Songs of Torture

My sophomore year of college I lived in a dorm near the DKE fraternity. And although much of what took place in their hazing process was, intentionally and gratefully, not common knowledge around campus, there was one component that year that the whole school was, uh, privy to.

Which was that they blasted the same bloody song OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN throughout the famously haunted (but that’s beside the point) Old Kenyon building where they lived, and blaring out onto the quad. To really fuck with the pledges, and anyone else who wasn’t hearing impaired in Knox County, sometimes they’d stop the song for a small stretch. Just long enough to get you really fired up that–sweet relief!–they were moving away from that particular form of aural abuse, and leading some goats into the building or something.

But then, they’d ruthelssly turn it back on. Whaling it extra special loud. And the entire campus would collectively seize up. Scraping at the sides of our faces wondering derangedly if they would ever show mercy on us, and hoping at the very least that whatever intangible social stature those pledges would gain as a result of it all, that it was really fucking worth it.

For years after when I’d hear the song I think I still twitched and gnawed on my lips a bit. I feared I might never shake the trauma.

But here I am, just weeks away from my can-ya-believe twentieth college reunion, and I’m thrilled to report that, as you might have noticed due to its omission–at this point I can’t even remember what that damn song even was.

Which thus far is the best mental yardstick to indicate just how freakin’ long it’s been since my college prime. Well, that or that the experimental mind-erasing procedure I had performed in Boston in ’97 really did the trick.

Heh.

At any rate, in his years as a Sports Illustrated reporter, Mark got to cover the ’96 Olympics in Atlanta. (And if you’d like a few commemorative duffel bags, t-shirts, or even a 100% rayon necktie from that event, I can happily hook you up.) Anyway, the bombing that year made the already overworked and sleep-deprived journalists there exponentially more overworked and sleep-deprived.

But outside the hotel where most of them were staying–where they’d retreat for the measly hours of sleep they’d get to have a night–there was a street vendor selling sodas, sounvenirs, and the retarded Izzy the mascot crap. The dude worked nearly round the clock and blasted that hateful hot hit which you’ve probably blacked out of your brain by now, “The Macarena.” He played it in an evil, heartless, endless loop.

And really just one hearing of that song when I’m not even mad for sleep makes me want to take a chop stick to my eardrums.

In the past couple weeks I’ve had occasion to think of these episodes. Unfortunately. All because of one greeting card. One of those open-it-and-it-plays-a-song cards, sent to Kate for Easter from her grandparents. (I won’t tell you from whose side of the family.)

Okay, OKAY! So it was from MY side of the family.

This card plays a very tinny version of a song whose nonsensical verses are, “Yummy yummy yummy, I’ve got love in my tummy, and I feel like I’m loving you.” Verses that at times seem sexually perverse to me, and at other times just an odd choice for how vaguely associated with Easter—candy eatin’, I guess—they are. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to ponder this.

Anyway, don’t get me wrong. This card is adored and beloved by Kate. It was incredibly sweet and thoughtful to have sent it to her. Every time she opens and closes and reopens that card—while eating breakfast, peeing, riding her bike, or leering up close to Paigey’s face—every single time, morning, noon, or night, it’s as though the fact that music emanates from it is a freshly exciting revelation. Something she isn’t certain will necessarily happen if she opens it again. So she needs to check.

That gal’s tenacious.

And even though I’ve had on the order of seven breakdowns where I’ve pleaded with her to take mercy on us and it’s only 6:47AM and Daddy is still trying to sleep and don’t you think that’s a little close to Paige’s face and maybe if we just sit down and eat a big pile of candy for a while that would be a fun way to take a little break from the card hmmm? Even with all that, when I cleaned up all our Easter crap a couple days ago, throwing away the already broken or rotten stuff and shoving the rest of it ceremoniously in a garbage bag for basement storage, I still left that card out for her.

