Say no to the Trump Card

      One of the first things we learn as children is to be nice to people -- treat them as we would want to be treated.  This is reiterated in the Bible as the "Golden Rule" - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Who remembers our parents telling us "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," and  "it's ok to be different."  There's also that general rule of respect -- show a little for others, even if you don't like them.  These are basic rules of society, and if followed, people of different race, beliefs and religion can live together in relative harmony.
       I'm sure Donald Trump's mom attempted to instill these simple character traits in little Donald, and he must have learned them in military school as a teen, but somewhere along the way, he apparently decided they didn't apply to him.  In an era when teaching kids not to bully has become a nationwide focus, Mr. Trump is the worst kind of bully because he preys on anyone and everyone without regard for their personal circumstances.  He has an audience, and a world-wide platform to spew his venomous opinions and childish mockery about anyone who disagrees with him.   How will he react to Vladimir Putin, or Kim Jong-un, when they challenge him or say something about him that he doesn't like?  How will they respond to being called losers, know-nothings, insignificant?  I'm scared that we might find out.
      It's true that political correctness sometimes goes too far, but in some circumstances, being politically correct is simply the right way to act, or speak.  Not with Mr. Trump.  He is too cocky, too narcissistic, too pigheaded to care if he is saying the right thing.  His recent "I can stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody (displaying the shooting motion with his finger) and I still won't lose any votes" comment is appalling, especially in today's climate of mass-shootings.  It's also clear evidence that he doesn't get it.
    In some ways, Donald Trump has said all the right things, delivery notwithstanding, to recruit Americans onto his crazy-train.  He says what a lot of Americans are thinking -- protect our borders, make America great again, "cut the head off Isis," grow the economy, reduce the debt and cut the budget ... bring back the American dream.   Who doesn't want this for America?   I know I do! But the problem is that he has not hinted at any plan for how to accomplish these, and about 70 other lofty tasks he has promised us if we elect him president.  By the way, one of his promises is to "say things that are politically incorrect because the country doesn't have time to waste with political correctness" (according to the Washington Post).    The country also doesn't have time to mop up his massive messes with other country leaders when he offends them or puts his expensive Italian-leather-clad foot in his mouth!
   I'm typically not one to voice my political opinion.  I don't believe one's voting decision should be swayed by Hollywood actors, musicians, athletes, or even bloggers like me.  When I think about casting my vote, I do consider the opinions of those I respect, who I consider well-read, smart, educated and sensible.  However, in this case, I feel strongly about what is not good for our country, so I can't hold back.  Donald Trump is not the answer for America.  He is not the savior we need to guide us into better days. He is not a leader we can feel safe with.  He is everything we teach our kids NOT to be.  He has been publicly inconsiderate of others feelings, he's been a bully, he's been rude, and brash.  And while he may be a successful business man, he is in no way qualified to be Commander in Chief of the world's most impressive military, or to run the greatest country in the world.
     I hope Trump supporters come to realize that Donald Trump as president could not only put our country in danger, but it will make us the laughing stock of the world and put us at risk of losing the respect America has worked hard to earn over the last 240 years.

A mom and son -- the bond

     One of the four happiest days of my life was Jan. 14, 1988 -- the day I gave birth to my first child -- my only son.  I remember so clearly how excited Jeff and I were -- how excited I was to tell Jeff -- that we were pregnant.  We celebrated that night with an after-work dinner at the Village Steak House (now home to Stockholders).  Not much of a milk drinker, I set aside my prefence for diet soda or seltzer water and ordered a glass of milk with my salad bar dinner.  I had a life growing inside me and would do everything I could to make sure it had a healthy stay.  At dinner we talked about what we wanted -- boy or girl -- but both of us just wanted a happy, healthy baby who would grow up with a sense of humor!

