In my mind a war is a conflict that can be won.  Regardless of the amount of money that we throw at the problem or the number of troops we throw in front of IEDs the struggle against terrorist is not a winnable situation.  From the very founding of the United States, there have been groups, both domestic and international, that seek to overthrow our government through violent means.  The groups, and their associated ideologies, have come and gone, but they have never left because the U.S. government “won” a fighting war against them.  Furthermore, the use of the word “war” legitimizes and gives quasi-governmental status to a group of people who should be firmly marginalized in terms of political power.  With legitimacy comes funding from sympathetic countries, individuals, and organizations.  With the use of the word “war” parallels are drawn between revolutionary wars and “freedom fighters”.  Let me be clear, I do not in any believe terrorist actions to ever be justified, however, the solution to the problem cannot be found in military might alone.   This should be abundantly clear from the past eight and half years. of U.S. policy.

There cynic in me which wonders if, of course, the U.S. government has thought all of this through and that the use of the word “war” is solely for the “benefit” of the American public.  Certainly, it is much more effective to raise the money to support the “war machine” if there is a war.  I look at my sons and I think about the hundreds of thousands of men and women deployed overseas every day as well as the little boys growing up poor and with little prospects for a successful future in places like Afghanistan.  I think about it every day and I wonder what the future holds for us as a nation when we spend trillions of dollars in war against a group of terrorists who don’t even have a country; a war that cannot be won?  What do you think?

Sally has had quite the interesting, and at times, long life.  Often she is three years old and a “kid”.  Other times she is six, ten, twelve, or thirty-one and “a Mama”.  Rarely she does a bit of gender bending and is even “a Dada”.  Thomas isn’t entirely clear on how she came to live with us.  Sometimes he tells a story of finding her in the road, hurt, while on his way to “housey work”.  He tells us how she was hurt very badly, but that the doctors gave her some medicine to make her “comfortable” and that she was then able to come home with us.  Much like how our dog, Kermit came to live with us…hmmm.  Sally is, sadly, an orphan.  You see, her mother got stuck in tar.  Despite her tragic youth, Sally is quite fun to be around.  She loves to play with Legos and build block towers.  She is also quite clever and a whiz a puzzles.  Unlike most giraffes she has a diverse pallete and frequently requests nachos and ice cream in addition to munching on pretend trees.  Thomas, considerate of Sally’s needs, always requests an extra cookie for her and is always dismayed when he is informed he will have to share.   Sometimes Sally has bad behavior.  Thomas tries to stop her but she just loves to throw things and the other day she even took a swipe at Henry.  Much to Thomas’ chagrin, he suffered the consequences of Sally’s actions (being separated from Sally in solitary time-outs).  He claimed the assault was all Sally’s idea but I gave him the “if your friend does something inappropriate and you are with (and encourage) him you are responsible too” speech.  I thought I would have years before I had to pull that discussion out, but between him and Sally we’ve gotten a jump on the teenage years here.     Despite her occasional miscreant behavior, Sally can also be a great help to Thomas too.  When Thomas can’t admit to being tired or hungry, Sally will chime in that she needs a nap or a snack.  At night Sally gets tucked in under a fuzzy brown blanket with Thomas and he drifts off to sleep thinking “happy thoughts about giraffes”.

For a long time Thomas has been quite fond of turtles and giraffes.  About a year ago he found the giraffe at the bottom of his pile of stuffed animals and she’s been a daily character in our house ever since.  Sally began her life as “Gina the Giraffe”.  I earned Sally for selling a certain number of boxes of Girl Scout cookies the year I was nine years old.  Nine wasn’t the easiest year for me; we had moved in the middle of the school year and I had a hard time making friends.  I had my animals and dolls though and while it might seem silly as an adult, they really helped ease the loneliness.  That year, I took out a notebook and wrote down names for each one of my dozens of pretend friends along with their birthdays which I vowed to celebrate.   The celebrations only lasted about a week but every time I look at that giraffe I think of countless happy hours playing with my animals and dolls.   In 1988 I trudged through the snow on Superbowl Sunday to sell all those boxes of cookies.  I could have never imagined that twenty-one years from then those cookies would have resulted in a wonderful, soothing, magical friend for my son.  I wonder if someday, thirty or so years from now, one of Thomas’ children will find Sally in a box and take a liking to her – christening her with a new name and giving new life to an old friend.

