Showing posts with label human nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label human nature. Show all posts

Friday, June 5, 2015

What Caitlyn Does With Bruce's Penis is None of My Business

I wasn't going to write about Caitlyn Jenner.  In fact, after I read this piece of perfection, I really wasn't going to write anything; because, damn.  She nailed it.  The fact that it came from a Christian woman is what sealed it for me.  

Actually, let's back up.  I almost stopped reading that post when the author at "Motherhood...Unscripted" mentions the she is a Christian woman.  I guess that statement reveals my own prejudices fairly well, doesn't it?  I never said I was perfect.  I am working on it.  Being open to some one's words is a baby step in the right direction, I think.

My biases (that I SWEAR, I am working on!) are the subject of another post (or three) another day.

Okay, so the internet practically exploded when Caitlyn Jenner revealed her new, gorgeous self in Vanity Fair.


The haters came out almost immediately with the pictures.  I won't give them credit by posting any examples, but .5 seconds of Googling will get you many.  On one hand, I get it.  I don't condone it, but I get it.  It can be frightening when people don't follow the "norm".  It makes us question reality and our own place in the world and that is really, really scary.  It's much easier to see the world in black and white and wrong versus right, than to see the infinite shades of gray.  It takes a whole lot of thinking and who has time for that?  (Sarcasm...sorry.)

Seriously, though.  Wouldn't things be much easier (for you) if people just stayed who you thought they were?  And that is precisely my point.  What YOU think about someone else might have very little or nothing at all to do with who they really are. As parents, our kids grow out of the roles we assign them.  They get tattoos and girlfriends that you won't necessarily like.  They get to decide how to live their own lives...as scary as it seems.  We did it, with varying degrees of success, and they will too.

How we react, however, is all on us.  I think it is healthy to ask why, because only in questioning can we get to understanding, or at least, some level of acceptance.  In this case, I think the first, and only question we need to ask is:  How does Caitlyn Jenner's life affect me?  I can only answer for myself.  My answer is:  Mostly, it does not.  I say mostly because she has said that she is a Republican; and Republicans with money can and DO affect my life.  

(again, this is a post for another day)

The only other way Caitlyn affects me, is that her spread in Vanity Fair gives me one more unattainable model of beauty to reach for.  It is slightly disheartening that a sixty-something, former man, can look that freaking great in a corset.  I mean, those legs!  Those breasts!  Those collarbones!  Sigh...  Then again, if I could be made up and dressed by professionals, then photographed in soft lighting by Annie Liebovitz, I would probably look pretty hot, too.  It would definitely be better than yelling at my kids or husband to stop shooting me from under my chin while trying to hide behind my tallest child.

Caitlyn, in the end, is just a human being.  She has asked to be called "she" and I respect that.  It is her body, after all.  She still has a penis.  As confusing as that may be, in the end, who cares?  She has had that penis all her life.  I can imagine she is pretty attached to it (no pun intended...really).  That penis ran across the finish line along with the rest of (eventually to be) her and collected a gold medal in the decathlon in the 1976 Summer Olympics.  Maybe it is this that has people so bothered.  How can Caitlyn be Bruce and vice-versa?  I honestly don't have the answers to that.  Caitlyn herself said in the Vanity Fair article that she still screws up her name.  So, it's okay if we are confused, too.  

It's just not okay to be mean, or belittle those who feel as she does, or others' who don't quite fit into the neat little boxes that we wish they would.  I repeat:  It is NOT okay.  If your reaction to Caitlyn is one of anger or hatred, I suggest that you take a good look at yourself and ask why?




Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Happy New Year...What The What?

There are two stories making the rounds this New Year's Eve that have me shaking my head.  One is tragic and the other is just...silly.

The first one is the story of a two year old that shot and killed his mother in a Utah Walmart.  Horrifying.  So many lives ruined in a second.  It raises so many questions:  Why was the gun in her purse?  Why was the kid left alone with the gun and purse?  How did his two year old fingers manage to pull the trigger?  What was she so afraid of in that little podunk town that she felt she needed to be armed to go to Walmart?  Did she get the gun for Christmas?

See the story here.