Why? Because in a weirdly genuine I’m-happy-that-she’s-happy-even-if-it-makes-me-unhappy maternal way, I feel like with some intermittent intervention I can stick it out until she eventually hopefully tires of the damn card. Or, if there’s a God, it breaks.

Not that I’m setting my sights on it or anything, but if she ever wants to, that girl could DOMINATE a sorority some day.

Don’t Cry for Me Chopping Onions

My Aunt Mary, who was my neighbor growing up in Rhode Island–and who my sisters and I call “aunt” even though she ain’t blood kin–is one of those dazzling people who children instantly adore.

At an amazingly spry 90 years old, she remembers every word to seemingly every children’s song, including the little hand gestures. Kate was still an infant when she met her for the first time, and even then she was enraptured. Today, the love is more about the home-baked cakes Kate’s come to know Aunt Mary always has on hand.  She serves up big slices with glasses of milk, and Kate sits blissfully on the same wooden stool at the same yellow linoleum counter where my sisters and I used to preside.

Aunt Mary is nothing short of a legend. I’m so happy my kids have gotten to know her. I just wish her wonderful kitchen wasn’t now so many miles away.

So, back when I was the one begging baked goods, Aunt Mary used to tell us there was a little girl, clearly some sort of ghost-girl (though she never quite spelled that out) who lived in her attic. She said her name was Isabelle Onnabike—which just a few years ago I realized was a pun for ‘Is a bell on a bike?’ I think she must have found that funny, but maybe didn’t realize we weren’t in on the joke. Or perhaps she knew we didn’t get it and that was what delighted her.

Another thing I remember her often saying, or rather singing, was, “I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, and all I do is cry all day!”

I’m sure there are other verses to this odd song, but as I said, she’s the one who remembers the words to these things, not me.

Anyway, I thought of that ditty the other day since I seem to somehow be channeling Heloise and her tactics for avoiding the onion-cutting weepies.

Kate’s old nanny came over one day last week to provide childcare and psychological relief for me while Mark was out of town. I also managed to convince her to whip up a batch of her chicken and sweet potato curry for us. So I got a couple dinners out of the deal too.

When she arrived she enlisted Kate’s eager help with the cooking. Her first instructional comment being, “So first we need to put the onions in the refrigerator so they’ll get cold and we won’t cry when we cut them.”

Huh. Who knew?

Then on Saturday, when Randy came over to do some front porch sitting, we were drinking iced tea—as one does on a front porch (unless it’s an hour when one should be drinking alcohol, which, sadly, it wasn’t quite yet). There were quotes or fun facts or something written in our bottle caps, and I actually decided to read mine. It said that if you chew gum while you’re cutting onions, you won’t cry.

Randy thought it was bullshit.

As for me, I don’t have the energy—or enough interest, frankly—to test either tip.

I’m just curious why the universe is sending me so many pointers on this issue. Perhaps it’s time for me to rejoin the workforce? And I’m going to be pulling long shifts of KP duty, peeling potatoes and chopping onions?

Or maybe I’ll be reincarnated, some hopefully far-off day, as a lonely little petunia in an onion patch?

Hard to say how my immersion in onions will manifest itself, but it seems prudent for me to keep these tactics—and my old ski goggles—handy, just in case.

Ceci N’est Pas Un Soleil

We’re fresh off of a nearly two-week blitz of visits from Mark’s folks. Back-to-back visits, that is, as they don’t travel in the same circles any more, if you know what I mean.

It’s been fun mind you, but Mark leaves for Switzerland for work on Tuesday and I can’t help but feel jealous about his getting to be alone for 12 hours on a flight–forget all the Nordic delights that await him once he arrives.

But I know my karmic reward for staying home to mind the kids is whipping around the universe now, picking up fabulousness as it goes. I can’t wait to see what it’ll be.