]]> http://www.mendolo.com/2010/02/20/sally/feed/ 2 http://www.mendolo.com/2010/02/14/966/ http://www.mendolo.com/2010/02/14/966/#comments Sun, 14 Feb 2010 08:39:54 +0000 Gina http://www.mendolo.com/?p=966 It’s ten-thirty and Jeff has just emerged from the boys’ room after putting Thomas to bed, “What did you read him tonight?” he asks shaking his head.  “He’s scared of panthers.”.  “Oh”, I reply knowingly, “Not tonight…last night.  The story of grandpa and the panther in chapter two.  Tonight was chapter three:  The Long Rifle.”

Two nights ago I decided that Thomas and I had had enough of children’s books about bunnies, bears, and the occasional hapless monster.  I decided it was time to introduce Thomas to my favorite books of all time:  The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I explained to him that we would read a chapter every night.  The past three nights he has listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word.  While the stories of wolves, butchering pigs, and loading guns must in many ways seem like utter fantasy to a boy who has spent his entire life in vegetarian household located a densely populated inner suburb, he seems to grasp my explanation that the books are real, that they tell a story of the way things were.  After each chapter he asks me questions rapid-fire, like a tiny sleeper clad lawyer cross-examining a witness that he knows holds the truth.   “Why does Laura not want Susan [her corncob doll] to see her holding Mary’s doll?”, “Where are Laura and Mary’s toys?”, “Is a panther a bad animal?”.

A few minutes after Jeff came out of the den of supposedly sleeping boys Henry woke up for the 3rd time tonight.  It was my turn so I went in to soothe him back to sleep, pausing to listen at the boys’ door – just to make sure he did not settle him back to sleep.  For a brief few moments there was silence and then a wail punctuated the darkness seemed to demand, “Pick me up right now!”  I sprung into the room and swept Henry from his crib.  And then I heard a small, quiet sobbing from Thomas’ bed.  I looked over to see him huddled in the corner, tears shining on his face.  I sat down with Henry on Thomas’ bed – trying to comfort my two sad little boys.  I quickly called Jeff in and handed him the baby – instantly eliciting sobs of unjust protest from Henry.  Jeff left the room to walk with Henry and I asked Thomas what was wrong.  “I’m scared.”  “What is scaring you?” I asked with concern.  “Henry crying”, he replied pitifully, “He was crying and Mama needed to come pick him up.”  “Oh”, I said touched by his empathy for his brother and his obvious dependence on us as his parents to fix that which ails them.  I stroked his head, a gesture he usually shrugs away from, but tonight allowed me and told him that we would always take care of him and his brother; that we loved them so much; that we will keep them safe.  Thomas quieted and I breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes popped open and he stated with a bit of a question in his voice, “Panthers only live in Florida…”  “Yes, that’s right.  There are no panthers in California.  And our house has big strong walls, and doors, and windows so even if there were panthers here they could not get in.  And Kermit would bark at them so we would know they were coming.”  I said giving everything I had in reassurance.   The thought of our fourteen pound dog yapping away at a panther either comforted him of amused him and he smiled.  Jeff came back in the room with a now sleeping Henry.  For a few minutes the four of us were together in quiet darkness, warm in the only heated room in the house, secure in the knowledge that we and those that we love the most were all safe.

To my boys:  we may put you down, we may leave the room, but we will never let the panthers get you.