I don't want to get into a gun debate.  I really don't.  My husband is a former Marine.  He has massive respect for what guns and more importantly, bullets, can do.  We don't have a gun in the house, but if and when we move to the country (which we are thinking about in the future), my husband has already said that he would want a rifle; nothing crazy, just something for protection in a remote area where the police response time is decidedly slower than it is in the suburbs.  I know that he will be responsible with it.  He is that kind of guy.  I am no fan of guns myself, but I have no problem with responsible gun owners.  Where "responsible" becomes "irresponsible" becomes a bit more blurry for me, but that is a discussion for another day.  

I have been reading the debates about this incident.  The most ridiculous arguments are being made by some who are bragging about how savvy their own two year old's are with guns.  They are saying things like "They know not to touch a gun, ever".  I even saw a guy compare his having guns and teaching his toddlers about them to electrical outlets.  "We teach them not to touch those!  This is the same thing!".  Really?

Not the same, not at all.  Yes, we teach our kids to stay away from hot pots and electrical outlets...and guns, and accidents still happen.  As much as we parents are on top of our little ones, we still need to use the bathroom from time to time, or answer the door, or check on another child, or make dinner, or, or...so many "ors" in life.  Two year old's (and five year old's and ten year old's and teenagers and young adults...) don't make the best decisions.  Sure, they may have been told a thousand times that running into the street after a ball is a no-no, but how many do it anyway?  The answer is:  ALL OF THEM.  At one time or another, every kid puts themselves in some kind of dangerous situation.  Hopefully, usually, there is an adult nearby to save them from themselves.

While I certainly hope that these parents of gun-savvy two year old's are correct; which I highly, highly doubt, (sorry, THEY ARE TWO!) what I hope more is that they never learn whether they were wrong.  I hope they never have to second guess their actions because of a tragedy.  I also fervently hope that they are more responsible than that mom in the Walmart.  However you feel about guns, I am fairly certain that we can agree that a loose, loaded handgun in a purse within reach of everyone around you, not just your kids, is a bad idea; really, horribly, sometimes tragically bad.

I am thinking about this family today and hoping that they can find some peace in the coming year.


The other story making the rounds is about...drumroll, please...Playdoh.  It seems that in an attempt to design a kid friendly, fake cake making set, the manufacturers made one part look like this 
---------------------------------------->

I mean, okay.  I see it.  The person that designed it is either totally incompetent or a total, toy making genius.  After all, it is getting attention.

What I don't get is how this ruined anyone's Christmas.  People are actually saying that.  "It ruined Christmas when our daughter opened this present!", they are saying, hands held to throats in horror.

Seriously?  In what world does this ruin anything?  Sure, it looks like a tiny penis.  My question is:  Who cares?  It's not a tiny penis.  It's a tiny, Playdoh part that happens to look a bit like a tiny penis.  

Penises do not ruin Christmas.  They just don't.  Parents who make a big deal over nothing, do.

Why these two stories together, you ask?  What does one have to do with the other?  The way I see it, with all the horrors in the world, including a two year old shooting and killing his mom, tiny plastic phalluses are the least of our worries; or at least, they should be.

Are we really that far gone as a society that we are so desensitized to violence that we shrug it off, but anything that even resembles a penis has to be blurred out for our viewing (like they did here)?  What does that say about us?  Penises, real, fake, purposeful or not, are not the problem.  Our twisted view of what is bad or wrong, is.

Friday, October 24, 2014

What Ifs

They really aren't helpful, are they?

We all have them.  

Mine range from the superficial "what if I were taller/thinner/better looking?" to questions about my path in life "what if I had moved to NYC instead of Los Angeles?" to "how would my life be different (better/worse) if I had never had kids?"

Yes, I have thought about that last one.  I'm not saying I wish I hadn't had my kids, because that is totally untrue.  Sure, there are moments when I look around my tiny, cluttered house and wish I was living in a loft in Paris...alone.  Who doesn't have these kind of daydreams?  (Angelina Jolie)  I'm saying that maybe I could have been thinner, traveled the world, made some more money, etc, etc, if I hadn't.  And maybe not.  Maybe I would be just as poor, chunky, travel deprived as I am now.  Who really knows?

It's a trade-off.  Okay, for some, it isn't (Hello, Angelina!), but for most, having kids means your life will be somewhat messier and you will be somewhat poorer.  For most parents it is a welcome trade-off.  Our kids enrich our lives in big and small ways every day.  My kids make me laugh, make me proud and make me yell in frustration, sometimes in the span of two minutes.  It's crazy and chaotic and I am happy and feel privileged to have such great kids.


