing a recap in my head, so I decided to make it official and write it down.

--------------------------------

So, Suits. The show just finished Season 7, but you have to pay for seasons 1 through 6, and that wasn't happening. I chose Season 7, Episode 6 because it was very plot-driven and fast-moving but also bonkers.

Long story short, Mike is a brainy whiz-kid law dude who looks to be about 25 but somehow has already managed to:

• get himself hired as a lawyer by a schmancy New York law firm that only hires Harvard Law grads (*eye roll*), even though he didn't go to Harvard or any law school and isn't actually a lawyer, he just printed a fake Harvard diploma. Sure.
• get busted for being a fraud (see above) and serve some time in jail, but now he's out.
• somehow redeem himself and get admitted to the bar, which strikes me as improbable given his criminal history and the nature of his offenses, but OK, whatever. 

He's now back again at BigLaw, working for Harvey, his big firm partner/mentor dude who is a corporate law hot-shot. But Mike likes to work for the common good as well, and he somehow he manages to score a deal that allows him to work for BigLaw and also do some pro bono work for a clinic that represents the unwashed masses in public interest cases. Also, he's a disgraced ex-con who I'm guessing is working for this firm as an associate, but his office is roughly the size of the entire downstairs of my house. 

On the "previouslys", we learn that the main story line involves a pro bono case in which Mike represents Oscar, whose son died in prison after a fight. The son was a month from parole, though, so he wouldn't have been acting up and the whole thing is very fishy. At first everyone thinks it was just a one-time incident involving the prison being too cheap to have enough guards and medics on duty, but then Mike uncovers a huge criminal conspiracy involving the private prison company and a construction company. Their scheme is to use illegal prison labor to build their facilities while also generating fights involving guys who are about to get out on parole, meaning that their sentences get extended and the construction company gets more illegal prison labor. It is supremely evil. Mike wants justice for Oscar's son, and rightly so.

The problem is, BigLaw has brought in Dule Hill, who used to be an intern for President Bartlet, as a hot-shit partner. One of Dule Hill's clients is the evil construction company and they are NOT pleased about the prison litigation, so Mike has a conflict of interest and can't continue representing Oscar. Mike hands the case off to Oliver, a whiny annoying dude he used to work with over at the Do-Gooder Clinic.  Mike also signs an agreement that he will not work on the prison case any more, and in addition to signing the agreement, Harvey makes him give his "word" that he will abide by the contract. Which strikes me as overkill, because isn't that what the signature is for?

But Harvey obviously knows Mike better than I do, because as we will find out, even with that extra assurance, it takes Mike about 5 minutes to decide, "fuck it, this case is too important. Yes, I gave Harvey my word, but I also gave Oscar my word, and justice must be done." So in addition to being confused about what it means to give people your "word," Mike is back working on a case that he shouldn't be working on because he's conflicted out AND he agreed not to touch it. Something tells me that this is not going to end well.

One of the things that is making Mike so gung-ho about the case's prospects is that he has found a key witness to tie together all the various parts of this conspiracy, and it's a GUY WHO ALSO TRIED TO KILL MIKE WHILE HE WAS IN PRISON!!! I will refer to this gentleman as Father Phil, because he's played by Paul Schulze, aka Father Phil Intintola, Carmela's schnorrer of a priest on the Sopranos (and who Tony Soprano hilariously referred to as "Monsignor Jughead"). Before he was an inmate in the same prison as Mike, Father Phil was in another prison where he got pulled into a scheme to receive rewards in exchange for picking fights with guys whose paroles were about to expire, so their sentences would get extended. Sound familiar? But Father Phil doesn't feel particularly inclined to help Mike out, so Mike lures Father Phil with the prospect of big money that he could set aside for his daughter.

Also, in the course of maybe a day and a half, the case turns into a class action because there's more than one inmate involved, which is not how class actions work, nor do classes get certified when the whole case is less than a week old.

Somehow, notwithstanding working for BigLaw which, like most big law firms, makes its money on the exhausted, billable-hour-generating backs of its associates, Mike feels like he can get away with spending his waking hours poring over documents with Oliver and tracking down potential witnesses, even though the higher-ups at BigLaw are like, "dude, where the fuck are you? We've got big money corporate cases you need to be working on."  

Also, Mike is engaged to and cohabitating with the Duchess of Sussex, who also works at BigLaw. She realizes that Mike is actually working on the prison case, in violation of his agreement and his word to Harvey, and she is NOT HAPPY. Not only because he could get fired, but because he gave Harvey his word. But Mike is committed to helping Oscar, so he presses on. 

No one brings up the fact that continuing representation in a matter that presents a conflict with client's interests is a big no-no, and given what it took him to get admitted to the bar, it seems like Mike wouldn't be so cavalier about jeopardizing his status. That strikes me as at LEAST as big a deal as whether he gave Harvey his word.

Mike and Oliver go to see Father Phil and try to get the name of his "source," who I guess can corroborate the conspiracy.  Father Phil wants money up front. Mike and Oliver explain that without the source there may not be any money because the other side has filed a motion to dismiss.

What, what? What kind of motion to dismiss? Why now? They make it sound like the issue before the judge is whether there's enough evidence to proceed with the case, but that's not how any of this works. In a civil lawsuit, you file a complaint that says, the other side did bad things, and they should pay damages for it. Then, the parties engage in discovery, meaning they get to seek documents, information, witnesses, whatever, to help them prepare for trial.