At any rate, the other night as Mark’s dad and sister were here for dinner–a marvelous meal prepared by the best daughter-in-law I’m sure anyone could ever hope to have–I went to grab some wine glasses and commented on Kate’s paper plate artwork that’s hanging on our oh-so-Craftsman built-in china hutch.

This is the art in question:
For some reason, I felt the need to point out that this was a sun that Kate had made at school. Duh. (In case they were wondering whether it was the product of some housewife-grade art class I was taking?) And Kate was already in bed at the time, so she wasn’t available to expound on the piece herself.

The next morning as we ate breakfast the thing caught my eye and for some reason I decided to ask Kate about it since, truth be told, she’d never actually told me anything about what it was supposed to be, her inspiration, choice of media, use of glitter, etc. It was just one of those things that’s crammed in the cubby at preschool nearly every day, that you grab along with your kid’s lunchbox and some pee-drenched or fingerpaint-encrusted article of clothing.

Me: “That thing that you made at school, Kate. It’s a sun, right?”

Kate: “No.”

Me: “Oh, so what is it then?”

Now, I’m going to give the reader a moment to look back at the artwork and try to answer this question themselves. Take a minute or two now to really look at the piece and jot down your answers.

Okay, then. Pencils down.

What did you guess? Maybe that it’s an orange? An egg yolk? Perhaps even a kumquat?

Let’s return to our setting at the breakfast table to find out.

Kate: “It’s a… parking lot!”

Me: “A parking lot? For what?”

Kate: [exasperated] “For parking cars, Mama.”

Riiiiiiiiiiiight. I’m really not sure why I hadn’t seen that myself.

Yesterday, our friends Scot and Sheryl stopped in for a front porch drink on their way back from Santa Cruz. I don’t want to put on airs, but Sheryl, well, she’s an artist.  And she’s always great about hanging out with Miss Kate.

So at some point when I was maybe in the basement picking out another bottle of wine or something, Kate had apparently gotten her little green notebook and settled onto Sheryl’s lap to do some drawing. Or rather, have Sheryl do some command performance drawing for her.

By the time I walked back onto the porch Sheryl looked up at me and reported, “I asked Kate what we should draw and she said a musk ox.”

Oh sure. A musk ox! Right.

Far be it from me to attempt to even venture into the mind of the young artist. Best to just sit here on the sidelines and enjoy the show.

Kate asks the age-old questions

At the breakfast table on Saturday, apropos of nothing, Kate leaned over towards Mark’s mother who is visiting and asked, “What about if some girls had penises?”

We’re raising our kids to be well-versed in the art of stimulating mealtime discourse. There’s none of that, “So, how was your day?” crap ’round here.

Love, Italian Style

Greetings from Bristol, Rhode Island.

Today I visited my 94-year-old Godmother, Mimi, and her 90-year-old sister, Mary. Both women are more spry than I could ever hope to be when (and if) I live to be even 20 years younger than they are.

Here’s part of our conversation. Pardon the phonetic Italian.

Mimi: [pinching Paigey's cheeks] “Coo-mah zee bell! Coom-oh cool la dee-ahl!”

Me: “Wait, what does that mean?”

Mimi: “Well, you know ‘Coo-mah zee bell…‘”

Me: “Right. [That's 'How pretty you are.'] But what was that last part?”

Mimi: [Pretends to not hear me and starts playing with Paige.]

Me: [Turning to Aunt Mary] “What was that other thing she said? After ‘Coo-mah zee bell?‘”

Aunt Mary: “Well, uh, it’s a kind of funny thing to say. Literally it means ‘like the backside of a frying pan.’”

Me: “Oh my God. I have got to write that down. Okay, Mimi, so say it to me again so I can get it.” 

Mimi: [slowly] “Coooo-mahhh zeeee bell. Coooom-oh cool–”

Aunt Mary: “Oh, and ‘cool‘ literally means, well, bottom. You know…ass!”

Me: “Okay, so what she is saying is, ‘How pretty she is, like the ass end of a frying pan?’”

