Years ago, I was in my local Bargain Harold’s (a Canadian store—a five and dime type, kinda run-down version of KMart)…and there at the cash were a couple with a pile of items that they were purchasing. As the cashier picked up each one, the woman would turn to the man and ask—looking for reassurance—“Your mom will like this, right?” “This is good for your sister, right?”. Each item was incredibly cheap and not particularly nice. They hadn’t lucked into anything where people would be pleasantly shocked to find how little you’d paid. There were no bargains. This was pre-dollar store days, and it was just a cheap little store with cheap little items.

And it broke my fucking heart.

There was this couple with clearly next-to-no-money agonising over every single little thing so that they could give Christmas presents to family members. For what reason especially I don’t know—because Christmas was so important to them, because their family had more money than they and they had to keep up, because they just couldn’t get away from the financial reality of the season. But, honestly, it was this moment that made me hate Christmas. Hate it with a fiery passion. And I grew up completely dirt-poor—I’d had many a Christmas with no gifts, with a family embarrassed at not being able to reciprocate if they received presents from others. But this was the moment that did it for me.

We say “it’s all about family.” We say that because that’s what the fucking commercials and tv specials say. The commercials and tv specials and songs which are all just ads for us to buy stuff for Christmas so that retailers make their cash. Retailers make 25% of their total yearly sales in December. At least 25%. Sometimes, much more than that. We’re told that number over and over, as if we should understand that we have some sort of obligation to keep that money train running. After all, if we don’t buy, if they don’t make their 25% then bad things will happen—that’s what keeps the economy going, us spending our money for them.

Except, in a world where the six people who own Wal-Mart have as much money as the bottom 30% of Americans, that’s bullshit. Absolute pure and simple. The money is going on up high high and higher…and we’re ending up poorer and poorer each year.

This has been an incredibly crappy year for me and mine. There has been a problem with almost every single job we’ve had this year—jobs delayed for months (one which would have paid a large advance has been delayed at least a year), or cancelled outright. Or editors changed their minds and went with a different artist. Or the writer changed his mind and asked for a different artist. Too many problems to list. It has been a Very Not Good year.

And it’s Christmas. And Christmas is “all about family”. And for those who don’t like to do the big gifting piles, generally it comes down to “well, it’s all about the kids”. And we have a few of those—four, in fact, and my eldest son’s common-law wife. So, five “kids” to provide Christmas for. And my husband’s family with the nephews and niece. And my extended family of nephews and nieces.

I honestly truly despise Christmas these days. It used to be about decorating and making everything sparkly and pretty—a change from what the house usually looks like. Making it “dressed up” like dressing up for a party. And I loved decorating the tree with my kids, each of them putting up their own box of ornaments that they’ve been receiving, one a year, from me. But now I’m filled with bitterness and anger and resentment. I hate that I’m expected to buy presents—and that if they aren’t of any significance then they will be a disappointment. Although the same tv specials trill about “it’s the thought that counts”, commercial after commercial points out that you don’t want to leave people disappointed on Christmas Day.

I hate that with one side of the family we are in such a significantly different income bracket from the others that we can’t possibly hope to keep up with the gifting in any way. I stopped, years ago, from giving presents to adults, because it was a useless enterprise. I hate that my kids make lists and I scour them trying to figure out the cheapest way to get some things that will make them happy—and wonder why I do.

The Spirit of Christmas? I don’t have it. I really, really don’t have it.

But, here’s my thinking—and btw, I have no interest in marriage-as-an-institution whatsoever, so I don’t say this as someone with an “agenda” to force others into it, etc. etc. I’m not “legally” married, have no interest in it, actively avoid it, and will probably continue to do so…  That said—although I have no interest in marriage, the world is full of those who do…and those who are interested in marrying a person of the opposite sex may do so without any problems even if they’ve known each other for two days, even if they get divorced within months of the marriage, even if they’ve been married five times before. People keep trying to promote ‘gay marriage’ with this “look! They’re just like us! Really! They’re cute and adorable long-time couples!” because, of course, no straight people ever enter a marriage with less than divine intentions, and none ever willingly leave it…

It’s not about “validating” it to everyone, it’s not about making it “acceptable”—it’s about the idea that it’s a right to get married if you so choose (as long as the person is of age, and willing blah blah blah)…and the fight for “marriage equality” is just that…about making that choice equal for all. If you want to get married—fine, do so. If you don’t want to get married—equally fine. But you should have the choice available to you…

So, today’s is…again, on peanut allergies. There’s a story out of Florida about a 6 year old whose peanut allergy is so severe and so life-threatening that it’s considered a disability under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Because it’s a disability her school is obligated to make accommodations for her, and parents of the other children in her class are protesting those accommodations which are:  no peanuts and peanut products. Parents of the child’s classmates have protested, suggesting that if the child is in this much danger for her life that she be home-schooled.