And Mike and Oliver are doing that - they've tracked down Father Phil, they've got other guys they could be talking to, they're still in the process of building a case.  But for some reason, there's a hearing tomorrow on the motion to dismiss, and Mike and Oliver tell Father Phil that if he doesn't give up his source, the whole case will be thrown out. Father Phil's word isn't enough - they need corroboration. 

Except they don't need corroboration, at least not yet. They're still doing discovery. They're still finding things out. In a civil case you don't file motions to dismiss that amount to, "judge, even thought the parties aren't finished with discovery and are still building their cases, you should make a determination at this arbitrary point in time about the sufficiency of the evidence in the case." If there was no evidence after going through discovery, or if the evidence didn't support the plaintiff's case, THEN you could file a motion to dismiss, but it's totally premature in Mike and Oliver's case. It makes no sense. That's not how motions to dismiss work.

Also, as my friend Christi pointed out, it would be a motion for summary judgment, not a motion to dismiss, but to explain the intricacies of that would add significantly to the length of this post, so suffice it to say from a civil procedure standpoint, that's not how any of this works.

Plus, you don't find out about a motion to dismiss (or a motion for summary judgment) on the same day that you find out that the motion has been set for hearing tomorrow. That's not how court scheduling works. Motions get filed, the other side gets 30 days to file a brief in response, then the movant gets 14 days to file a reply, then the court looks at its calendar and set the hearing for a Wednesday that is three months from now. Nothing is happening tomorrow.

BUT WAIT!!! Apparently 7 years ago, Father Phil went to a prosecutor with evidence that the prisoners were being mistreated, but the prosecutor didn't give a shit. So there IS corroboration they could pursue. But the hearing's tomorrow! Hurry, guys!!

Luckily, that afternoon Mike and Oliver get a sit-down with the prosecutor, who confirms that Father Phil came to her alleging that he was being victimized as part of a conspiracy by the prison company to abuse prisoners. They refer to Father Phil by his character's name, Frank Gallo, which makes me think of Joey Gallo, the fake name that Joe Pesci gave Judge Munster in My Cousin Vinny, when he was trying to convince him that he was a reputable New York lawyer. Coincidence? 

Anyway, the prosecutor believed Father Phil but the case never went anywhere because the higher-ups weren't interested: "no one gives a shit about prisoners and they way they're treated."  Mike and Oliver then tell the prosecutor that she's going to tell the court what she knows, or they're "going to subpoena her records under the Freedom of Information Act." 

Mike and Oliver need to take all the seats, because that's now how any of this works.  First of all, you can either make a request for records under FOIA, or you issue a subpoena, but you don't do both. Also, a prosecutor's records are not the kind of federal agency records that you get through a FOIA request. For a couple of legal whiz kids, these two are not so sharp. 

But neither is the prosecutor, because she just says, "you guys are a couple of little shits" in a "curses, foiled again!" type of voice, so it looks like Click and Clack are back in business. They've got their corroboration.

Bad news, though. Back at BigLaw, Harvey (Mike's boss) has gotten a call from Father Phil that Harvey and Mike "better not fuck him over again." Harvey is all worried because he knows that Father Phil tried to kill Mike, and he doesn't know why Mike is communicating with him. In order to assure Harvey that he is not working on the prison case, Mike says that Father Phil is helping him on a different case at the clinic and that he's got everything under control. Apparently, even though Father Phil has seemingly been in jail for the bulk of his adult life, his assistance on a case involving the Brooklyn Housing Authority is invaluable because "he's from Brooklyn." Sure, Mike. Harvey is understandably dubious at this patently absurd explanation. 

Meanwhile, the B plot this week involves Louis Litt, the other big lawyer in the firm.  Louis is supposedly a bulldog of a great lawyer, but also bat-shit crazy with a tendency to blow up and yell at people in a truly alarming way. Louis has Issues for which he sees a psychiatrist with a German accent, so you know he's legit (the psychiatrist, not Louis). Louis's behavioral "quirks" are often played for laughs even though they're not remotely funny. He's abusive and awful and sad.

Early in the season, Louis was freaking out because he had just been dumped by his pregnant fiancee, so he took it out on a couple of the associates he's in charge of, including Stephanie. He told Stephanie that she was an idiot and that no one would ever want to procreate with her. Rather than tell Louis to go fuck himself, Stephanie stuck around, only to later get fired for failing to do some assignment that the Duchess had given her. Stephanie goes to work for BigLaw's rival firm, and then sues Louis for sexual harassment.

Louis being Louis, he predictably loses his shit about the lawsuit - it has to go away because he's been accused of sexual harassment before and he doesn't want to get a bad rep.  I think that ship has sailed, Louis. Louis tells the Duchess that she needs to take care of it, but she informs him that there were tons of witnesses to his awful behavior and it's not going to be so easy. He tells her to send someone over to Stephanie's new firm to pressure her to drop the suit. 

Do I need to explain to you that that's not how you defend a sexual harassment case?  I didn't think so.