Aunt Mary and Mimi: [in unison, looking at each other] “Well, yeah. That’s about right.”

Brilliant. I can’t think of two people I love more paying my sweet baby Paige a better compliment. 

It’s truly wonderful to be home.

Just another belated thank you

It’s so funny how some parts of the country find other parts of the country totally random. I mean, everyone in California who’s asked me what we’ve done for Thanksgiving–who I’ve told we went to Kentucky–has found that so utterly bizarre.

I’ve gotten everything from, “Kentucky, eh?” to “Who or what is in Kentucky?” to the more blatant, “Why the hell where you there?”

The thing is, to people living in Kentucky, it’s not random at all. And when you’re there, surrounded by verdancy and horse farms and nearly pickled in good bourbon, it seems like the only place on earth. Plus all the women do that great thing where they lambaste someone for gaining weight or being married to a loser or wearing the wrong lipstick color, then tack on a “bless her heart” to the end of their insult. It’s like this instant karmic re-do that takes away the meanness of whatever catty comment you hissed behind someone’s back.

It’s brilliant really.

So here it’s over a week past Thanksgiving and finally I’ve scrounged together a few minutes to reflect on all that this hand-tracing turkey-drawing stay-at-home mother is thankful for.

For all those who couldn’t imagine what we’d ever be doing in Kentucky for the holidays, the answer is attending the legendary Miller Family Thanksgiving (patent pending). Us and some 24 other attendees. This year it was hosted by Mark’s wonderful Aunt Terry, who we just love silly.

Early on in Mark and my relationship–back when my desire to stave of my pattern of serial monogamy made Mark fearful of using the term ‘relationship’ with me–we made an unspoken but gravely respected pact about holidays. July 4th was mine, and we spent it in Bristol. Thanksgiving was his, and we spent it with whomever from his mom’s family was hosting.

No exceptions. No substitutions.

Luckily, both events have never failed to offer exceptional family time and entertainment value, along with an excessive dose of food and alcohol. We both look forward to these holidays immensely even though lugging two children to them these days threatens to test our loyalty. (The fact is, kids or not, we’d walk across hot coals to get to there, though it’d be Mark who’d be humping all our luggage across his back and I’d just be pushing the girls along in the stroller.)

And after one week in Kentucky–yes, you crazy Californians we even spent a whole week there!–I’m not annoyed, bitter or resentful of the thing it is that Mark takes me to. In fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, thank you. And feel blessed to be part of such an amazing family as the Miller clan. (And please don’t take my use of the word ‘clan’ in the wrong way, people. Sure we were in the South, but these folks all voted for Obama, okay?)

So where was I? Oh, the Millers. Yes, even if they do like to look at a lot of pictures of themselves, then take pictures of themselves looking at pictures and play slideshows of those pictures (“Here we were yesterday after dinner, looking at the photo albums…”)–even with that, this is a rare breed of family who truly enjoys being together. And who makes a mean corn pudding.  

When in Lexington we stayed with Mark’s childhood friend Ewa (pronounced EV-ah) who is a brilliant doctor, wonderful mother, and a sheer delight–all this and she shares my Polish heritage, so what’s not to love?

Ewa and her also-a-doc husband recently completed construction on and moved into a lovely megalithic horse country mansion. We were thrilled not only to be able to see it, but to have our two daughters help them break it in.

Driving there late on the night we arrived was honestly a bit freaky to me. I mean, this is COUNTRY people. No street lights. Long silent horse pastures surrounded by those white wooden fences. Not a homeless man rattling past with a shopping cart for miles and miles–counties even. I mean, this was decidedly NOT Oakland.

But once I shook off my freak-out I settled in nicely to the regal splendor of pitch dark silent nighttimes in the manor. Ultimately the effect was as calming to my hyper persona as 75 deep-breathing and om heavy yoga classes. Though maybe it was all the bourbon that helped me sleep so well.