Jezebel has posted a link to various articles about this issue and their own writer’s attitude is essentially:  wow, these parents are assholes for being inconsiderate to a disabled kid. Most of the comments are:  wow, these parents are assholes for being inconsiderate to a disabled kid. After all–all that’s involved is not bringing peanut products to school and making sure children wash their hands.

Yeah. That’s all it means…

I’ve written about this issue before but here I go again…

In Ontario, there is a law (Sabrina’s Law) that forbids peanuts or peanut products in schools. Sounds simple right? After all, how hard can it be to not send your child to school with peanuts?

Well, consider this:

Today at work, as you’re talking to a colleague, try to remember what you ate the last time you wore any of the clothes or jewellery on your body. Did you touch your hair at all today? Did you do it after you ate something? Try to think what you ate when you last touched your coffee cup. Did you wash your hands after you ate or drank something? And, if you made any level of physical contact with another person–say pushed up against someone in an elevator–do you know if that person had any peanut products?

Try to remember every location where you’ve put your purse/bag/backpack–what foods might it have come into contact with? Think about your shoes–are you positive you haven’t dropped anything on them or touched them with your hands after you touched a peanut product? What about your pens and every single thing on your desk? Could you safely hand a phone to a colleague and be positive that there is no way that there is the slightest trace of a peanut product on it? And of course–do you actually know what is considered a peanut product?

Next time you’re in the grocery store, start reading labels. Peanut AND NUT products (no matter that peanuts are not a nut, tree nuts are considered a part of the law and they are banned) hide under a lot of different names. How many of you would be aware that one of the ingredients to avoid is “hydrolyzed plant protein”? Or “hydrolyzed vegetable protein”? Most people who have not had to deal with this situation, who simply read about it in an article assume that everything will magically have the word “peanut” or “nut” in it if they are present. They do not.

Manufacturers are obligated to label the product even if the label is “trace amounts” or “may have come into contact with nut products”. If a product says anything but “peanut free” it cannot be taken to school. And, peanuts are not a tree-nut, they are legumes…as are soy beans. Most allergy specialists suggest that if you’re allergic to peanuts, you’ll be allergic to soy beans–try reading labels and seeing how often you see some form of soy. Most frozen pizzas, for example, use TVP as a cheese substitute. Because soy beans are so cheap, and easy to process into different forms, they hide in many, many food products. I’ve seen soy oil listed as an ingredient in cheap fruit punches.

The Ontario law is open to interpretation by each school’s principal. Since the law is to keep safe kids with allergies, they are obligated to ban any food that a child in their school has an anaphylactic reaction to to. At my kids’ school that now includes peanut products, and eggs. So–no tuna or egg salad sandwiches for starters. No home baking with eggs. (The school consistently sends home notes that state “as we have children in our school with peanut, nut and fish allergies” implying that fish is banned, but it is not officially. But most mothers assume that it is, and most students as well, causing many a child to refuse to eat a tuna sandwich in panic).

And realistically–there is absolutely no way to completely enforce this. The idea that “all” it requires is for kids to wash their hands? First-graders? How many studies have shown the number of adults who do not wash their hands properly throughout the day? Children–even the best-trained six year old will wipe their hands on their shirts or their pants at some point. Or they drop something off their fork onto their lap. Or while making peanut butter toast, they accidentally smear some on the counter, and another child later touches that counter.  I know mothers who are so terrified that their children might be responsible for the death of another that they either make their children change completely after eating peanut butter at home or they’ve completely forbidden it for weekday consumption. If you have young children, you know that they often go through a phase where they won’t eat meat or eggs–frequently, peanut butter is one of their main sources of protein. Also, for poorer families–it’s often their easiest source of protein for their kids. And it’s not a matter of simply making sure that the child in the class with the allergic child doesn’t have peanut butter–you have to police siblings as well. After all, what if a sibling has peanut butter, and while making a joke whacks the other child on the shoulder? Then that child goes off to school with the child with the deathly allergy and…

And, there is absolutely no way to “police” anything that doesn’t have a label. How do you know what kind of oil a parent used for baking? If the butter they used for cookies came into contact with peanuts? As you make your evening meal, look at the ingredients you’re using. Even if you know them to be individually peanut-free can you absolutely guarantee that they have had no contamination from a peanut or nut product whatsoever? No one made a peanut butter sandwich, then quickly swiped a little extra margarine with the same knife? No one, while eating peanut butter toast, decided to empty the dishwasher?