Katrina, a BigLaw associate, shows up in Stephanie's office to talk her out of the sexual harassment suit. I will refer to Katrina as Jody Sawyer, because she is played by Amanda Schull from Center Stage, perhaps the greatest cheesy ballet movie ever made. Anyway, after being a prima ballerina for Cooper Nielson's new ballet company, where bad feet and under-developed technique were no impediment to a great dancing career, Jody apparently took a job as an lawyer and she's friends with Stephanie. But she also happens to be the friend who convinced Stephanie to take the shitty job at BigLaw to begin with, so Stephanie's not buying what Jody Sawyer is selling.  Stephanie was humiliated and is convinced that everyone thinks that she had to leave BigLaw because she "couldn't hack it," and that this lawsuit will fix that. Stephanie will see Louis in court.

Now, I'm not an expert in employment/sexual harassment law, and I'm certainly not a defender of Louis's behavior, but I have doubts about the merits of Stephanie's case. Louis was an unforgivable jerk and said some horrible things relating to Stephanie's sex, but she was fired for cause by someone else, totally unrelated to the incident with Louis. Also, it took her all of 3 minutes to get a new and seemingly better job, so I'm not sure what her damages would be. Employment lawyer friends, feel free to weigh in in the comments. 

Back at the firm, Dule Hill rails at Harvey that his construction company client is PISSED that not only has the prison case not gone away, but now it's a class action and there's a witness from another prison, and somehow it's all Dule Hill's fault. Somehow, Dule Hill and his construction company client construe the conflict rule to mean that "not only can no one in your firm work on a case that conflicts with our interests" (which is true), but also that "any lawyer you refer the case to must also make the case go away," which is not how any of this works.  If I represent a client in a case, I will have to withdraw from the case if someone in my firm represents a different client with a conflict. However, that doesn't mean that I also have to make sure that the next lawyer who takes the case actively craters the case, THEREBY VIOLATING THEIR OBLIGATION TO THE CLIENT TO ZEALOUSLY REPRESENT THEM. Dule Hill is an asshole, and so is his evil client.

Also, according to Dule Hill, tomorrow's motion to dismiss in the prison case is now a "trial." OK. Whatever. 

Anyway, with the reference to "inmate from another prison," Harvey puts two and two together, realizes that the inmate in question is Father Phil, and that Mike is still working on the prison case. He's not happy.  He finds the Duchess doing research in a "law library" that is full of random books that would be useless for legal research processes, plus nobody uses books to do research anymore. The Duchess lies and says she doesn't know where Mike is or what he's working on. Harvey goes to Oscar and pretends to be checking to make sure that Oscar is satisfied with Mike's pro bono representation, and Oscar's enthusiastic two thumbs up confirms to Harvey that Mike is working on the prison case. Harvey purses his lips.

Harvey confronts Mike, who says that justice is more important than "some client's bottom line," conveniently leaving out the part about the conflict and thus the violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct, which could put Mike's license at risk. Harvey tells Mike to either give case to Oliver or Harvey will show up in court tomorrow and spill the beans about the breached agreement, which will "leave the judge no choice but to toss the case" and Oscar won't get a dime. 

My ears prick up, because that's not how any of this works.

In sexual discrimination land, Louis is making prune smoothies in the office break-room, as one does, when Jody Sawyer comes to him with an offer of settlement from Stephanie. These people are speedy drafters of pleadings. The agreement requires Louis to pay money, which he's fine with, but also to admit guilt, which he's not fine with. Jody Sawyer says, you're not going to do better than this, and whatever you do, don't go see Stephanie.

Raise your hand if you think Louis is going to go see Stephanie. OK, you can all put your hands down now.

At Mike and the Duchess's apartment, the Duchess is VERY upset that she had to lie to Harvey. She tells Mike to pick one - work at the clinic or stay at BigLaw, but he can't do both. She's not wrong. Mike goes to Oliver and tells him he's got to take the prison case on his own. Oliver pisses and moans about how he's being left hanging high and dry, but Mike tells him to man up and get the goddamned job done. I echo that sentiment. Nobody likes whiners, Oliver.

Predictably, Louis goes to see Stephanie - he runs into her as she's getting out of a cab after work. There's no explanation of how Louis knows where and at what time Stephanie's cab will be dropping her off.  Anyhoo, Louis says he'll pay the money but won't admit to the sexual harassment. She tells him to go piss up a rope. He takes the bait and loses his cool and tells Stephanie that she's a pathetic loser who got fired for cause and then concocted the lawsuit out of spite.  I hate it when I agree with Louis. But Stephanie's got a room-full of witnesses to present to a jury, so bring it, Louis. It's ON.

That went well. 

Somehow, in the five minutes between Stephanie and Louis's fight and the next scene, which takes place that same night in the law firm, the Duchess and others in the firm have been subpoenaed to testify against Louis. Meaning that Stephanie's lawyers prepared the subpoenas, found process servers, and got the witnesses served after business hours, all in less time than it takes me to type the word "subpoena." Impressive.

The next morning, Jody Sawyer tells Louis about the aftermath of his stupid confrontation with Stephanie - the subpoenas have been served and witnesses will be testifying against him. Basically, Louis is in big trouble. Louis's response is to tell Jody that she and the others should just LIE UNDER OATH.

Oh, Louis.

