Writing it out

Obviously, this is an entirely self-indulgent exercise. So if you have landed here for whatever reason, please understand this and forgive me. Of course, if you've ever found yourself in a similar situation, feel free to pipe in and tell all.

Mainly, how on earth do certain powerful entities in our country believe that a population, deprived of health care, can continue to do the work that keeps the economy moving? How is a generation or more of children supposed to build understanding and thrive?

I believe the answer is, they're not. We are in the midst of a planned, deliberate stratification of society. Ultra rich, tiny middle class, and swelling ranks of impoverished. They've even gutted education to keep critical thinking at bay. And, since almost everyone is merely struggling to survive, dissent is virtually nonexistent.

I'm hardly an expert. I read Paul Krugman, Thomas Frank, and Diane Ravitch. And I am keenly aware of the concentrated local resources needed for children to thrive. Air, water, food (of quality). Exercise, engagement, and medical care (of quality). Sleep, also of quality and at the right time of the day. How can people who rely on inadequate transportation give their children these things?

Boy Pip and a Wretched Mother

His father and twin brother are off on an errand, and 4 year old Pip is having long discussions with himself and his Legos. Noises like starships and unintelligible pronouncements are happy and upbeat. Mother with panic clutching her chest compulsively checks email.

Pip adores Legos, building things, and being in his own world. He can squawk unbelievably loudly and constantly if faced with a dislike. This is a constant since his birth. His eyes are open wide in all his photos, a bit more so that his brother's. This gives him a startled look, as if the stimuli in his world are too much. We worry about his lonely playing, but he's progressed very well over the last year. 

When he's ready for engagement, he'll strip to his underwear, grab the blankets from his bed, and come to me with the most winsome, charming request: "Play with me on the bed?" This means we kick off our shoes and roll around in the blankets on top of the bed, hugging and tickling and wondering where Pip has gone when all we see is an undulating blanket.

4 a.m.

Upon waking, the panic clutches your chest. That's not a good sign. Better the panic clutch your gut, that will be a better day.

Position terminated. Ten years of service.

I have three children, my daughter, age 8, a gorgeous third grader, and four year old twin boys. I have an absent-minded musician husband. Now, we have lost one half of our income, and access to health insurance five weeks from today. 

How will we manage? How will I be a good mother, as the panic clutches my chest like an icy octopus?

The Buddhist calm I worked toward (informally) is barely peeping around the edges of my consciousness. I use all of it to push the panic down as I send a sleepy boy back to bed.

How can people continue on the path of kindness and compassion and thoughtfulness when they are pushed to the edge? This blog will be about my discovering some of the answers.