Under the law, in Ontario, teachers are trained in how to deal with children with anaphylactic allergies. One of my kids was in a class with two girls with anaphylactic allergies:  a poster for and of each girl was prominently displayed at the front of the class with a picture, a list of the allergies, and an epi-pen for each child hanging in front. Each school year began with a lecture to the children about the dangers these girls faced, and how to deal with the epi-pens if the teacher was not present. Any supply teacher who came into the classroom would also have to be taught what to do.

For the record my child who was in the classroom with the two students with anaphylactic allergies? He has severe Anxiety/OCD. To this day, he panics when he goes out into the world wondering if there is any chance that he or his clothing has had any contact with any peanut product. He will not make hand contact with anyone.  I’ve mentioned this to other moms as being an individual, unique stress that I’ve dealt with, and I’ve had them tell me that their non-anxiety disordered children have felt exactly the same way. Try and imagine being told every single day that you could be the literal death of a classmate.

By trying to set up these rules, considerable and weighty responsibility is put upon the other parents and children. Absolutely no sane individual wishes to endanger the life of another child. So, the parents have to be constantly vigilant and guard their own children from peanuts and peanut products. It’s not just NOT taking peanuts to school and washing hands.

Absolutely no one wants to see a situation where a child’s life is in danger:  but these parents in Florida know that there is no way to absolutely, irrefutably, unconditionally be able to guarantee that no trace of a peanut product will ever enter a classroom with this six year old child. And rather than assuming that they are selfish bastards looking to teach their children how to only think of themselves and how to ostracise a disabled child, perhaps consider that they are terrified of being in a situation where they and their children will be in fear for that child’s life until the end of the school year. Depending on the size of the school and the classrooms, it could very well be every single year of school. Try and imagine living with that stress every single day.

And if your answer to that is, “Imagine how the allergic child’s parents feel!”–consider that that is exactly what these parents are doing. Imagining how they would feel to send their deathly allergic child out into the world and count on everyone else to police every single thing that child comes into contact with.

They’re not selfish assholes who want to give their children peanut butter sandwiches–they’re simply afraid. Deathly afraid.

Okay, it actually was KT Smith until the end of that project. I’ve since changed it to my full name. Although, to be fair, my mother would wish me to point out that it isn’t my “real” name which is, in fact, on my birth certificate as K-a-r-e-n Smith.

Even just typing that gives me the willies–my mother, who had an old-fashioned name at a time when her classmates were named Donna and Laura always hated hated hated her name and decided that if ever she had a daughter she would make sure she gave her a wildly popular name. Sure, you might not know a single Karen–but look up some naming charts and you’ll discover that it was consistently a Top Ten name for the entire ’60s. I believe it’s the name of the daughter on The Wonder Years–so that shows you right there how ubiquitous it was.

Add to that my middle name:  Elizabeth. Elizabeth was one of the “go-to” middle names of that era… Then, make sure you follow it up with Smith. Yep. Smith.

Once in a high school class, tiny little town, tiny little class, out of 25 students, five of us were named Karen Elizabeth. Yeah. That certainly helped me as a teenager, trying to feel like I had a unique identity! By the end of that class, I think there was Karyn, Caryn, Karin, one lone holdout of Karen…and me with Keiren. Sure, it requires spelling it out to people, and correcting their pronounciation–think “heir” not “weir”, but until the internet it was unique. Since then, I’ve found that overseas it’s used often as a variant of Ciaran–and pronounced as such. Of course, I raise an eyebrow at anyone needing to change the spelling of such a unique name–but it’s unique on this side, not the other.

