Guns (Redux)

Back in August, while vacationing at Cape Cod with family, I started writing about kids and guns. Or, more to the point, parenting and guns. I noodled around, trying to talk about how we institute sane gun policy with our child, because kids, especially boys, like to play with toy guns.

Now, on December 14, 2012, as I sit on the couch with my child while he eats Extra Cheesy Cheddar Bunnies and watches “Wonder Pets,” that essay sits unfinished in my queue, and 20 children and 7 adults have been slaughtered in Newtown, Connecticut by a man with guns.

On Tuesday, a man with guns killed two people at a shopping mall in Oregon. Here in Minnesota last week, a man shot his granddaughter because he thought she was an intruder. (She lived.) On Thanksgiving, again in Minnesota, a man shot and then executed two teenagers who he says broke into his home. I don’t need to go any further back in time, do I?

Because America has reached the point where headlines such as this are necessary: “Mass shootings at schools and universities in the US” (emphasis mine) and “A history of mass shootings in the US since Columbine.” They don’t even try to list them all anymore.

One of the reasons I have not finished the essay is because talking publicly about guns and gun policy is a daunting prospect in this hysterical, gun-addled country. It’s like a third rail or, more accurately, a religion, where no one is allowed to criticize or question. The moment anyone brings it up, the NRA and various right-wingers go ape-shit, bark about the Second Amendment, trot out false equivalencies, blame it on gun control, and it’s all over.

“Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.”

Fuck you, NRA, and the heavily-armed horse you rode in on.

People with guns kill people, and you can keep your bumpersticker mentality and bizarre interpretation of the Constitution to yourself. Your superficial, myopic sloganeering in your adoration of the Second Amendment is laughable, uncritical, and harmful. It hinders thoughtful discussion of our culturally complicated relationship with firearms. It distorts our history and makes effective, evidence-based public policy impossible. I have no use for you; you are part of the problem. Because you stifle any chance to approach this issue with sanity, facts, reason, and long-term thinking.

Sure, it’s not just about guns, but you won’t let us talk about the guns part at all. And, truth be told, your friends on the right don’t want to assist the mentally ill, talk about poverty, drug policy, education, or anything else that might help. And it’s not about better defenses or arming teachers or security at schools. Stop blaming the victim.

All you have is “No.”

So just shut up.

Your right to have a gun is infringing on my freedom to be safe anywhere, ever.
You’re done.

After today, you have nothing more to say.

Guns.

No apologies, folks. It's time for a review of the evidence and a re-evaluation of national and state gun policies based on facts. It's time to address the cultural issues. It's time to talk about our national obsession with firearms and the Second Amendment. It's time to talk mental health, poverty, crime, and drug policy.

Past time.

Thoughts and prayers are one thing. I'm sick of them. Thoughts and prayers are not action.

Surely a great nation such as the United States can work to craft sane gun policy as well as policy that works on other related issues. While it is certain that every prohibition creates another underground, I believe that we can begin a policy long-game that starts to create change.

Stop standing in the way, GOP and NRA. You have no leg to stand on.

You never did.

The First Snow

This is it. The first big snowstorm of the year. How you handle this determines the quality of your whole winter. Will your neighbors curse you the entire season for your lumpy, narrow walkway? Will you bottom out the car twice daily on an unmovable ice hump at the end of the driveway until April?

This is a project.

You have to have a plan.

First, do you have a snow-shoveling partner? If so, now is the time to discuss your expectations: before you begin, not half-way into it or, Satan forbid, after it’s over and all you have left are pain and recrimination.

Is your partner a perfectionist or a halfasser? Find out. If you intend to shovel down to the pavement, even if it means relentless chopping, and your parter is going to shovel until he or she hits packed snow and shrugs because it’s too hard, you need to know.

Define your parameters. Do you want a narrow path to stumble down until the first thaw, or do you want to use your whole sidewalk, the whole winter? Mark these areas so your halfasser knows what you expect. Remember to leave space for recycling and garbage bins. If you don’t clear the area now, it will never happen. You will tell yourself you will handle it later, but you won’t. (See above: pain and recrimination.)

Side note: if you are dating someone, it’s a good idea to asses his or her snow-removal ethic now to avoid a painful breakup and dividing of assets later. Freshly evaluate the relationship on the basis of your assessment.

Check the prevailing weather conditions. Dress accordingly. Layer your clothing to ensure that you will be boiling within 30 minutes of beginning, no matter the temperature, and will wind up shoveling bare-headed and bare-handed. Important tip: don’t put your discarded scarf, mittens, and hat somewhere they will be covered with snow, not to be found until spring.

Take pictures. Do not allow your child or children or partner or dog or cat or city chickens to step on any of the freshly-fallen snow that is in the shot. You need pristine images of this momentous event, and your child will need the memory of having to wait for what seems like hours before it can play.

By all means, set a stopwatch before you begin. You will need to know how long you worked so you can complain/brag about it on all forms of social media, especially Facebook, because no one else in the city (or the nation) has it as bad as you/is as awesome. You also need to know how long you were at this activity so that you can replace the calories with beer.

(For instance: it took me 1 hour, 34 minutes and some odd seconds to complete the steps and walkway. In Weight Watchers terms, that’s slightly over one beer. I will need to shovel for approximately one more year to make quota.)