I thought about these "what ifs" when I read an article about a mom with the headline "Mom of son with Down syndrome, 47, wishes she had had an abortion"...or something along those lines.  I refuse to post the article here, but a little Googling on your part will bring you to the story I am referring to.

I read it because a few of my friends had posted it, incredulous that this hateful piece was out there, complete with pictures of the family.  I repeat, pictures.

I am having a hard time wrapping my brain around putting your kid (he's an adult, but still her child) out there with the words "I wish he were never born" or actually, even worse, "I wish I had known what you would be so I could have aborted you" alongside a brand new family portrait.  I am no psychiatrist, but I think there is something deeply, fundamentally wrong with this person.

My first reaction was "how dare she?!"  Seriously, how dare she put her kid's name and picture out there with those words?!?  How dare she pose with him like they were a family?!?!  What purpose does this have?  We should feel sorry for her?  We should pity her?  What does she get out of this?  I have to wonder.  Maybe ( I think, definitely) she has some serious mental disorder.  Maybe she was duped into telling her sensationalized story by some unscrupulous editor (the source it comes from is known for it's outrageous stories and is no friend to the disability community).

Maybe.


I feel awful for her children.  She has another, older son who is missing from the latest family portrait; I would be very interested to hear what he has to say about all of this.  As for her younger son, I just feel so much sadness.  How awful to be the subject of so much loathing and misplaced anger and self-pity.  This woman has decided that her life would have been better without her younger son in it.  Meanwhile, she institutionalized him, so he really wasn't in it much, anyway, so I don't understand how he ruined her life.  She is blaming her crappy life on a child; a child that didn't ask for his issues, or choose his parents.  I have to believe that all any child really wants from their parents is to be loved and accepted.  Feeling like a disappointment is no way to go through life.

I feel sad for her, too, though it's a grudging feeling.  I really don't think she deserves my pity, but I do pity her.  I pity her crappy life.  I pity her inability to see the good and that it outweighs the bad.  I pity the small, sheltered space she must inhabit.  I pity the hatred she must feel for herself.

Yes, I am angry.  I am angry that she put this out there for expecting parents to see.  Will their fears be confirmed with this story?  I hope not.  I hope that they know that there are many, many more parents of kids with Down syndrome who feel pretty much the exact opposite of this one, myself included.

I am angry that people say she is a product of her generation.  That statement is a slap in the face to any parent that chose the hard road of keeping their kid home and fighting for inclusion in those earlier days.  She could have been a pioneer and she chose to be a coward.

Parenting is not for the timid.  At least, parenting well isn't.  

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Pancakes

It's a long weekend.  I love it when Sunday doesn't mean the weekend is coming to an end, it's only the middle.  Soak it up!  Do! Stuff!  I know what I will do (I think to myself), I will make delicious, cool looking pancakes that my whole family will adore so much, they will beg me to make them all the time and they will become the stuff of family legend.  They will be crying over my coffin thinking about how freaking ridiculously awesome these pancakes were.


(Don't they look great?!?  Not sure about the gummy worms, though, weird.)

I mentally pat myself on the back for being such a great mom as I stroll the market looking for the correct ingredients.  They don't carry an apple corer?  Oh well, I think...no matter.  I will just core these lovely Granny Smith apples by hand.  It should only take, what...30 minutes? (the real answer is:  infinity)

Two hours later, I have given up trying to make apple rings.  After nearly losing two fingers and ruining four apples, I have settled for making a small batch of apple rings and then, I will use the rest of the batter for apple pancakes...just dicing up the leftover apple and adding it to the batter.  

Not quite what I had in mind, but 120 minutes in, there is no way I am not making something on the griddle.

Oh crap.  The griddle is still on top of the fridge and needs to be cleaned.

After scrubbing the crap out of the non-stick (note:  foreshadowing) griddle, I finally start working on the batter.

I read the instructions on the side of the bag of gluten free pancake mix.  "How many eggs do I need?!?!? 5?!?!????!!!  What the hell, Pamela?!?!  Okay, I will use applesauce to make up the difference.  WHAT?!?!?!!!  How are we out of applesauce???!!???Okay, it's still fine, I will improvise.  Two eggs + Two tablespoons of Earth Balance + One cup of Almond Milk+ Whatever oil we have left = Five eggs, right?  Whatever."