So, I’m K-e–i-r-e-n. There are those that still raise an eyebrow and think it was silly of me to have changed it–announce that I should “have” changed my name, or switched to my middle name (yeah–Elizabeth would have been quite the unique name to wander the earth with, wouldn’t it?). But it matters to me–and it’s my name. Whenever I see it, it’s “me”. It’s not soft or delicate, or gentle…it fits. The other spelling I had contemplated was C-a-r-y-n, because I had thought it was absolutely beautiful. Then I decided that it would give people “expectations” of who I am and I would never live up to that (“Wow, I thought she’d be pretty!”). Years later, I was amused to find out that Whoopie Goldberg’s birth name was Caryn Johnston! I always wonder how she felt about it…you never hear her telling stories about how the world knows her as Whoopie but everyone else calls her Caryn. I wonder what her mother calls her…

(crosspost from KEIREN SMITH)

This story works on several different levels, obviously, once one really starts to think about it–but the meaning the Etiquette Mavens embrace is that there was the potential for embarrassment over the guest’s bad manners, but that the Queen graciously saved the day. There is also the possibility that the guest was simply eating soup the way they’d been raised to do so and that the Queen understood that those were perfectly valid manners for that guest and chose to emulate them–whichever way, the point was that the moment was not about finger-pointing, correcting or eye-rolling, it was about making everyone feeling comfortable. That is graciousness–usually labelled as the ability to make people feel comfortable, but I think just as equally is the ability to not give in to the urge to make people feel bad.

Yes, someone has made me feel bad today! How did you guess? It was a small moment–I have an application to hand into a school today with the hopes of getting one of my kids in to a special arts program/school this September. My mind can sometimes turn to mush and even though I’ve read something over and over again, my brain will suddenly pop up with random information and insert that.  So it was today–I had completely and utterly “remembered” that the applications had to be handed in between “11am and 4pm”.**

I turned up at the school after considerable running around. The application had needed a bit of input from the child who is reluctant to write things (he has a lot of difficulties due to a recently diagnosed learning disability). I needed a stamped self-addressed envelope and in this day and age, I rarely mail things…or use letter-sized envelopes. And I needed to get cash for the $25 registration fee. (Why the school charges a registration fee for it’s program, I know not–isn’t that like a pizza delivery guy expecting tips? I’ve never understood that either–and I worked at a pizza restaurant! Given that, if the child gets in, we will be paying $350.00 in yearly fees for “supplies”, the registration fee just seems…rude, somehow!)

So, there I was at 1:30pm at the school–which looked oddly quiet for a school expecting a line of parents and children. I went into the office and waited patiently for the secretary to finish a conversation so I could ask where to go to hand in the application. She quirked an eyebrow at me, “Is that the application that is to be handed in between 3pm and 7pm today?”

Said I, glancing at the same clock she had just looked at pointedly, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was 11-4pm!”

“No. No it was not.”

“I’m very sorry.”

And that was that. No smile, no polite greeting. No “see you later!” No anything.  If it had been the other way around, I would have said, “Oh, gosh I’m sorry–we’re not accepting those until after 3pm. You’ll have until 7 tonight!” But, I was raised to understand that a) I’m not better than everyone in the room, and b) even if by some strange remote chance it would turn out that I am…a polite person still treats a person with kindness and respect.

A small moment out of my day…but a disappointing one. I’m sorry for her that she needed to have that moment in her day. And eventually I will get past imagining all the comebacks I could have made if I had as little manners.

**having finally had the thought to look at the application and try and figure out where the times came from…it turns out that I’m not actually crazy. The applications were to be in today in order to be immediately assigned audition times; otherwise the staff would be accepting them tomorrow, Friday February 18 between 11am and 4pm.

There are also parents that so live in fear of the terror induced by this subject:  the warnings to make sure that their child has no peanut product before the age of one, the idea that it might induce anaphylactic allergy reaction. There are some (I think in the States, not Canada) who now give their children their first tasting of peanut butter only in a doctor’s office under supervision. I kid you not. (Actually, now that I think of it–it would have to be in the States, as we couldn’t add that level of cost to our overburdened universal health care costs.) And there are parents who announce that as they are allergic to A) then so must their children without understanding that the children might inherit the tendency to allergies; that doesn’t mean they inherit the specific allergy. (If one parent is allergic, I think the child has a 75% chance of having allergies, if both parents have allergies it goes up to 85%. Which is to say:  not a guaranteed thing by any stretch).

This is one of the subjects that obviously irritates me a lot…I have three kids currently in Ontario schools. The law was not in place when my eldest went through–he probably would have starved to death as one of the very few things he was willing to eat was peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Now, my kids are terrified to have peanut butter on any day they’re going to school or even the night before, on the off-chance that it gets anywhere on them and they will go to school and kill a classmate. The argument is always that a child does not have to have peanut butter at school; they can have it at home. But it has genuinely added to/created an atmosphere of some hysteria with children causing them heightened anxieties, added to the hysteria of parents, and frankly, deprives poorer families of a good source of cheap, healthy protein for their kids. (I know parents who, if their child has peanut butter, literally make them change their clothes after before they can be with other children.)