Some mousy associate says, "why don't you just apologize to her?" Light bulb. So Louis goes to Stephanie, who says, "if you think that coming to me with an apology is going to get me to drop the suit, you have another think coming!"

Which is exactly what then happens.  Louis apologizes and tells her about his pregnant fiance dumping him and why he acted like such an asshole and she commiserates that she's 34 and a dried up old spinster who will never meet anyone or have kids, and that's why his words upset her so much. They make up! No more lawsuit! Because apparently that's how sexual harassment lawsuits get filed and settled! (It's not, actually.)

Back to the prison case. It's the day of the big hearing/trial. Oliver is confident: "this motherfucker's going down." Go Oliver!

The defense's argument is that the plaintiffs/witnesses are all convicted felons who can't be believed because they're just trying to stick it to the Man. Which isn't a reason to not let the jury hear the evidence and make their own credibility determination, and I don't know why the judge is entertaining this argument.

Oliver says, not so fast - the case hinges on the word of a US attorney who will testify that Father Phil told her he was abused .... so, hearsay? Oliver, you're not making sense.

Defense lawyer says that the US attorney's case file is inadmissible because it wasn't turned over to the defense in discovery -- but discovery wasn't finished, or it began and ended yesterday, so I don't know what the hell is going on.

Oliver shoots back that he only asked for and received the file yesterday, so it's admissible because the US attorney wouldn't have had time to falsify something in such a short amount of time. What? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING OLIVER.

Either Professor Rose glossed over that rule in Evidence class, or I was asleep.

The judge takes that word salad and, to his credit, says that the case should move forward unless someone can give him a compelling reason to dismiss it. Anyone? Beuller?

At which point Dule Hill makes a perfectly timed entrance and bursts into the courtroom, yelling at the judge that he has a binding agreement that says that BigLaw won't work on the case, but Mike breached the agreement, meaning that the case has to be dismissed. WHAT? I'm super confused. Dule Hill then says as proof, he'll put Oliver up on the stand to testify about Mike's involvement.

This is when my head explodes. THAT'S NOT HOW ANY OF THIS WORKS!

Dule Hill is not an attorney of record in the case. He does not represent either party to the lawsuit. He has no right to call witnesses or make arguments or do ANYTHING, and certainly has no basis for making one of the parties' attorneys get on the stand to testify as a witness - that's not a thing. Dule Hill should not be talking to the judge at all. Any judge in this situation would say, "I have no idea who you are but shut up and sit down before I throw your ass in jail for contempt."

Instead, THE JUDGE GRANTS THE MOTION TO DISMISS!!!  HE DISMISSES THE CASE!! WHICH MAKES NO SENSE! The conflict agreement is between BigLaw and the Clinic - the legal consequences for breaching it would be that Mike and BigLaw can't work on the case, not that the case gets dismissed. But I don't have a fake law degree from Harvard, so what do I know. 

I would also note (again) that the far more serious issue is that Mike's participation in a case in which he has a conflict is a major breach of the ethical rules, but in Suits-world, nobody seems concerned about a call from the Office of Attorney Regulation. Mike is just pissed because Dule Hill made a big stink in open court and embarrassed him, instead of coming to him privately so they could work it out. Whatever. Shut up, Mike.

This whole thing is totally insane. This show is insane. 

And I will probably keep watching it. 

Twenty-one

Dearest Emma,

Today is your birthday. You would have been twenty-one years old.

Generally, I do not cry anymore every time I think about you. I do cry every time I talk about you, but usually I can think about you without breaking down.

But not today. I cried the entire drive to work this morning. I had a sense of deja vu, calling back to the plane ride to Boston for your funeral, when I leaned my head against the window and wept the whole time.  I'm crying as I write this.

Today is rough. Twenty-one is a big birthday. Official legal adulthood. In my mind, you are a kid - a kid on the cusp of adulthood, but a kid nonetheless. But you would be heading into your last year of college. You would be preparing for what comes next. Independence. Pursuing your interests. Pursuing a career. 

When I write about you, I try to think of something we did together - keep alive the memory. It's playoff hockey season, and you were a Caps fan just like the rest of us. You were always part of the group that went to a Caps game the night before Thanksgiving. You and Jason always hung out at that game - he really loved you.

I ache with the longing to talk to you, to hear about your adventures. Maybe you would come visit and I would take you snowboarding. Maybe we would go on a roadtrip.

With each passing year, the thought of who and what and where you would be becomes hazier.

I think a lot about your father. My brother. I wish you could see how extraordinary he has been and continues to be in the aftermath of all this tragedy. He is so solid, so steadfast, so decent, so good. He is such an amazing father to Ollie and Hazel, just as he was to you. He has found a way to live with joy, with new love, with hope.

I don't know that I could have done it. I mean, I could have done it because there's no alternative. But it's hard to fathom.

Our lives continue. They are productive and mostly happy and full.

But there will always be a big hole where you should be.

I will continue to do my annual climbs in your memory - your yahrtzeit. You will always be part of us, part of our narrative. We will always love you and miss you.

All my love,

Wendy

Rhapsody in Blue

I live in a 122 year old house that I adore, but which is undeniably a work in progress.

She needed new floors. New configuration. New bathrooms. A new kitchen. New paint.

Slowly but surely, slowly but surely, I'm making her pretty again.

Bringing color to the house is a huge part of that. Color brightens my mood. Color is life.