 I loved being pregnant, and with the exception of constant heartburn, I never felt sick and had a fairly easy time carrying around this little being inside me.  Even giving  birth to him wasn't that difficult.  My water broke at 6 a.m., and by 6 p.m. we were driving into the hospital in a snow storm with me in mild labor.  Nearly six hours later, with no pain meds and four hours of intense labor, my little gift from God -- Matthew William -- was born. Jeff liked the name for the good, rugged nickname.  To everyone but me he became Matt.  To me he's always been Matthew.  His grandpa called him Mattie (or abercrombe, but that's another story).  The William did double duty, honoring his dad's middle name and the uncle who would be his Godfather.
   

In the 28 years of being his mom, I learned some things about me, and about being a mom to a son.  I never thought it possible to love an adorable, spitty baby; a stuck-in-his-ways boy; an argumentative adolescent; a messy, know-it-all teen; a sometimes-reckless college student; a caring, independent man -- so much.  I never realized how much I needed him; how much I could depend on him if I allowed myself to; and how hard it would be to gradually let go as he attaches to his future.
     I nurtured him, read to him, held him and encouraged him.  I guided him through the loss of his dad at 13.  I taught him to shave with his dad's razor at 15.  I cheered him on in hockey, soccer, and life.

I scolded him when the stupid teenager took over and I tried to instill lessons from that stupidity that would make him a respectable man.  I gave him room to spread his wings, and helped to soften the landing when he fell.  I taught him how to treat a woman, and hugged him tight when the relationship failed.
     Through it all, he has always been there for me, too.  Even in jr. high or high school, he never shied away from hugging me in public or in front of his friends.  He's grown up to be an amazing young man of whom his father would be so proud.
     There's a special bond between a mom and son.  It's not stronger than that between a mom and daughter, or father and daughter -- just different.   The more independent he has grown through life, the more blessed I am knowing that bond is there forever.  My son has never been too cool to love his mom, and for that, I'm grateful. Happy Birthday to my boy!

Christmas past is Christmas present

We made it through another Christmas -- our 15th without Jeff.  Some would say we should be accustomed to it by now, and I suppose we are, but it doesn't change the subtle sadness I still feel, the "what ifs" I think about, and the memories we still hold.  I was always the shopper of most things Christmas, and Jeff would take charge of taking the kids to buy the tree, putting it up, adding the lights, and stringing the lights on the shrubs outside.  He'd sneak away to the store, sometimes alone and sometimes with the kids to do his shopping, and would always come back with a find he was excited to share.  It might have been a goofy ornament he personalized for one of the kids, a game, or something he found that screamed "this is from dad" when put under the tree.  Christmas Eve night after church and take-out chinese food, he'd scramble around to help me finish all I had to do before morning -- he'd lead the kids in decorating cookies, wrap the last of the gifts, set the living room for Christmas morning and then head to bed, knowing I'd be following at the wee hours of the morning,

encouraging me not to stay up too late.  In the morning he'd wait for the kids to wake us up, make them wait in their rooms while he made coffee, lit a fire, poured them oj, added his own touch to their and my stocking, and placed a few more things under the tree. I made the pop-n-fresh cinnamon rolls, and a cup of tea for me.  Then he'd have the kids pose for a picture on the stairs before letting them into the living room. This was our tradition.  It was our Christmas.
And for the most part, it still is.
Christmas traditions are made to be honored, in spite of changes that may happen, but only if they work for everyone.  Because the kids have always wanted to, we've kept the traditions they've known since birth.  We've added new ones, like setting up the "Dad tree," but all those other traditions remain.

 

As the "kids" age and introduce significant others into the family, I know it's only a matter of time before some of those traditions are let go.  One year, probably sooner than later, one of the kids will be with their spouse's family, or one of the spouses may be joining us.  Christmas as we've known it may be a thing of the past, but it also means more new traditions are in our future.  As time moves on, I'll always see Jeff there in his maroon bathrobe and his plaid pajama pants, both made by my own hands; his stocking that he's had since he was a boy hanging from the mantle; I'll hear his goofy laugh at the prospect of the kids opening up something he gave them, and I'll feel his hug as he makes the rounds in the room saying Merry Christmas and thank you to each of the kids and me.  Whether its 15 years or more, the kids and I will enjoy our Christmas, our traditions, and our memories that we made together.  And we'll be grateful to share another Christmas as a family.