The batter is finally prepared and the griddle is hot.  I place the apple rings on the griddle and begin to gently drizzle batter over them.

"What in the world?!?!?  There is no way to leave the middle circle open.  NO WAY.  Okay, that's fine.  They will be circles, not rings, but no less delicious or beautiful."

I am now sweating in my 100 degree kitchen and have gone partially deaf from the sound of the overhead exhaust fan as it labors fruitlessly to waft the smell of burnt batter away from the stove.

Brett comes in and asks if I can drive him to a friend's house.  I ask him very sweetly to wait until I am done making him THESE! DELICIOUS! PANCAKES! and turkey bacon and he backs slowly out of the room.  Smart child.

It as at about this moment that I try and turn the rings (now circles) over.  

If an appliance could laugh, this electric griddle would have.  Huge, loud, Teflon coated guffaws.  "Oh, you want to flip these pancakes?  These, right here?  No way in hell, lady.  Ha ha ha ha ha haaa."


Apple Ring Pancakes:  Nailed it!

I take a few belly breaths and count to five.  It is either that, or start dismantling the kitchen board by board.

I look over at the sad remains of the apple ring pancakes and decide to give in and just make pancakes with apple bits.  They are sure to be delicious, still, right?

I dollop the apple batter onto the comal (with about a half container of Earth Balance to ensure non-stickedness) and let go of the breath I have been holding in for the last two hours.

Danny comes in and takes one look at the griddle and almost starts laughing until he sees the flames shoot from my eyeballs.  Instead, he starts scraping the crap off of it, wondering out loud if the apples are still salvageable.

I start laughing...that maniacal laugh that you know is just one step below tears while wielding the spatula like a knife.

He backs away, nibbling on half burnt/half raw pancake batter and apple, swearing it is delicious.  This is an example of why we are still married.

In the end, I do manage to pull off some surprisingly good apple pancakes and turkey bacon, which only Brett and Danny wound up eating.  The other two rolled their eyes at me and reminded me why I never try and make breakfast in the first place.


Amy's Apple Pancakes

Prep Time:  Three hours

Crying Time:  Three hours (on and off)

Time Husband Spends Trying To Hold In Laughter:  Your entire marriage

Eating Time:  Three minutes

Cleaning Up Afterwards:  Ninety minutes

Yield:  12 Somewhat edible, very greasy pancakes


Thursday, July 3, 2014

Warm

I love the summer.  It is, by far, my favorite time of year.  Everything around me screams "All is right with the world", my yard is overflowing with blooms in shades of purple, orange and red and green, green, green everywhere.  In July, I'll put my yard up against any other in looks.  It's not a well tamed and weed free yard, it is ALIVE and wild and gorgeous and it fills me with joy just being in it.

The feral-ish outdoor cats we care for are fat, lazy and happy.  They lounge on the furniture and luxuriate in the sun.  They have forgotten all about the harsh, prolonged winter we just experienced that really only left for good in the middle of May.  It's easy to forget how cold and bleak the winter can be when you feel the warm sun on your skin.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, however, there is that nagging, niggling little thought about how fleeting this all is.  Summer, as majestic and rich as it is, is only here for a few short months...thirteen weeks...twenty six weekend days...ninety some-odd total days.  

And then, the dying begins.  The petals drop and the days get shorter.  The leaves start falling and everywhere has the smell of rotting, dying vegetation that only weeks earlier was a delight to the eyes and nose.  

And I feel myself dying with it.  My life becomes smaller in the dark, cold time of the year.  I retreat within myself, like a caterpillar making a cocoon.  I want to sleep a lot.  I want to eat and sleep and watch bad television and pretend that it isn't happening...but it is and it does every year...  if I am lucky, I guess.  If I am lucky, I will get to experience this for many, many years to come.

I find that the older I get, the harder this change is for me.  If find myself waking up in July dreading the end of what has really only just started.  I get myself worked up about sleeping too late or missing any, tiny part of it.  I mourn every lily at the end of every day.  I wonder if I am missing it in my mourning.  Am I missing the beauty because I mourn it's passing?  Or, is there beauty in both?  The beauty in a lily is in the fact that it is impermanent.  It awakens on the day it is ready and for that day, it is full of life.  When the sun sets, it is all over.  This doesn't make the lily less beautiful, but more. 

