Helping

My music is a time machine.

Put the earbuds in.

Turn up the volume.

The world of this moment disintegrates into the infiniteness of the universe. Time goes faster. I’m thrust into the future. I’m me, but maybe more… maybe less. It paints reality with a subjective brush — dark colors or light… it depends on the fuel in the machine today. The notes. The rhythm. The words.

Today, the time machine is set to high speed and forward. Time machines are especially convenient in this way. Propelling you past the moments you couldn't care less for… towards being “done” and past the wisdoms that imply journeys are esteemed over destinations. Case in point, I’m scrubbing the children’s bathroom.

The agenda today was to clean my own bathroom. Uno. One bathroom. Not two.

I was scrubbing the shower and the children were impressed by my fervent commitment to clean. A moment of inspiration hit them and they announced their intentions to clean their bathroom, too, because they wanted to “help.” I smiled to let them know that they are sweet and good and kind to think of their mother. Then, I went back to scrubbing as the music that is now a little older than I feel comfortable with did the task of making time move faster.

And then there was screaming. “My AIIII-YZZZ!!”

I paused my time machine and turned around to find my dear daughter grabbing a hand towel to wipe her eyes down. “MAIIII AIIIYYYYYZZZZZ!!!”

People who are good in emergencies know one thing that people who are not good in emergencies do not know. 

You must keep calm. 

No matter how much despair promises to crash upon you, for God’s sake, keep calm. I’m good at emergencies. My daughter is not. And before we discuss the thirty year age difference, know that I have always been good at emergencies. Even when I was seven. My theory is that every human being needs to express a certain amount of drama in a lifetime. I express mine in little doses all day and my daughter who is an extremely calm person in her every day life expresses them when she gets soap in her eyes.  

 “Am I going to go bliiiind? OWWWW!!”

“Of course not, it’s just soap. Hold still.”

“Do I have to go to the hospital?!!”

“No. Hold still, I have to rinse your eye.”

“BE CAREFUL.”

“I haven’t raised you so far without being careful… now… hold… still… and STOP touching your eyes.”

“I think I need a doctor!!”

“You do not need a doctor. You need to hold still and stop touching your eye.”

And through all this, the three year old is yelling in the background like some sort of narcissist, “Mama, you have to come see the baffroom, I cleaned it so well, we’re helpers.”

So, we take care of the soap in her eyes and when she is moderately calm, I ask her exactly what kind of soap caused her to eyes to burn. Between you and me, I’m worried about the fact that she used the crazy scrub free bathroom cleaner spray that probably has some chemical in it that would, in fact, cause blindness or, even worse, result in a trip to the emergency room that would require me to change out of my bleach stained yoga pants that are reserved for bathroom cleanings. To my surprise, she takes me to the kitchen and hands me dish soap.

My first thought is to pat myself on the back for getting that free and clear brand that doesn’t have anything but plain old soap in it. 

My second thought is, “Oh, shit.”

As a dishwashing expert I know this: dish soap means a lot of bubbles. Mounds of bubbles. Dish soap is made for washing dishes as the name cleverly implies. It is not particularly suited to cleaning bathrooms. Speaking of small doses of daily drama, I feel the drama queen within me practicing vocal exercises like an opera diva in a green room. Then, I remember. 

“We’re going to help.” 

They are good, sweet and kind to help their mama. 

I park the girl on the couch with a washcloth over her eye because she insists that her eye still hurts which I know is absolutely untrue. The boy takes me to the bathroom which, my friends, is not clean. Like, at all. It's a mess of dirt and bubbles and reminds me of this party I went to in Cancun back in 1993 where they sprayed foam from the ceilings or something crazy like that. It’s a beautiful shower stall streaked with soapy residue. It’s a floor smattered with water, dust, toilet paper and bubbles. It’s a rug with… is that…what the hell… toothpaste?

A mass of light brown curls fall over his eyes, and he looks up glowing, “See?! Clean! Just like you do.”

I want to tell them both that this isn’t clean. I want to say, "Never, ever do this ever again!"

I feel the strong urge to let them know that they didn’t help me, but instead have created work for me. No, more importantly, they stole the hour I planned on using to finish a book before they’re dad got home. I want to. So very bad.

I don’t.

Because I’ve been here.

I’ve wanted to help someone and made a mess of things. I’ve been all good intentions with toothpaste on the rug and dirt and soap and toilet paper smushed on the floor. I'm not sure what that metaphor is about, but the answer may well still be in Cancun. Today, my children get a pass. One day, I will prepare them better. One day, I’ll teach them how to clean a bathroom. I’ll explain that intention isn’t enough.

Not today. Because while it isn’t enough, intention is necessary. The hope of us all lies in good intentions and in this damned bathroom with dish soap streaked on its stalls and toothpaste smeared on the ceramic tiles, and this mess isn’t just a symbol of all of my children’s love and good intentions — it’s a symbol of all of our good intentions. Yours. Mine. Today, my inner drama queen will have to wait for the moment she steps on a lego or a matchbox car (because that’s clearly evil). Today,  she will bask in intention and process.