From drab and dingy whites and greys - not to mention some truly godawful wallpaper - I have painted every single room in the house. My room is turquoise and citron. The kids' room is wasabi green. My bathroom is sage green. My workout room is coral. My hallway is yellow. My living room is lavender-grey. My kitchen is orange.

But the exterior of the house was depressing. I've been wanting to repaint the exterior for nine years. But painting the exterior of an old Victorian, that's very tall with a very steep pointy roof, and all kinds of detail, is expensive. I couldn't afford it for a long time.

But now I can.

I hired a company on the recommendation of a friend. When the owner showed up at my house for the initial consult, he had stars in his eyes when he knocked on my door.

"Your house is so beautiful!!!" he gushed.

"She can be," I grinned. "That's where you come in."

"I have ideas," he said.

"Tell me," I said.

Turns out we had similar ideas. I wanted something dramatic and elegant. I wanted the door to have a pop of color. I wanted the front porch to not look like it led into a crack den.

They started painting last Monday. We started here:

That house is the color of despair and old bras. And there is no color I despise more than that dark maroon/burgundy on the window trim.

We made progress. The kids came home from school the first day and called me in a panic.

"MOM WHY IS THERE HAZARD TAPE AROUND OUR HOUSE I'M SCARED!!!"

 

It took a little longer than anticipated. We had a few days of rain. And as Ray, the painter, said, "your house is the most dangerous house I've ever painted."

 

But she is beautiful now.

I returned home from work last night and could not stop grinning. I just stood there, smiling. I love everything about it. It makes me so happy. Color makes me so happy.

Now, on to replace some of the baseboards in the dining room....

Feel it in your heart and feel it in your soul

With every reunion, I take away different things.

I wasn't in touch with my India peeps for a really long time. Like, for twenty years after graduating from AES, I didn't see anyone, except for a few isolated incidents.

Then came the advent of Facebook and social media, and all of a sudden all of these wonderful people came flooding back into my life. This incredible experience - the magical confluence of being the right age, with the right people, in the right place, under the right circumstances - went from being a huge part of my life, but one that was undeniably in the past, to a current active presence in my everyday existence.

About 11 years ago, when I was living in Hawaii, Lisa and I reconnected on Facebook and via our blogs. As Facebook grew, so did my connections with people from my peripatetic childhood - friends from Israel, from high school in Virginia, from college and law school, and best of all, from India.

I reconnected with Kristin, who I have seen once in 20 years, but who is and always has been one of my favorite people in the world. I reconnected with Sophie. With Jason and Jason and Greg and Russ and Kassie and Mark and Chris and Daniel Azul and Kim and Julie and Susanna and Kristina and Raphaela and Robin and Sid and Rajiv and Paul and Boo and Carter and Jackie and on and on. We are all over the world, but I am in contact with some of them on a daily basis.

Then I started attending reunions and my head and my heart exploded. In 2010, it was emotional and sensory overload from connecting with these people and these experiences after 23 years.

In 2014, the love-buzz, the intensity of the connections, grew stronger.

In 2015, there was another big all-class reunion, and increasing sense that the India crew was a family. And not even one comprised of people that I had known at school - it was expanding to include people who I hadn't known in India because we weren't there at the same time, but who I came to know and love through the reunions themselves. It was expanding to include significant others. People like Ritu and Seana and Anne-Lene and Paul and Ingrid and Kerry and Kendall and Nicole and Sean and Marin and Lauri came into my life.

What struck me this past weekend is how much our reunions fill in the gaps of memory, which is a huge thing for me. When I can't remember, I feel like I'm losing a part of myself.

I was sitting at dinner and we were talking about how much freedom we had in India. How our parents let us do the craziest things at the ages of 16 and 17, before there were cell phones or even reliable landlines to parts of India.

"Hi, Mom and Dad! I was hired to be an extra in a BBC mini-series in Allahabad! Greg and Emily and Dan and I are going. They're sending us by train and putting us up in a hotel. See ya in 4 days!"

"OK, honey, have fun!"

"Hey, Mom and Dad! We've chartered a bus to go to Rishikesh to go white-water rafting with a couple of Canadian stoners. There won't be any chaperones or anyone over the age of 17, and we'll be camping by the river."

"Have a great time!"

WTF.

Jason remarked that the Rishikesh trip was dangerous.

"That bus ride was rough," he said. "And Kassie almost drowned in the river."

I don't remember that at all. I remember sitting around the camp fire. I remember jumping out of our rafts at one point and floating down with our life vests. I remember that Sandy and I took a shower in a freezing cold waterfall. But I don't remember any danger. Maybe I was just oblivious.

After reminiscing about the BBC shoot in Allahabad, I now remember sitting next to Saeed Jaffrey during a crowd shot and totally embarrassing myself by saying, "you look familiar! I know you! Haven't we met?" He gently explained that he was a actor and I had probably seen him in some of his movies.

We talked about the mini-course trip to Kerala senior year, and how we got busted for skinny-dipping in the ocean. I had very faint memories of that but they have all come back to me.

On Saturday, my parents had a ton of food left over from a political fundraiser they hosted that was sparsely attended, so everyone came over to hang out in the afternoon.