It is July.  I live in the Midwest, outside of Chicago and the joke here is that we only have two seasons:  Winter and 4th of July.  Sometimes, it's "Winter and Road Construction".  Maybe that is part of my problem.  Once the 4th is past, I start thinking about that other season.  I am an optimist who is constantly warring with the pessimist inside.  My optimist is a bookish wimp and my pessimist takes steroids and works out...a lot.  My optimist tries to use logic:  "It's only early July!" and my pessimist sends her a mighty backhand.  My pessimist would always rather fight than reason.

July fourth is tomorrow.  It is high summer; hot, fun, full of life and food and festivals and carnivals and music and fireworks.  It is a cause for celebration and something to think about when we are knee deep in dirty snow on a dark and miserable January afternoon.



Summer is a limited edition and each one, though similar, is unique.  Grab on to it, bury your nose in it and breathe deep.  Make a memory and hold it close to your heart.  

We are alive in this glorious, fleeting moment.  Let's make the most of it.  And tell your inner pessimist to shut it.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

An ode to my BFFFF

Oh, yes.  All the F's have meaning.  :)

We met about eleven years ago.

Our kids were attending the same preschool and after a few months of fawning over the adorable, blue eyed and blond haired kid with Down syndrome in my son, Evan's class, I decided that I would seek out his mom when I got the chance.

The chance came when Evan was turning four and we decided to have a party for him.  Since Nick was in his class (and I was in love with him), he got an invitation.

And his mom called me up, clearly emotional at the invite.  It turned out that it was his first invitation to a party and it was a pretty big deal.  Most parents of kids with obvious differences would probably agree.  We are all pretty sensitive when it comes to our kids being included and when it happens, we bawl.

One of the things I have come to realize about being a parent of a kid with Down syndrome is that when Charles was born, I was immediately given membership to a very cool and exclusive club.  I'm not saying all the members are awesome.  All Ds parents are not created equally.  We are not all "special" or "patient" or even "nice"; but, I have met some very, very cool people because of it.

Christy is one of these cool people.

So, we had our first phone conversation and by the time it was over, I knew that we would be at least BFF's if not BFFFF's.

I knew this because in the first five minutes I had already told her about my love affair with Dave Matthews and how I didn't want to actually, physically stalk him because I loved him so much that I didn't want to mess up his life.

Yes, I realize that this confession makes me sound like a lunatic.  (and just as a side note, I have calmed down over Dave Matthews, though I would never kick him out of bed turn down an invitation from him to play Canasta.  Jon Seda, on the other hand)...ahem...anyway...


I think the fact that she did not scream "WRONG NUMBER" and hang up on me, but patiently listened and then confessed her own super weird celebrity love affair fantasy cemented our friendship like crazy glue sticks to fingertips.

We were bonded for life.

I am grateful to her for so many reasons.  Here are a few:


  1. I am kind of a shitty friend.  I am super demanding and I have very, very thin skin.  She lets me rant like a two year old who dropped her ice cream and patiently waits for me to stop my temper tantrum so I can apologize and we can move on.
  2. Because of number 1, I have very few, real friends.  She is the kind of person that has people lining up to be her BFFFF and the fact that she gets me makes me feel pretty good.  
  3. Even if I am not her number one BFFFF, she never lets on.  I am sure she reassures those other friends that they are number one with her AND THAT IS OKAY WITH ME.  But, I know the truth <<< wink >>>
  4. She has my back, always.
  5. She is incredibly funny and she has started her own blog.  I promised I would try not to be jealous even though she out-funny-ed me in the first day.  Remember number 1?  Yeah...
Here is the link to her super funny, new blog.  Please check it out, but don't leave me, okay?  I am ridiculously competitive and I have huge abandonment issues...

Saturday, May 31, 2014

44

Reggie Jackson's number on the Yankees.

Five years into the "forever 39" phase of my life.

The age my mom was when I got engaged and the age I am now.

In two years, I'll be the same age my father was when a massive heart attack cut short his life and the same age my grandmother was when I was born.

I'm thinking about those people who are gone.

I'm thinking about what birthdays even mean.

This is not a significant number, but on the other hand, birthdays seem to gain significance as I get older.

I'm thinking about Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally", crying about turning forty and Billy Crystal is incredulous because she won't be forty for eight years.  I am the Meg Ryan in this scenario.

I am thinking about ice cream trucks; the miracle I thought they were when I was seven and the smelly, speeding, overpriced nuisance I think they are now.