Despite all the house in the house we were in, we weren’t the only guests, so Mark and I and the girls were piled into one room together. Something I was a tinge fearful of in terms of our collective ability to get shut-eye, but which worked out swimmingly.

And one night, when we’d gotten back from Aunt Terry’s late, we settled both the girls down and Mark crawled into bed. I was taking my time brushing my teeth and such, even flipping through a Sports Illustrated of Mark’s, hoping to find some celebrity trash–enjoying a rare moment of aloneness. Finally ready to get in bed myself, I turned out the bathroom light and cracked the door into the bedroom to tiptoe in.

As I crawled into bed and snugged in, from the deep country silence I could hear the measured beats of Mark and Kate and Paige’s slow sleep breathing. It made me so happy–so supremely blessed and thankful for my wonderful little family–that I could have almost cried.

Here we were, surrounded by a mega mansion, but happily camped out together in one room. I thought of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, of how that poor family lived together in a wee cramped house–even all sleeping in the same bed. If we weren’t blessed with all that we have, and we just had each other and one room to sleep in, with this family of mine I’d be content. More than anything in the world, I am thankful thankful thankful for this sweet wonderful little family.

And now here we are a week later, with holiday madness well established and my ability to get back to that happy sleepy place often compromised. In fact, right now I hear Mark wrangling on the phone with a customer service rep about a tie and cummerbund that was supposed to arrive today. Although I know he’s in a fury over it, how silly lucky we are to have such problems.  

I know it’s late to the game to send my Thanksgiving reflections out to the universe. But I figure it’s in line with the timing of all my other thank yous these days. Despite how it tarnishes the good etiquette my mother beat into–I mean, raised me with–an ungodly amount of time always seems to pass these before I get my thank you notes out the door.

I’d use my two small kids as an excuse, but I know that’s really no reason for poor manners. Unfortunately I just haven’t been able to make giving thanks my priority these days.

Bless my heart.

Forget John Malkovich. I want a portal into Kate.

I collect brother-in-laws named John. I currently only have two, but my sister Ellen is single so there is a chance that I could add a third to my set some day.

My one brother-in-law John–the Coastie who’s married to Mark’s sis, Lori–he and I have a long-standing joke about the Miller’s $30-spending-max holiday gift exchange. It goes back to when I wasn’t yet married into the family, as he was. He delighted in taunting me year after year about whether or not I’d be on the gift exchange list. Then he’d dangle his inclusion in my face by saying “Neener neener neener!”

It was clearly a very mature joke, and likely not funny to anyone other than John and me, but isn’t finding those perversely-amusing common grounds to laugh about when you’re flying on tryptophan and bourbon what brings families closer together?

So anyway, now that I’ve made the grade and am officially and securely part of the gift exchange, I got an email from Mark’s cousin Maggie’s fiance Josh. (You following that?) Due to his engaged status he’s in the mix this year (though frankly I think he was last year too and the Millers are growing a bit lax about the exclusivity of membership). He got Kate to buy for this year and wanted some ideas about what she might like.

Pondering what gift booty would delight Little Miss Kate made me realize the extent to which three-year-olds live in an altered LSD-trippy parallel universe. One where the most mundane everyday objects take on a fascinating sheen.

Like, we were at a toy store yesterday and amidst all the cool fun stuff and actual toys, Kate spotted a plastic placemat with pictures of something like goldfish on it. She woozily, adoringly clutched it to her chest like a diamond tennis bracelet from Tiffany.

“This placemat, Mama,” she whispered with reverence. “I love this placemat. Can I please get it?” Then, realizing there were others with different designs she started yanking them off the rack with delirious glee. “Oh look they have more! There’s this one? I love this too! I want all of them, Mama! Can I have all of them? Please?”

Invoking my well-honed powers of Resisting a Child’s Desire to Buy Crap, I heard myself say, “If you really want one you can ask for it for Christmas.” Then I thought what an absurd Christmas list item that is. Other kids want dolls, Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine. Kate wants a placemat. And she’d truly be BLISSED OUT to get it.