Jason B. brought his parents, which was amazing. His mom is hilarious and at one point pulled me aside and whispered conspiratorially, "Wendy, isn't that your ex-boyfriend over there??"

She was pointing to Greg. Who I dated for four months over thirty years ago, and who I haven't thought of as an ex-boyfriend for at least twenty-four of those years.

"Yes, I suppose it is," I laughed.

She was very concerned that I had recovered from the break-up. I found it hysterical, and assured her I was fine.

Anyway, I had exactly zero recollection that back in India, she and my mom and a couple of other women had a standing weekly bridge game and were close friends. And now, because of our reunions, they are back in touch and have plans to get together, along with Lisa's mom, Betty, and some other India friends.

As the years go by, the arms of our experience grow longer and longer, and envelop more and more people into the warm, loving hug of our reunions.

It's hard to fathom how many years have gone by.

At one point on Saturday night, a group of us was dancing and laughing. Lisa and I were literally jumping up and down. I was delighted but also amazed.

I thought, how is it that we are only a couple years away from being 50 years old? How is that possible?

I wouldn't say that I still feel 17, but I certainly don't feel any older than maybe 35, in terms of my physical fitness and approach to life.

India lives in all of us, and it keeps us young. We keep each other young.

The last dance is always to All Night Long.

Nicole said, "are you going to cry?"

"I'm not going to cry," I responded.

I cried.

Looking around at this group of old friends, all of whom feel the same magic that I do when we're together, all of whom look back on our time together as lightening in a bottle, I cried with joy for the love we have for each other and I cried with sadness because even before they're gone I miss them.

In my head, the picture of our time in that exotic place so many years ago feels like a painting that is being dusted off. With every reunion, the image is clearer and comes more fully into focus. Usually the passage of time causes the opposite to happen.

But we are our own time machine, bringing back the past and making it our present and future.

Will you be my bodyguard? I'll pay you 50 cents every day.

As you all know, Josie has always been full of sass. She lives her life as if she's on stage, hamming it up for any audience, real or imagined. She's fearless and protective of her friends, unafraid to speak her mind or take on confrontation. .

Before, she didn't have much to back it up. She's tall and insanely skinny but not particularly threatening. You wouldn't look at her and worry about meeting her in a dark alley.

But now, she has the skills. The skillz. She's really good at taekwondo, which she has been taking since the beginning of the school year. Her forms are perfect and her kicks are beautiful, high and precise. She can spar and scrap.

Sometimes these factors - the protectiveness and the fearlessness, plus the skillz - coalesce in ways that are not so positive, at least as far as school is concerned.

Josie has a group of friends she hangs out with. Many of them are African-American. And one day, a bunch of boys from another grade were harassing Josie and her friends, calling them names and using racial slurs.

I got a call from the principal later that day. I sighed, bracing myself for the news. My kids don't get in trouble that much, but enough that I feel like a day without a call from the school is a good day.

Turns out, Josie was not a fan, at all, of her friends being called nasty names. She and her friends told the boys to stop, but they didn't stop. So Josie decided to take matters into her own hands.

Or more precisely, her feet. Because when one of the boys wouldn't stop with the name calling, Josie hauled off and clocked him in the side of the head with a perfectly placed roundhouse. And then maybe a few well-placed punches.

This is a no-no at school. And a no-no under the tenets of taekwondo - it's only to be used for defensive purposes.

I was proud of her for sticking up for her friends, but I knew she needed to be punished - you can't just go around beating people up.

The thing I had a problem with was the punishment itself. Rather than suspend her or make her participate in some restorative justice efforts, she was barred from recess, couldn't go to "specials" - art, gym, that sort of thing - had to eat her lunch in the office, and couldn't hang out on the playground after school. So basically, if she wasn't in class, she was spending the day in the office.

FOR THE REST OF THE SCHOOL YEAR.

I call bullshit.

This happened in late February. By the time spring break was rolling around in late March, she was a basket case. She cried before school, she cried after school, she missed her friends, she couldn't play, she got no exercise during the day.

One of her good friends - the same one who asked me if I was ever going to get married again - said to me, "Wendy, I think Josie really needs some therapy."

I set up a meeting with the principal, basically to say, enough is enough. She's learned her lesson. And the punishment is destroying her.

To her credit, the principal agreed. She and Josie drew up a behavior contract together, decided on rewards and consequences, and Josie got her privileges back.

"Ok, Jos. Remember, you can't use your taekwondo to beat people up. I know your friends were getting picked on, and it's always important to stand up to bullies and to stick up for your friends. But no matter how justified, kicking a kid in the head at school is never going to end well."

"OK, Mom."

Fast forward a week or so. Zeke is having his first experience playing organized youth soccer. For the past five years, he's only played flag football, but all of a sudden he's crazy for futbol. He watches Cristiano Ronaldo videos and teaches himself dribbling skills. He's really good.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?" I ask.

"Self-taught. YouTube," he replies.

So I signed him up to play soccer with the Colorado Rapids youth league. He was so, so excited.

His coach was a complete dick. He didn't teach them anything about the game. He didn't teach them about strategy or how to move on the field, how to play their positions, stuff like that. And he spent the practices yelling at the kids in a nasty way.

At the first game, the coach told Zeke to play defense. Zeke went and stood where he was told. And he tried to play the ball, but he didn't really know what he was doing, and he made mistakes.

