Not Forgetting

When Lennon gets hurt, I do my best to dress the wound and take care of her the best way I know how. I realize there is more to first aid than stopping the flow of blood and preventing infection. Her emotional needs must also be addressed. She is immediately attended to, and she is given kisses and hugs and I am careful to make sure all the tears are carefully wiped away before I tell her she can go back to playing. She is given a touch of antibacterial ointment, and a fresh Hello Kitty band-aid, and I reassure her that falls and cuts happen to everyone, and it's okay to cry when they do. Sometimes we have to talk about prevention after I take care of her cut. Knives are for mommies and daddies, so next time you want to cut an apple, let one of us know. Stairs are not for jumping, so next time you go down, make sure to walk slowly. That's why we don't throw rocks. And so on.

Sometimes Lennon could use a little extra love and attention after a particularly bad scrape. I understand this, and I do what every good mom does: I give her an extra hug and kiss, and then I provide her with ways to move forward from the fall. If I let her, she would sit in my lap all day, focusing on the pain. So sometimes I distract her with a game. Sometimes I pretend she lost an arm, exaggerating the trauma until she looks at me and says, "You're weird" and then walks away laughing. Sometimes I ask her what she needs to feel better. It's usually a cookie. So we go get one.

If I sat with her, rubbing antibacterial ointment in the wound forcefully and endlessly, the cut would never heal. It might even make new problems. If I constantly reminded her of how hurt she was, she would have a hard time moving on from it. She wouldn't want to try new things. She would live in fear.

I can't do that. I love her too much.

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I repeated a joke that, to some, went too far. I was given feedback. I appreciated the feedback. I decided that, despite feedback, I was okay with repeating a joke that goes too far, because the poor taste of the joke is part of what made it so funny. Hyperbole is an effective tool for assessing our cultural taboos, and one's gut reaction to it can help to define our emotions, and even evolve into new ones. Plus, the joke made fun of drunk girls.

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I don't think I've ever shared my story of 9/11. Everyone has one.

I was a junior in college at the time. I had woken up early that day, because my roommate had left the light on when she went to class. I decided to get ready earlier than usual and grab a bite to eat on campus. As I got ready, I put on the Today Show. I didn't normally watch The Today Show. I can't tell you why I watched that morning. I don't know. It doesn't feel that important, but I mention it, because it's part of the story. I was combing my hair when the first plane hit. They reported on it, pondering on how an accident like that could happen. Then I watched live, as the second plane hit. And we all realized that it wasn't an accident. I remember Katy Couric's face. I started to feel sick. I didn't call anyone though. I just sat on my bed, thinking about all the people who had someone to call. I thought about what it would feel like to not know if your loved one was in that building. I thought about what it would feel like to know they were. I cried. That day, I went to class and found out they had cancelled it. On the bus ride home, an older woman with a few shopping bags told me she was waiting to hear from her son-in-law, who worked on Wall Street. I didn't know what to say, so I said "I'm sorry." She said, "Why?" I said, "I don't know. Because he probably had to take a lot of math to be able to work there?" She laughed. Then she looked like she might cry. I felt bad. I went home and cried again, and then my roommate and I watched Raising Arizona. It was a weird day.