Before having kids I cracked up hearing that my friend Shelley’s son slept with his beloved Wiggles video. As in, clutching the actual video in the box, not having it playing while he slept. Well, joke’s on me when Kate spends a rainy winter night cuddled up with her stuffed dog Dottie and a placemat.

Kate’s other Christmas list items are barely better. Somewhere along the line she suddenly decided that scarves were the coolest things EVER and spent the better part of a 75-degree day pleading with me as if her existence depended on it–and how could I be so cruel as to deny her?–”I want a scarf, Mama. A SCARF! I need one right now!” The small plastic bowl with a snap-top lid that a friend recently left at our house became another object of lustful desire. They’ll be happy to know she had to hug it during several potty sessions. (I ran it through the dishwasher.) And truly I can’t think of any gift she’d love more than a package of seeds–poppy seeds, flower seeds, any type really as long as they are little and plentiful. I’d even wager you could wrap up a dust bunny in a little box and Kate would ceremoniously carry it to her altar–I mean her play kitchen–with the intensity and loving care you’d reserve for a baby bird.

Anyway, I hope all these things are providing Josh not only some good gift ideas but also the realization that, as a man on the brink of marriage, the next big plunge into parenthood could result in becoming the owner and operator of a small person who you love madly madly madly but whose passions and interests you can rarely make a whit of sense of.

But hey, it keeps things lively around here.

As for Paige, she’s also happily entrenched in her own trippy reality. Sadly we’re past the stage where she’d wave her arms around, catch sight of one hand, then slowly turn it over and back in front of her eyes, examining it as if this brilliant device was something she’d never seen before and wasn’t right there, attached to the end of her arm. God, Mark and I loved that.

If Paige was writing an online dating bio she’d add the fringe on the bottom of the couch to her list of interests. Despite whatever real toy she’s given to wrangle with on the floor, she’ll eventually roll herself over to the couch and flap one hand slowly through the tassley fringe with deep contentment.

And whenever I carry her in my front-pack and we walk under a tree, Paigey arches her whole body backwards to stare up at the leaves and the light and laugh and laugh and laugh. I mean, sure, leaves certainly are funny, but they’re not quite the laugh riot Miss P makes them out to be.

All this fascination with the mundane has made me realize how much being a mother is like working a crowd of drug-addled concert-goers. Most of the time I’m in a Stadium Security role, just trying to coral the happy trippers, and make sure it all stays mellow and fun and no one loses an eye. But inevitably somewhere in the course of the day I’m more like a Rock Doctor triaging bad trippers in a tent, helping them get through fits over inanimate objects they’re convinced have come to life to torture them. You know, managing a situation like: ” This sock is hurting me!!! It hurrrrrts meeee! Bad sock!! BAAAAAD!!”

Oh sure. A bad trip like that? I’d say I take on one of those–sometimes as many as three–nearly every day.

And to think I don’t even have a walkie talkie or a medical degree.

Have You Hugged Your Boobies Today?

A couple weeks ago I was reading an old high school friend’s blog and found out it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Thankfully, breast cancer hadn’t been on my mind at all.

But last year–Breast Cancer Awareness Month of 2007–that wasn’t at all the case. I mean, I didn’t even know it was a special month then, but I was all too aware of the Big C because one of Mark’s aunts, and one of our favorite humans ever–the woman who performed our wedding ceremony, in fact–had just been diagnosed.

If it’s a sickening stressful scary feeling being the friend of someone who’s going through what she did, I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be the protagonist. I mean, as fans of Mark’s aunt, we are just a small part of a large large group. So when she was sorting out and sifting though all the early information and emotions, she luckily had a big community to tap into for support, resources, good doctors’ names. And of course the insights of other women who had gone through it too.