The coach's response was to scream at him, and say that he was a terrible player, the worst kid on the team, he should never be allowed back on a soccer field. The other kids were yelled at too, but Zeke was standing the closest to the coach, so he bore the brunt of it.

Yeah. I know. I wanted to throttle the guy, too.

 So, Zeke is standing on the field crying and being berated. The coach then pulls him from the game and continues to yell at him while Zeke sits on the ground with his head in his hands, sobbing.

Jason and I watched this unfold, horrified. We both had tears in our eyes.

I said, "this is awful. I can't stand to see him treated this way."

Jason said, "me either. I'm going to go get him. We're done."

So we went and got Zeke. Jason had a few choice words for the coach. We left, and told Zeke he never had to play for that team again.

Josie, as it turns out, had a few choice words for the coach as well. Zeke was riding with me, so we had already gone towards my car. Jason was driving with Josie, and they had to pass the coach again on the way to his van.

Josie went up to the guy and said, "you can't treat my brother that way! My brother Zeke is the best brother in the world and if you're mean to him I'm going to use my front snap kick [she actually used the Korean name for it, but I don't remember what it is] and kick you right in the nuts!"

So.

Maybe she still needs to internalize the lessons of her past a bit more.

But still. In a fight for justice, physical or otherwise, I want her on my side.

In which I throw myself into the fire and somehow survive

It's kind of a running joke between my mother and me - except one that isn't all that funny - that I am the world's worst shopper.

Not in the sense that I don't know how to do it - I am physically and intellectually capable of going to pick out clothes for myself.  Sort of.

Rather, it's that I despise it more than just about any activity I can think of. Like, I would rather clean the toilet, clean the cat box, or snake the hair out of the drain than go to the mall.

My mother is totally the opposite. Before she retired and was traveling around the world all the time, she would always have free time scheduled on her trips for seeing the sights, or, more often, supporting the local economies by shopping. She has an infinite capacity for it.

When she and I shop together, it generally consists of her saying, "there's a huge sale, just take a look," and then I take a look and try on one thing and immediately feeling like the walls are closing in and I need to get out of there immediately.

And when we're not in the moment, we can kind of laugh about it. But it is truly an anxiety-producing event for me. I walk into a mall and I immediately feel fat, ugly, and poor. I get agitated and panicky. The choices overwhelm me and I am paralyzed. It's awful.

So when it came to buy myself a new suit, I knew I was in trouble.

I have an important oral argument coming up in a case in federal court. It's a big deal. There's a lot on the line, and I feel a huge amount of pressure to do well.

And I don't have anything to wear.

I haven't had to wear suits to work in forever, so I have a uniform of black, navy and beige pants that I wear with a solid color shirt and a cardigan. The pants are all the same brand and style. The shirts are all the same brand and size. I have a bunch of cardigans that I swap out. I buy all of it online. It's super easy. But it's not formal enough for federal court.

Like I said, this is a really important case. I'm going to be well prepared and I'm confident I can handle it. I'm good at oral argument. But I also want to go into battle looking like a boss.

I tried finding something online. I bought a beautiful red dress with a matching jacket. I was excited.

But when it arrived, the dress, while gorgeous, fit in the body but was so tight in the boobs I couldn't get it over my shoulders or zip it. Story of my fucking life.

So I steeled myself and headed over to the mall today.

I was already having a shitty day. I was tired and super stressed out and upset about a number of things. I spent the morning lying in bed and feeling weepy. I was pathetic.

Eventually I reached my limit of wallowing and decided I needed to get up and act like a functioning human being. I washed my puffy face, put on some makeup, and went to buy a suit.

It went about as badly as I anticipated.

First of all, there was nothing that I liked. I really didn't want to go the institutional black or grey route - I wanted red or purple or something similarly dynamic. But there was nothing. I went to Macy's, Ann Taylor, Brooks Brothers, White House Black Market, Talbot's, Banana Republic, and Nordstrom (where, for the first time at that store, I got truly shitty service). Everything was black or gray, or an ugly color or pattern, or weirdly cut, or festooned with random features like dumb-ass bell sleeves.

I called my mother.

"I can't find anything. There's nothing."

"Did you try Nordstrom?"

"They had nothing. And the service was awful."

"Really? At Nordstrom?"

"Yes. I went everywhere. I can't believe how little selection there is."

"What about one of the little boutique-y shops in Cherry Creek?"

"You know I can't do that."

"Go to Neiman's."

"Ugh. I'm not going to fucking Neiman's. I hate that place. Plus their prices are ridiculous."

"Well, then you're going to have a hard time finding a fucking decent suit."

Touche.

My dad picked up the phone offered me to buy me any exorbitantly expensive suit I wanted. He was in a good mood because Virginia's men's basketball team had just beaten Duke, at Duke. He likes to give his children and grandchildren gifts. He's super generous and lovely.

When he got off the phone, my mom and I went back to our conversation. She suggested some online options. She said she'd mail me three of her suits that I could get tailored. I felt my anxiety level continue to rise.

Finally, I went back to Macy's. I found some suit separates in black. Sleek, no bell sleeves, no flounces or other bullshit that I hate. Very Alicia Florrick from The Good Wife. So I bought it. Done.