No matter how terribly wrong the result.

37!

I am nothing, if not transparent. That's a metaphor. I didn't wake up today invisble or something.

Though that would be a neat super power to get ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!! 

Yes, yes, today is my birthday. As you can see from the title, I have more than a few of those under the proverbial belt now. Each year, the day passes without much internal ado. Today, for some reason, as I got ready, I felt different. Today, I thought about all of the other birthdays and how I felt on those mornings, and I realized something. Today, I am probably more thankful than I have ever been. 

There's hesitation that precedes the pronouncement that I have everything right now that I've ever wanted. One doesn't want to jinx themselves, I guess. If I think about it, though, I don't buy the whole concept of "jinxing" as it applies to me. God has been good to me. Always. It's okay to be thankful. It's okay to acknowledge that in all the years that I have been alive, I look around today and see a great spouse, extraordinary children, a rewarding job, a nice place to live, and a life that unfolds free of any real or dire worries. 

What did I get for my birthday? Perfume, slippers, a bathrobe and lots of other things. But nothing I received filled emptiness, if that makes sense. Because I feel fulfilled today. It hasn't been easy to get to this feeling. If I trace back the moments to right now and try to define a point of origin, I would guess that it started with a celebration. Once upon a time, a few years ago, I decided to do more than just accept myself. I decided to celebrate myself. I thought about who I was and decided that everything should be as it should be. There would be no more struggling or self effacement. There would only be love for myself.

 I tried to explain to someone the other day that in desi culture, it is the person who is having a birthday that gives some kind of token of appreciation to their friends. A party, a dinner, a small treat of some sort. In the spirit of that, I would like to give you a gift today. 

In the comments section of this blog, I'd like you to type four things that you unequivocally celebrate about yourself in the comment section of this post. Tomorrow morning, at this time, I'll randomly pick a commenter and send them a $30 gift card to Amazon. Make sure you fill in your e-mail, so I can contact you.

Winner will be posted on the Native Born Facebook page.

On Making New Friends in New Places

I was born during a record-worthy winter in Chicago, but spent my life in Central Florida residing within a thirty-mile radius of the same place my family moved to when I was 19 months old. A personal geographic history like that causes one to take certain things for granted. Like having friends.

When I moved away from my home state over a year ago, I was confronted with the reality of trying to squiggle into existing tribes of people. Thankfully, the tribes of Memphis are a friendly sort, and I squiggled just fine. This isn’t always the norm and some people don’t feel at home for a really long time after they’ve moved. Part of that has to do with the total awkwardness that comes with forming new friendships as an adult.

Click here to read the rest of this post at my Babble Blog "Native Born and Raised".

A Single Story - TED talk

It's difficult not to fall into the trap of assigning a single experience to those inside and outside our identifying group. If you're a writer, artist or human being, this is a must watch.

I Attempt Becoming a "Morning Person"

I once read an article about Tiger Woods in which he stated that gets up at 4:30a.m. every morning and that this simple act contributes greatly to his success. Golf success. Not cheating on his wife success. Which obviously was, depending on how you look at it, not a success.

I have never been a "morning person." I jokingly told Tariq the other day that in my ideal world, I am the last person to go to sleep and the last person to wake up. "So, basically, you would like to be a princess."

I am what I am.

Unfortunately, be it due to age or otherwise, I can no longer be productive when I stay up late and these pesky children and day job require that I get up in the morning. The resulting conundrum being that while I am the last one to sleep, I am now the second to wake up, courtesy Tariq's bedside service of a scalding cup of coffee every morning. This results in my being tired -- all the time.

Furthermore, while there was once a time where I could knock out thousands of words and tens of spreadsheets at the midnight hour, I now find myself in the regrettable position of watching hours and hours of "Cold Case Files" reruns. Not the documentary, but the show. It was produced by Jerry Bruckheimer. Shut up, it's good. That part at the end when one of the cops waves to the ghost of the murdered person gets me every time.

Anyway, the point is I can't hack it, this staying up late. Also, I want to be like Tiger Woods. Not the cheating on your spouse with strippers part. Just the "exceptional at what you do" part.

Today, I woke up at 5:20a.m. For those of you who are self righteous morning people, you know who you are, may I clue you into the life of someone who is a not a "morning person" who is attempting to be a morning person? The alarm blares. The sickening feeling that it's time to get up washes over you. Is it really time to get up? You glance at the clock and realize you are up about ninety minutes earlier than normal. It's still dark outside. The world feels empty. Too empty. There is no chatter. There is no light. There is no... coffee.

And what, pray tell, will you do with that extra ninety minutes? Write a novel? Make a spreadsheet of supplies needed to climb Mt. Everest? Let's just start with reading the instructions on the bag of coffee grounds. Two tablespoons to every six ounces of water? That seems excessive. The coffee is made and now there are precisely eighty two minutes left to kill.

Make that seventy two.

Outside my bedroom window. I am up before the sun. This feels all wrong. Especially because this photo is on its side. Whatever. At least, I'M AWAKE.