Again, I have no idea what it’s like, but I can only imagine that it’s like walking into a room of all these women–maybe some close friends, some social friends, former co-workers or clients, and even a big klatch of your mother’s friends from Florida. All these woman who  you’ve probably known have had breast cancer, but of course now that it’s struck you, you can’t help but see them in a different light. Maybe you’re greedy to get information from them, or desperate for their empathy or compassion, and you definitely want to hear all the really positive success stories. (Woot to all those Floridians still waking up every morning, greeting the day, and hitting the golf course!)

Or maybe you don’t even want to go there and reach out to them at all, even though they’re smiling up at you and offering their support in that amazing way that women seem to be able to even if you don’t know them at all but really just need someone to help you because you’re grocery bag is slipping and you’re holding onto your crying baby and your toddler has decided to run into the busy parking lot.

You know. That amazing way that women who don’t even know each other can be.

But anyway, back to this room. This room that I imagine is filled with all these women who have some life connection, and now another link through breast cancer. As much as their smiling faces and encouragement may bring you comfort, at least in those early days I can imagine that there’s that moment as you walk to the center of the room that you see a chair and it’s got your name on it. That must be the big sucker punch.

Everyone knows someone who’s had breast cancer, but then what do you do when it’s suddenly you? I don’t care how friendly or welcoming the members are. Who wants to be part of that club?

Well, once you get through all the surgeries and treatments and whatever other interventions might take place, God willing you graduate to the elite gold club. The survivors’ club. And blessedly so far everyone I know who has wrangled with breast cancer has managed to do that.

Because of course there are many other women who I know who I haven’t mentioned yet. Women who would be in my imaginary support room, as it were. Once Mark’s Aunt started to move into the “looks like it’ll be okay” realm towards the end of last year, my womb-to-tomb friend Amelia’s kid sister was diagnosed. I mean, in my mind she’s still 11 years old and poking around the outskirts of where Amelia and I are hanging out, wanting to get in on the older girl action. But really she’s in her mid-30s now. Older than my mind can grock, but still way too young to have an oncologist.

And one of the first people to spring to my mind whenever I see a pink ribbon is my beloved sister-cousin, Nancy. I’m not exactly sure when it was that she passed the special five year mark to being free and clear of cancer. And thinking of that now it makes me regret that I wasn’t more aware of it. That I didn’t send her a massive bouquet of flowers that day, or write a fat check to a research charity in her honor, or have a freakin’ parade for her. Truly. I can think of no better day to jump into a fountain in public and dance and dance and dance.

Of course, there are so many other women who I’ve known–and even not personally known–who I’d love to recognize. The mothers of friends that I made in adulthood, who died when my friends were young girls. Women I never knew but whose daughters dazzle me daily with their friendship and intelligence and creativity, not to mention their own amazing mothering. To all those long-gone mothers, I pay tribute to you and promise to take special care of your girls. (They’re all doing great! You’d be incredibly proud!)

So today I shout out to you from my front porch. Sitting here in the sunshine of a warm October California day. Happy to be alive. Happy to be the mother of a sweet dumpling baby who is sleeping inside and a spunky brilliant spitfire of a preschooler. Two daughters with whom I hope to share a long and illness-free lifetime.

And of course, I hope the same for you and your daughters, mothers, cousins, sisters, and favorite aunts.

So here’s how I envision we get there. Let’s go out and get mammograms despite how unpleasant we may have heard that they are. Let’s really do regular self exams. And get tested for the BRCA gene if you have a family history. Let’s laugh in the face of the crumbling economy by writing out generous checks today to Susan G. Komen For the Cure, or Breast Cancer Research Foundation, or National Breast Cancer Foundation or whatever charity or hospital or research center is meaningful to you.

If everyone does their part today, maybe a few years from now when someone brings it to your attention that it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, you’ll think to yourself, “Oh, right. Breast cancer! I’d almost forgotten that disease even existed.”