I came home completely exhausted and worn out. I had something to eat, did some laundry. and went back to bed.

And that was my day.

Let's talk about sex, baby

This sounds like such a cliché, but I can’t even deal with how much access my kids have to information that they might not be ready for.

All of a sudden they’re asking me about sex CONSTANTLY. When I had them a couple of weekends ago, I heard references to porn.

“What do you know about porn??” I demanded.

Zeke replied, “nothing, really. There’s sex on it? Like on the internet, there are places like Pornhub?”

For pete’s sake.

“WHERE DID YOU HEAR ABOUT PORNHUB??!! Did somebody show it to you?”

I felt like my head was going to explode.

“No! My friend Hugo told me about it.”

“Oh my god. OK. Well, DO. NOT. Do you understand? It’s totally inappropriate.”

“Why? I thought sex wasn’t a dirty thing.”

“It’s not, but the way it’s shown on places like Pornhub make it look dirty. When you’re ready to have sex, I want you to have a great experience that’s safe and fun and happy. And that won’t be dirty. But right now, you should not be looking at porn. It’s not a healthy thing for you to see.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer.

“Ok, Mom.”

Josie was less placated.

"Mama, what is sex?"

I sighed. "You know how babies are made, right?"

"Yeah."

"That's sex."

"But how does sex end up with a baby? How do the sperm and egg meeting create a baby?"

Ah. That one I can do. That's not sex, that's science.  So I explained about egg fertilization and cell division.

"Does it hurt to have a baby?"

"Yes."

She thought about this for a while.

"Does it hurt to have sex?"

This is where I blew it.

"Not if you're doing it right," I replied.

As soon as the words left my mouth I immediately regretted it. Because what followed was a cavalcade of questions flowing from that one stupid quip. I finally had to end the conversation.

"I'm sorry, but we are not having a discussion right now about 'how to do sex' the right way. When the time is right - and that won't be for many years - we can have that talk. Some of it you will have to figure out on your own. That's just how it is. And I will be happy at that point to have any conversation you want to have. But we're not doing it when you're 8 years old."

"I'll do it when I'm 26," she said.

I started to say that she probably won't want to wait until she's that old, but I thought better of it and caught myself.  No need to make the same mistake twice.

So just look at them and sigh, and know they love you

My children are once again going through a time of turbulence. Once again through no fault or choice of their own. Once again caused by the capricious inability of the adults in their lives to get their shit together.

Their dad and his partner (wife? girlfriend? I have no idea and as far as I can tell, neither do they) are splitting up after 2 1/2 years together. This weekend has been a shit show. Fights and crying and recrimination.

It was my solo weekend. I had planned a very pleasant Saturday - going to the waxing salon, going to the blood donation place, heading up to the mountains for a solo night in a cheap hotel before a solo morning of skiing, followed by a non-solo evening of fun.

But then Saturday morning I ended up at Bonfils with a needle in my left arm while with my right arm I held the phone as both children and adults called me crying, asking me to solve their problems.

The children I can handle. I will always help them solve their problems.

I have lost patience with the adults.

The past couple of years have been hard on the children. And I have tried to hold my tongue as fallout from events and patterns in the other household spilled into mine. They view me as the safe haven. They trust me with everything. They walk into my house and I can almost feel the tension leave their bodies.

But if I say too much, I'll get dismissed as the bitchy ex-wife, the know-it-all, the one who can't mind her fucking business.

It's a diplomatic high-wire act.

Yesterday I cut the wire. When I came off the mountain from skiing to find multiple texts from my children and voicemail messages of them sobbing hysterically, I was done. I called her and told her that having my children calling me crying - or worse, running away to my house when they're supposed to be with dad -- was not acceptable or sustainable. That she and their dad needed to grow up and figure out how to create a harmonious household that didn't leave my children anxious and in tears.

"I don't want to hear about how you think their behavior is disrespectful. Find a way to earn their respect. They are manifestly miserable in your household, and you need to fix it. You are the adult. They did not choose to live with you, and they hate it, and you need to either figure out a way to make them not hate it, or you need to not live with them anymore."  I raised my voice. I know that what I said was harsh and that I said it harshly. But it needed to be said.

She chose option B.

To be clear, this had been a long time coming. They're not breaking up because I yelled at her. I don't have that kind of power or influence.

And quite honestly, it's not what I wanted. A happy, stable household is good for the children. Now things are in disarray again. I worry about them. Zeke in particular seems fragile and exhausted. It makes my heart hurt.

Last night, on my non-solo evening of fun, we were out watching a light-hearted, funny musical about dating. It was charming and hilarious. But there was one song in which the male protagonist described his relationship with his mother, who died when he was young. She didn't have a lot of time for him because she worked a busy, high-powered job, and then she died of a heart condition. In the song, the mother is singing to her son that he was always foremost in her heart, even though she didn't show it. It's his imagining of his mother's love letter to him from the grave.

True to form, I started to cry. Stuff like that always makes me cry now. Don't even get me started on the new Proctor & Gamble "Thank you, Mom" ad in honor of the Olympics.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the weight of the responsibility I feel to be their constant. Not that parents ever really get a break, but my need to overtly step in as the protector feels particularly heavy right now. And maybe what's hardest is the knowledge that I can't really protect them from much of anything.

Life is hard. They're getting the lesson early.