Now, obviously, I’m not a big fan of killing children…and clearly, my kids don’t have anaphylactic allergies. But I’ve read more than one article by specialists who say that peanut allergies just aren’t as prevalent as people think, as accurately diagnosed–or the prime killer of children. One pediatric allergy specialist pointed out that more kids die of bee stings every year than peanut allergies, but no one is making laws to take flower gardens away from public schools. His suggestion, like those of many experts, is that banning peanut products just gives a false sense of security:  my kids’ schools send home constant notices to remind us, but the onus is completely on us. In the younger grades, teachers and lunch supervisors go ’round and check the kids’ lunches, but are obviously only able to check the ingredients on items that are labelled. They have no idea what products are used in home cooking/baking and whether there was any level of cross-contamination.

And because the law is in place in Ontario, schools individually can exercise their own levels of caution or hysteria. One of my kids’ schools constantly sends home notices reminding us that “there are children in the school with allergies to fish, peanuts and nuts so please do not send peanut  or nut products to school.” Notice anything strange about that sentence? Fish is not banned at my kids’ school. Not in any way, shape or form…but that sentence sure leaves the implication in people’s minds. One of my kids’ refused to eat tuna at school any more as he was convinced it was essentially a murder weapon.  And there’s a boy at the school who is allergic to eggs, so the school has now decided that eggs are not allowed; but they don’t send any notices home, they just wait until kids bring products with eggs in them to school and the item is confiscated, put in a plastic bag and returned home with a note saying that it has a banned item in it. To me, an interesting move that always leaves me wondering if it’s not actually legal, just trying to leave us with the overwhelming impression that we have no choice.

I don’t want to endanger children’s lives and obviously children are messy creatures who get food all over them at certain ages (or genders) and thus, could endanger others. Handwashing is not enough at these ages…but it’s not possible to absolutely, utterly guarantee the complete and utter food safety of children with anaphylactic allergies. And when you look at the numbers of kids with anaphylactic allergies and compare them to the kids who have to go without that food item, it seems a bit odd…

Wow.  Just wow.

I tried really, really hard for the whole campaign to not comment, link, protest or snipe in any way, shape or form. There were a lot of snotty, nasty articles out there…it’s not that I didn’t agree with the cynicism but to me, the subject is not helped by making jokes about it (Gawker head, Adrien Chen, wrote a particularly nasty bit about a child sex abuser announcing that he was done because of all the cartoon avatars. I’m not linking to it. Kinda made me want to punch somebody). But, the last few days I just kinda wore out and posted a link to an article written by a woman whose husband is in social work and deals with abused kids on a daily basis.

And yes. Just yes. I particularly liked (and quoted) her line, “It raises awareness, some people said to me. It’s better than nothing. Really? If we, as connected as we are in this day and age, know all about Heidi Montag’s plastic surgeries but aren’t aware of child abuse, then we are dumb as rocks.”

Yes.

And here’s the thing…a lot of the negativity I’ve seen seems to be written by people who have an understanding of child abuse because they’ve worked with victims–I’ve not seen actual victims, current or past, express opinions. And there are a lot of reasons for that…but one of them would be that child abuse victims are programmed to understand that they really are nobody. Nobody at all. Nobody special, nobody to be listened to.  Those who aren’t so filled with rage that they want to punch everyone in the face are often the absolute nicest people you will ever meet:  desperate to help everyone they meet, do everything they can, not make you unhappy in any way, shape or form. So, for example, I tried sooooooooooooo hard not to say anything negative about this campaign–it would make people who adopted it feel bad.

Those who happily joined in because it seemed like the latest feel-good meme ended up feeling defensive at the negativity expressed by others. After all, people hadn’t freaked out when they turned their avatar purple for Spirit Day or changed them for no particular cause just the latest fun meme. Why was this one different?

I, frankly, hate almost all awareness campaigns–that should be said at the start. I think they’re stupefyingly stupidly stupid. “We’re raising awareness for Breast Cancer!” Meaning what? You think Breast Cancer gets a bad rap and you want it to get better press? No, that’s a stupid response. Oh, you want people to know that women get breast cancer? Wow. Because no one knew before the campaign.

Now, if what they mean is “let’s raise money to give to charity” that’s just peachy. Have at it and go crazy. But don’t give me the “awareness” crap. To me that usually means that some vaguely named charity is raising money to pay it’s staff and to pay for events all under the guise of helpfulness. My favourite breast cancer slogan I’ve seen yet was “Fuck Awareness. Find a Cure” (and my variant I’d like to print up and promote, “Fuck Awareness. Fund Research”).