I am thinking about how long the summer seemed when I was a kid, even as a teenager who slept away beautiful, fragrant days and how short it seems, now.

I am missing the days of homemade cards written in just-learned letters by chubby boy hands.

I am hearing that line from a Billy Joel song; a line he probably wrote on a birthday of his own:  "The good old days weren't always good; tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems".

It's comforting, in a way.

Forty four.

It's not so bad.


Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Who Needs Rules?

My son, Charles has no use for arbitrary rules.  Real rules, like safety-type rules, he is mostly down with.  At least, the ones he agrees with.  The fact that he cannot drive a car because he:  

a)  is too young to get a license
b)  is unable to pass the written test
and 
c)  has 20/375 vision

does not sit well with him.  If there is a way to get a license, then, by god, he will get one with his will.

Thankfully, I have another year or so to cross that bridge (and maybe move to Wyoming, where his driving probably won't kill anyone).

Anyway, back to Mom's Arbitrary Rules and the reason for this post. We have the same fight, every day over what shelf the acne treatment pads should go on.

I know.  It sounds silly even as I type it.

Here's the thing, though.  IT DRIVES ME CRAZY!  I have them put away, neatly, on the lower shelf behind the cabinet door.  Invariably, the next time I go into the bathroom, they are on the top of the cabinet.  Every time.

My house is not haunted.

I don't have little demons moving things around, trying to freak me out.  Even if I did, I would hope they would do something a bit more interesting than move Charles' acne medicine.

No, this is Charles telling me exactly what he thinks of my stupid rules.  Because, really?  Is anyone going to die if the stupid acne pads are on top of the cabinet?  No.  Mom is just going to go a little bit crazier.  And isn't that the end game?  Making mom crazier?  Because crazy mom is HILARIOUS!

I used to think so, but now I am not so sure.

I think after awhile, after so many years of people telling you that your shoes go on the other feet, that the dirty plates go on the right side of the sink AFTER THEY ARE RINSED, that you CANNOT DRIVE MOM'S CAR, you kind of need to rebel a little.

I want my kid to buck the system.  True, that he is bucking MY system kind of makes me nuts, but do I really want a kid that is going to just follow along with any old thing any random person "in authority" says?  

No.

I want my kid to push back against those who will tell him what he can and cannot do without giving him the why.  Because some of those whys are arbitrary.  

"It's the way things are done"  is arbitrary.  It's also a cop out.

So, buck that system, my Charles.  I'll be right behind you, with bail money if need be.



Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Sentimental Me

Maybe it's foolish.  I've been called worse things.  

It's easy to become sentimental as you get older, but I was born that way.  From as far back as I can remember, I saved little things.  I had a terrible time parting with anything someone I loved gave me, whether it was a plastic ring from a gumball machine or a stuffed animal or a birthday card.  

When my Mom, or grandma, or grandpa would kiss my cheek, I would be careful not to rub it and could feel it, lingering there, for a long time afterwards.  

The one and only year I went to camp, the girls in my cabin were mean and clique-y.  Though I felt a bit lonely, the fact that they weren't nice to me didn't bother me as much as the fact that they wrecked the bed that my mom so nicely made for me before she left.  All those thoughtful, tight tucks, undone in a fit of eleven year old menace.  

If you look in my purse, I know you will find at least one old shopping list written by my Mom and a note about my worn out tires from my Dad.  In the kitchen drawer, notes from my Dear Husband about slippery roads, hot coffee and cats.  On the top shelf of the closet, nearly every drawing, project and card ever made by my children and birthday cards from relatives dating back to the 70's.

My father's mother passed away last April, but her voice is still on my answering machine.  I'd still have my other grandmother's voice as well, but her last message to me got erased.  Believe me when I say it really bothers me that it's gone.  I also had my youngest son's voice on there, from the day he first rode his bike (alone!) to a friend's house.  He called as soon as he got there.  "Hi Mom.  Well, I just wanted to call and say that I made it and I'm fine.  Well, see you later.".  You see, I have it memorized, even though it too got erased when we had to get a new phone.  

Books and clothes and televisions and cars and other things, I have no problem giving away.  I don't get attached to big things; not really.  I'd rather someone else have them, if they can be useful to them.  Over the years, I've managed to pare down the sky high pile of letters and cards to a more manageable amount, as well.  Now, instead of every birthday card my great grandmother ever sent me, I only have one; but I won't part with it.  