If you have a child who wants to help but is not quite of age to truly be of assistance, dress it warmly and chain it to the porch.

Choose your tool wisely. We have a micro electric snowblower, which allows us to finish some things faster but is unable to chop through the plow pile or packed snow, so we can still feel the righteous indignation of a shovel-only family as well as scoff at people with monster blowers. The best of both worlds. We also have an array of shovels, from the new-fangled lightweight bendy pieces of crap that are supposed to protect your back but provide no leverage to the steel and wood coal shovel that I prefer.

Hydrate. Jam that water bottle right into a snow bank. Just don’t shovel over it (see above note).

About a quarter of the way into a major snow fall, you will find yourself considering giving up. Resist. Think “shark in water.” Or Dory, if that helps. Just keep swimming. You have to get over that initial feeling of “I’m going to die,” and find the resolve to continue. It gets easier as you see progress, but be warned: there is another wall, and it comes about three quarters of the way through. You will be convinced that it’s all over, you can’t finish, and you are a miserable loser. Miserable loser you may be, but you can do this. Worry about your personality flaws and inability to find work later.

Save touch-up work for the end. Resist all temptation to remover “rollers” as they happen. This will save you time and murderous rage. In the same vein, resist the urge to redo neighbors’ halfassery. This job is about resistance and perseverance.

There are rewards along the way, especially if it has stopped snowing, and the sky is a crystalline blue that you usually only see over soaring mountain peaks in the west. Pause to watch the breeze blow sparkling crystals through the air; feel the coldness fill your lungs, refreshing you and reminding you of bitter beautiful mornings at your grandparents’ farmhouse; uncover the scent of peppermint and oregano as you near your garden beds; watch your child struggle against its bonds and hear its cries of “Mama!” wafting lightly through the crisp air.

It’s good to be alive.

Snow!

Game Plan

"And everybody has to stand on a lemur, and then you hold the ball like a cannon,
and then you say 'Frickin' me,' and then you fall." -Finn James McCauley

Got it team? Let's DO this!

Jumpstart Mom

It's happening especially frequently and intensely the last few days. Pete stomps on the floor, and I gasp as all my skin and muscles contract, turning me into a tiny, fiery ball of raw nerve endings. Finn knocks over a glass and the same thing happens, even though the glass is empty.

I don't know if it was having a preemie or just having any kind of baby, but my startle reflex is turned up to 11. Loud noises, quick movements, anything remotely unexpected, and I practically leap out of my skin. It's completely bizarre and uniformly annoying. Sometimes, I even know something is coming, and I'll jump.

Pete thinks he has PTSD from our whole preemie experience; I think that's patently ridiculous and self-indulgent. We had a preemie, who is now a perfectly healthy four-year-old. It's not like we were the victims of an IED in Afghanistan or sniper fire in Iraq or solitary confinement and torture. I get that PTSD can result from "less terrifying" experiences, and I totally understand that rape survivors, abuse survivors, and other survivors of grievous personal trauma can and do suffer from it (hence the quotes around "less terrifying." It's relative.), but I just don't feel that our situation--white, middle class, insured--qualifies. Certainly, it was unexpected and rather scary at times, but now, four years later, our normal, interesting, infuriating, adorable, and smart boy is just that: normal (interesting, infuriating, adorable, smart). I can look at videos and pictures from the hospital and feel a sense of gratitude and even nostalgia, not fear.

I think I am sleep deprived, four years older, 15 pounds overweight, and lacking in purpose, as well as jumpier, but I don't think that's PTSD, nor is it related specifically to having a preemie, though the first, third, and fifth are probably related to having any kind of baby.

B President! Not so much...

(Cross-posted from kittywhumpus, where I keep most of my politics and controversy.)

 

Stands on her own! Literally!

I see what you're trying to do here, Mattel. I really do. But why did you have to go all Fox News, Million Mom on it? What's wrong with a smart pantsuit in a vibrant blue? Or a sassy, shorter cut?*









A sensible pair of flats and a casual cardi?

I know. It's Barbie. She started out as a fashion model, and now, she can B President, right? That's progress! She has B-liefs! She can B Aggressive! B B Aggressive!

And you, little (white) girl, playing with Barbie, can B anything!

I know you can't make everything in a version that looks like everyone, but instead of white brunette President Barbie AND a white blonde President Barbie (such diversity!), how about black President Barbie? And I know pink is your signature color, and certainly the women pictured above have appeared in it, but for President Barbie of the B-certainly-does-not-stand-for-Bitch Party, couldn't you have knocked down the Studio 54 disco-ball glitter just a tad?

At the very least, you are not teaching the art of smart campaigning, as no one, male or female, is going to win the presidency with a sunglasses-wearing micro dog in their purse and cutesy not-spelling and supremely weird phrases on their campaign literature.

I think the elections of 2008 & 2012 showed us what happens when certain parties don't choose serious people to run for higher office, and I will not be expecting "Lastly, I have to thank Barbie" in Paris Hilton's 2050 acceptance speech.

But I do think we can do better than this for our girls.

 *Think of the awesome that would follow if you modeled a President Barbie after Hillary. She would come with transcripts of speeches, giant checks written to her SuperPAC, copies of her legislation as a Senator, diplomatic credentials from her time as Secretary of State, and then there's The Ken-First Gentleman doll. The accessories create themselves.