But the Facebook campaign wasn’t anything other than “change your avatar”. It was so simple that many people didn’t even know why people were changing their pictures (although I believe in the original ’round-and-’round it was suggested that you cut-and-paste the meme as your status when you changed your pic). Eventually, I saw a simplified version making the rounds:  change your Facebook pic to your favourite 80s or 90s cartoon character!  Fun times, all around.

And slowly, slowly, people quicker on the keyboard than I started getting angry and responding. Said one blogger (Melissa writing for Redefine  Gurly):

“What happens on December 7th? That’s my question for this silly Facebook group whose goal is: ”There should be no human faces on Facebook but an invasion of memories to raise awareness to end Violence Against Children.” As of this morning the group has 7,800 some members, no website, is made up of “unnamed volunteers”, and offers no information on child abuse numbers, warning signs, or action items in their facebook feed. “

And she questions what is, to me and other abuse survivors, the obvious point:

“If child abuse is a system that feeds on the dehumanization of its tiny victims and the facelessness of the perpetrators, this entire event  [removing "all the human faces"] has me scratching my head.”

It seems that in the face of the criticism and minor backlashes, there are those who’ve decided to add to the meme and actually make it a campaign about awareness. Duy Tano, (of The Comics Cube), pointed out to me that he’s seen a version with links to child abuse hotlines in The Philippines (where he lives). And it seems that some of the charities that deal with child abuse victims have become aware of the campaign and have set up Facebook pages, or linked to the campaign on their Facebook page, and have been able to have some “spillover” effect of people looking for a place to help coming to them and donating money or expressing interest in learning ways to help. That’s not a bad thing.

I’ve run out of anger at the moment…in order to keep it going I would have to keep focus on my own past as a child of abuse…and I’ve spent a lot of years trying to put that all away as something I can’t deal with, can’t fix…can’t ever get away from. I don’t have the energy to deal with it right now. So all I can say to finish is, if you want to help fight child abuse. Help. Find a local teen shelter in your area. Donate money to Kids Helpline  Canada or any help-line in your area. Donate money to Covenant House.

Or, if you want to focus on happy Christmas stuff…find a local toydrive and donate items for teenagers. CP24 CHUM Christmas Wish has been begging for items for teens–they’re usually the last kids that people think of; everyone wants to buy the baby dolls and stuffed animals.

I’m not American, not Catholic…not a mother of a large brood of children (four, which yes by today’s standards is large but it’s not Kennedy large).  My partner isn’t cheating on me with anyone let alone glamorous movie stars. And, at the moment, none of my children are heading for a life in public office. So, why Rose Kennedy?

Rose Kennedy was the mother of John F. Kennedy, war hero, congressman, Senator,  and President of the United States.  He won a Pulitzer. Her son, Robert, was a civil rights activist, Attorney General for the US,  a Senator, and was running to win the Democratic nomination for the presidential elections when he was killed.

Youngest son Ted’s presidential aspirations were lost in Chappaquiddick but he was a Senator for over forty years. Daughter Eunice founded the Special Olympics after years of social work. Jean Kennedy Smith was a US Ambassador to Ireland, and a career diplomat. There were other children:  eldest son Joe died as a bomber pilot during WWII. Daughter Kathleen married a Marquess, and when widowed was set to marry an Earl but died in a plane crash.  Rosemary was institutionalized after a lobotomy left her mentally disabled (the reason for the lobotomy is much debated, apparently).  So, Rose was a busy, busy mother–nine children born in a seventeen year period.

I really don’t know much of anything about Rose Kennedy–I looked up the details about all her children as I could only do the obvious ones off the top of my head. But I did realize that quite a number out of that nine became interesting, significant people who affected the world around them in some way.  And, to so many people–the reason they became “somebody” was their father’s amibitions, his plans for his sons to enter politics, for one to be groomed for the presidency. That so many of the children went off into interesting worthwhile careers can be partly attributed to that, and to working with or for the brother who became President. And, when that brother died, working for various groups founded in his memory. The Kennedys were raised for public service.

But where was Rose in all this? I know that there was wealth in the family–Joe had been raised in wealth, was well-educated, and then made went off to make his own wealth, and accumulated power along the way. Rose was the daughter of a Boston mayor (yep, I’m off reading Wikipedia).