Today was an unusual day.  Tuesdays are work days for me and I headed into the office this morning planning to leave early to go to a doctor’s appointment in Santa Monica this afternoon.  Santa Monica is “only” a 25 mile drive from Pasadena but that doesn’t mean much in Los Angeles traffic particularly when it involves the dreaded 405 freeway.  I make the trip every eight weeks to see most fabulous rheumatoligist around but I was dreading it today.  Rain was pouring down from the sky and I had an odd sense of foreboding.  I used to commute 30 miles each way, every day, to and from work but today such a drive felt reckless to me somehow.   I kept thinking about rain soaked pavement, vehicles skidding to a halt, and the sound of cars slamming together.  I stopped at home in between work and my doctor’s appointment, saw the boys, and decided to call and cancel.  The office was very understanding and scheduled me in an open slot for tomorrow morning.  I had had a productive morning and already finished up everything I needed to do at work for the day so on Jeff’s suggestion I stayed home and played hooky.  It was quite lovely.  I nursed the baby before for his afternoon and opted to simply hold him rather than put him down.  We snoozed together in the rocking chair for an hour or so.  I savored the feeling of his warm body curled around mine like a comma, exhaling sweet milky breaths of happiness.  When he woke up I found Thomas and the three of us baked chocolate chip cookies together in our warm kitchen – giving Henry his first taste of chocolate chip cookie dough – much to his lip-smacking delight.  I called my little sister to find she was a work at a new gig – waitressing at a little pizza place in Silver Lake.  After I hung up with her Jeff suggested we all trek over to say “hi” and get pizza.  It was pouring rain and I reiterated my aversion to driving in this weather when Jeff said, “I thought we should take the train.”  Again I thought of the pouring rain, but Jeff, certainly the more spontaneous one in our relationship was undeterred.  The boys were still in their sleepers and long underwear from the previous night; along with jackets they would be perfectly warm, he countered.  We could put them in the stroller with the rain cover, Jeff could wear a raincoat and push said stroller, and I could bundle up and use an umbrella and sling the baby if necessary.  I couldn’t really argue with such a well thought out plan and I do love pizza and my sister so off we went.  We were rewarded with the sight of our second double rainbow (one nested inside the other) in the space of a week.  We rode the gold line; little old ladies exclaiming in Spanish at the beauty of our two blue eyed, long eyelashed boys.  Henry beamed at every new person who got on the train and and Thomas vibrated with excitement in his seat.  I was reminded of all the good things about living in the city.  At Union station we took a few minutes to show Thomas around the magnificent Art Deco building.  We then hopped on the red line and out to Silver Lake.  It was a long trip; the Los Angeles metro is not particularly well laid out nor efficient but a good time was had by all.  And then on the short walk from the metro station to the pizza joint it happened;  the screech of tires, the sound of metal slamming into metal.  I looked up to see a solid red light at the intersection we were approaching and then a car run said light smack into another car making a left hand turn.  Both cars had seen the accident coming and hit on the brakes; preventing any major damage or injury.  I offered my name and phone number to both parties as a witness – writing it out in the crayons that I carry in my diaper bag.  I offered my cell phone to the girl who had run the red light.  She was in shock.  She didn’t appear intoxicated; she hadn’t been on her cell phone.  She had just made a mistake.  She knew the accident was her fault and was cursing herself, her dead cell phone battery, her purse with her driver’s license in it that she had left at home.  The other woman involved was shaking with fright and kept looking at my Henry to the carseat in her own car saying “I am so glad my baby wasn’t with me.”  I was so very glad we hadn’t been in the middle of the intersection.  If the accident had happened thirty seconds later the red light runner might have plowed into our little family and I found myself feeling sick at the thought.  I thought that driving in the rain was unsafe, but I forget how vulnerable we all really are no matter where we are or how we choose to get there.

I supose all we can do is to do our best to be safe and try to be kind to one another.  It felt good to help the two women in need; both the one who ran the red light and the one who was hit.  As I left I told them both “Good luck,” and that I hoped tomorrow was a better day for them.  Perhaps I made a very bad night for them a little easier.  And tonight when the baby wakes up and needs me to help him fall back asleep I won’t mind so much; instead I will hold him tight to me and be grateful that life has been good to us.