And that’s the thing:  I’m sure there’s bios of Rose Kennedy, but if you do a quick read on Wiki, Rose Kennedy was the daughter of a Boston mayor who married Joseph Kennedy. Then she gave birth to nine children.

And then you’re done reading.

There are links for all the people who were in her life:  the husband, all the children, the grandchildren…but next to nothing about Rose and next to no references. Rose Kennedy was a wife and she was a mother.

And I’m a wife and a mother. Maybe a little more education than Rose, and a few less children, but to most defined just as much in those terms as was she. Here was a woman whose children achieved impressive, public success–and their success is always reflected back on the ambitions and achievements of their father. Rose simply birthed them and provided half the DNA. The family was wealthy so we don’t know how much involvement she had in their daily upkeep but I’m assuming there was some level of help (especially with nine kids!). Obviously, it was a time where women didn’t work:  they had children, they helped their husband, they volunteered and did charity work. And Rose did all those things.

Certainly people are willing to blame the ‘bad’ of the children on the father as much as they were the good:   Joe was long rumoured to be a bootlegger (always leaving that implication that he made his money illegally, that he was a Johnny-come-lately to his wealth and privilege), and well-known for his adultery. His sons’ predilections for cheating were seen as a direct reflection of their father’s example (although there was always that underlying sneer of what Rose Kennedy had or hadn’t done to “make” her husband cheat).

But all in all, without direct access to a biography, Rose Kennedy remains a cypher to me–and I’m not sure even a biography would change that. Sure I’d read how fervently Catholic she was (wouldn’t attend the funeral of her divorced daughter who’d been planning to marry an Anglican once his divorce came through). I’d read how she wanted to leave Joe when she found out about his cheating but was sent home by her parents because she was Catholic and divorce just wasn’t on. And I know she died at 104 and her son Teddy Kennedy said a lot of nice things about her at the time.

Her life isn’t my business, isn’t anyone’s business, but herself and her family. But that family has left a very public record behind. Beyond the nonsense of the “Kennedy Curse”, there are Kennedys engaged in many different levels of public service still today. And I wonder if, sometimes, when the clan was all gathered at the Kennedy Compound, when they were all in a room together, or sitting outside enjoying a drink…I wonder what Rose thought as she looked at all of them. Did she look around the room and think, “This is all I did with my life?”.  Or did she look around and think, “This is all I did with my life!”

…specifically, rheumatoid arthritis. I realize I’m going out on a limb here–wow, hating a degenerative illness. But, yep, I do…

Eighteen months ago, school had just started and I was looking forward to getting control of my time, possibly starting to work freelance (more). But, by the start of week two of the school year, I found myself coming home from the morning walk too exhausted to see straight. I hatehatehate to take naps (I find that they always just make me feel worse) so I try to avoid them at all costs.  But this day, when I realized that it wasn’t just creative exaggeration–I really couldn’t keep my eyes open–I headed to bed, setting the alarm for an hour.

I would rouse enough with the sound of the alarm to hit the “sleep” button, extending the alarm for ten minutes. Sometime after 1pm, I actually managed to reset the alarm for 3pm, and went back to sleep. At 3:20, after hitting “sleep” for the second time, I heard the Guy heading out the front door, clearly on his way to get the kids from school.  At least I assumed so–I was too tired to get up, to even find out. I comforted myself with the thought that, if he wasn’t, eventually the kids would get bored waiting for me and would head home on their own.

I spent the week like that…I would get up, make dinner, stumble around after cleaning up the kitchen, try to stay conscious long enough to see the kids off to bed, then head to my own. I was exhausted, my brain was on slow and felt like it was two inches to the left of my body; I felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to me in the night.

By the end of the week I was able to make that afternoon walk to the school–by leaving at 3:00 to allow myself enough time to shuffle slowly there. I greeted one of the other playground moms with a casual, “hey, stranger!” and she assumed that I was referring to the fact that she had been away sick all week. We compared symptoms and they’d been the same. Except for the fact that neither of us had had a high temp, we were assuming that it was flu and were both surprised that it was having such an early start.

A week later, I ‘fessed up to the same friend that not only did I still feel battered, but my joints felt as if they were swollen and hot.  “On fire” was the expression I used. She looked at me in shock and said, “You have to get to a doctor.” I tried reassuring her that it was clearly post-flu recovery (which can take up to six weeks) but I knew that the fire in my joints was not a normal symptom.

Which is why when I headed off to the doctor the next week, in mid-October, I was not surprised by her instant diagnosis.  “You must have rheumatoid arthritis!” I’d gone the google-route, typed in “hot, swollen joints” and “flu” and page after page after page of hits all answered, “rheumatoid arthritis”. Every list I read of symptoms was a complete description of what I was going through. I even found articles about flu-like illnesses being a trigger for some cases.  So, I was completely prepared.

I was even somewhat relieved. I don’t like the unknown, I don’t like things hanging over my head, worrying about them, waiting, waiting, waiting–I always prefer the answer even if it’s a Big Bad. Answers give you information, knowledge, a place to go, a place to start to look for solutions–the unknown gives you nothing but fear and grief (yes, I have issues!).

My doctor suggested that there was a chance that it was just reactive arthritis (rheumatoid arthritis-like symptoms triggered by the body trying to fight an inflammatory illness and going slightly overboard) and that it could be temporary–up to six months. She prescribed 1800 mg of ibuprofen a day, and asked me to come back in a week.

A week later, I returned announcing that I’d had to start taking acetimenophen in order to counter all the headaches I’d been getting while taking the ibuprofen. Yes, that sounds strange and counter-intutitive, but that’s what happened and I didn’t really like it. The ibuprofen had helped a bit, but not enough to be really interesting. The doctor said that all my bloodwork had come back negative for all the various tests she’d asked for (to make sure it wasn’t lupus, certain inflammatory illnesses, etc) and prescribed meloxicam, an anti-inflammatory generally one of the first things prescribed for RA.

Luckily for me, my doctor’s clinic had just recently paired up with a rheumatologist fresh out of med school. I had a choice of their well-established rheumatologist and a wait of three to six months, or the newbie. I easily chose the newbie, and found myself in her office within a week.  Luck was, for once, on my side.

The rheumatologist reiterated my doctor’s diagnosis. If I was fine the next time she saw me, beginning of February, then it was reactive arthritis–if I was still sick, then it was rheumatoid arthritis.  Off I went to wait and live my life.

The meloxicam was great. I wasn’t 100% better on it–but the small amount of improvement helped enormously. I no longer felt like I’d fallen down a flight of stairs. I no longer was consumed by tremors or shaking (by the time I’d seen the rheumatologist, I’d developed a symptom where I felt like one does when one is shivering from extreme cold. My muscles were aching and sore from that and it left me trembling and feeling weak from head to toe). The pain in all my joints was still there, but I actually felt like I could use them somewhat. I still had tremendous headaches, but realized that was because the pain in my shoulders and neck was making me tense up constantly.

February, I returned to the rheumatologist and had a quick awkward greeting with her. “How are you?” she asked, and I politely if flippantly responded, “Peachy.” I thought my sardonic tone was obvious, but she looked up in quick shock and said, “Really! You’re better? That’s great!”

Oh…not a greeting then, but an immediate launch into my appointment. Ah…so I clarified my situation, and she said, subdued, “Oh. Okay–you have rheumatoid arthritis. Darn–I was really hoping it was just going to be temporary.” I walked out with a prescription for methotrexate.

The methotrexate, commonly used for chemo, was amazing. Although, it too did not take me back to a sense of being completely normal and healthy, my body’s response to it was still fairly immediate. The burning feeling in my joints ameliorated, the pain in my neck finally stopped, stopping the headaches. I even began to feel as if I could use my hands again.

And so began my treatment. I’ve run out of enthusiasm–and time–for this entry, so I’m going for a fast windup here! But, I will probably continue my venting at a later time…given that my RA won’t be going away any time in my future.

(this is the last reblog from my defunct blog, “What I hate about…”)

I don’t think I even need to type more than that…

Oh! Except there’s a variant–I hate, hate, HATE those articles that try to pretend that they’re acknowledging the greed of Christmas gifts and explain how the author “teaches” their children the “message” of Christmas…if I read one more stupid piece of advice by some well-intentioned mother (who has never heard that “the road to hell is paved with good intentions…most wrapped in Christmas paper”), Arghh!  The advice is along the lines of “the weeks before Christmas, I explain to the children that they need to go through their toys and pick out ones to give away to less fortunate children. That way, when they get new toys on Christmas they will appreciate them more.” It’s always some variation of “make the kids give away old toys in order to get new toys”.

Here’s my thought–if your kids are giving away anything other than toys that are not age-appropriate, or broken…your kids must have too many damned toys and maybe they just don’t need any this year.  You don’t HAVE to give kids piles of stuff every year.  It always makes me think of the horrible Harry Potter cousin and his birthday presents (every year there had to be one more present than the year before).

(another reblog from “What I hate about…”)