I still have my favorite childhood stuffed animals and every silly letter my husband wrote to me when we were apart for four months the year we got engaged.

I worry that I haven't taken enough pictures, spent enough time, taught my children all the things they need to know from their mom.  I worry that they'll grow up and leave and I worry that they won't.

I want to take all these things; the papers, the pictures, the voices and the worries and lock them away in a time capsule.  I want to cement them into the cornerstone of my life; knowing that these things are only a small representation of what really matters.

Here and now, what I have shared, what I remember, who I have loved, who knows that I love them; those are the real things worth keeping.


Friday, January 17, 2014

Meet the Neighbors

Today is the twentieth anniversary of the Northridge earthquake.  How twenty years have gone by is just crazy to me, but, somehow they have.

I was living in Hermosa Beach, California at the time, but spending most nights at my boyfriend (now, husband)'s house in L.A..  The night before the quake, we stayed up late, knowing we had the next day off.  We noticed the cat was acting funny, but didn't think much of it.  I mean, sometimes, cats do weird things.  Poor Poo Poo Meow was trying to warn us, but we just kept laughing at him as he tried to hide under things that were way too small for him.  

We got to bed at around 1:30 or so and were woken up by a jolt that turned into heavy shaking somewhere around 4:30.  I'm not sure at what point I realized it was an earthquake, but it definitely did not register immediately.  All I knew was that it felt like the world was ending.  I could see lights flashing through my closed eyelids (transformers) and I could hear screaming.  I realized hours later, since my throat was so sore I could barely speak, that the screaming had been coming from me.  

After what seemed like hours, but was less than a minute, everything stopped.  I could barely breathe because Danny had thrown himself on top of me when it started.  Once he let go, he immediately jumped up and went into Marine mode.  He searched for his flashlight (buried) and tried to get out the (stuck) door, slipping on cracked and fallen cd cases as he went.  In my terrified state, I wasn't about to let him leave my side, so I followed him, slipping and crashing behind.  

It took a few minutes of adrenaline based shoving to get the door open and when we tumbled into the hall, we began shouting for our roommates.  Everyone looked ghostly pale in the faint light.  

Once we realized everyone was okay, we headed outside to assess the damage and get away from the wreckage in the house.  We all kind of assembled on the front lawn, none of us wanting to move too far from the others.  We kind of stood there for a little while, talking about what had happened, wondering how many aftershocks there would be (many) and wondering how trashed the house was (kinda, but livable).  

At some point, I realized I was cold.  When I looked down at what I was wearing, it turned out to be Danny's flannel shirt, unbuttoned and inside out and a pair of underwear.  I remember thinking, huh, I should probably put some clothes on...maybe some shoes, too.  It was January after all, and even in L.A., these were not weather appropriate.  No matter that I was half naked, outside on the front lawn.  We all were.  The fact that no one cared or really even noticed was just proof of how scared we all were.

I did eventually fix the shirt and get some shorts.  I might have put on shoes, but, I'm not sure.

The first coherent phrase that escaped my lips, maybe ten minutes after it all happened was "It figures that we have an earthquake on our day off!  How many Mondays do we get off?!?!".  I wasn't even trying to be funny.  I was actually pissed.

After getting over the initial shock, we started to take in our surroundings.  The next door neighbors were huddled on their front lawn, as well.  All of a sudden, we hear our roommate say to one of them:  "Hey!  Weren't you in "Tales From the Crypt"?", as if he just walked into a party and was making small talk.  The guy kind of looked at us blankly for a few seconds and then said "uh, yeah".  We found out later that he had just moved to L.A. from New York the week before.  What a welcome!  He turned out to be a nice guy and a good friend and he's now semi-famous.  But, hey.  That is L.A. in a nutshell.

The twenty four hours afterwards have become somewhat of a blur to me now, but a few other things stand out; like not wanting to sit on the toilet (feeling a porcelain tremor go up your butt is not nearly as fun as it sounds) and not wanting to sleep alone.  We all (roommates + girlfriends and assorted others) tried to sleep in the living room that night.  Mostly, we talked and joked.  I still laugh thinking of one guy moaning in his sleep every time the ground shook.  I think he was the only one who actually fell asleep before light.  

So that's it; my earthquake story, twenty years later.





Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Hypothetical

I have written ad nauseum about losing a good friend (ex-boyfriend) of mine.  I probably wrote five or six (or more) different posts on different blogs about it over the years, and much, much more than that in various diaries and such.

Here is an excerpt from one of my favorite posts:

My favorite song to listen to when I am depressed is "Smoke" by Ben Folds Five.  You can feel the despair in the way he bangs the piano keys and in the catch of his voice.  

But, the lyrics...therein lies the magic.
"Here's a secret...no one will ever know the reasons for the tears"

That line says it all.

It's hard to lose someone that you love, but I have found that it's the sadness that no one understands that is the hardest to deal with.  

For example:  if your cat/dog/significant other dies, everyone knows why you are sad.  If your high school boyfriend that you hadn't seen in three years dies, people are sympathetic, but only to a point.  When it's been a year and you are still talking about it, people wonder what's wrong with you.  When it's been almost twenty, they just think you are crazy.

"They were broken up!" they say to themselves.  They think they know the whole story.  But they don't.

This year marked twenty two years since he passed.  It also marked the fact that he has now spent more time dead than he ever did alive.  

I've spent many hours contemplating his death.  Even so many years later, I still find myself reaching for him telepathically.  I know that this will sound weird, but of all those that I have loved and lost, he has kept in touch the best.  It's complicated; just like it was when he was here.

I imagine that it's hard for my husband to understand this relationship.  I say I imagine because we haven't talked about it much.  Mostly, I am afraid to bring it up, for fear of sounding like a crazy person.  Of course, I am much more prone to jealousy than he is, so maybe I am just that:  crazy.  

The dead have a way of only showing their good side, though.  I forget how angry he made me and remember how much he made me laugh.  I forget that his skin was not always flawless; in the beyond, he glows with color and health.  Dying before your twenty first birthday helps, too.  I mean, it's pretty much downhill for your looks somewhere around twenty eight, so he had the privilege(?) of dying before he started balding or developing a beer belly.

I'm not saying any of this is logical.  What I am saying is that it's a tough act to follow.  

The guy I was with when it happened understood this and was, in turn, totally jealous of a corpse and actually angered by my grief.  Those were fun conversations.  Seriously?  I need to explain why I am crying?  Or worse, hide the fact that I am sad?  Geez.  

I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of the end for us, even though we stayed together for another eighteen months.  I was lost in wishing I had done things differently; regretting that I hadn't called my friend after what would be our last fight.  Too much grief and too many unresolved and un-resolvable feelings messed me up.  

I can barely remember the girl I was when I met my husband in 1992.  I was still grieving KD and I had just lost my maternal grandfather, whom I adored.  I was lost.  I remember arming myself with sarcasm and hiding my vulnerability behind a thin wall of bravado.  "You are dating someone else?  Who cares?!?"  (ha).  I'm not sure how quickly he realized that I was mostly bluster.  I'm really not sure what there was of substance for him to be attracted to, but there must have been something. I think in my sadness I had become something of a ghost, myself.  Maybe he was a bit lost,too.  Maybe we rescued each other.  

In any case, this year marks twenty years that my husband and I have been together.  Twenty years!  In that time, both of our lives have been touched by plenty of grief.  We've lost five grandparents and three parents.  We've worried and struggled and have become a family of five along the way.  

Somehow, midst all the pain, we've managed to become more, rather than less.  The sorrow has colored us in, rather than diminishing us.  We've become stronger as a couple and grateful for what is, rather than wishing for what isn't.  It hasn't been an easy lesson, but I am grateful for it.  

I am glad that I have learned that there is more to life than "counting my abs and lovers", something I used to say about my hypothetical single life.

As for my long gone friend, I will always miss him.  I just will.  There is not much I can do about that.  But as I have grown in wisdom, I have learned to feel lucky for what was and what still is.  Life is a gift.  It may be poorly wrapped at times.  It may be smaller than what we were hoping for, but if we hold it up to the light, we will see its beauty and it will be a joy to behold.






Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Boxes: Labled and Otherwise

A TED talk I watched today (Here's the link) really got me thinking about the boxes we put ourselves and others in and how we label those boxes.  

We label things out of necessity, otherwise everything we owned would be put into a giant junk drawer/closet/garage, never to be found again.  So, labels serve a purpose...for things.

Labels are good for people if, and only if, the person you are labeling identifies with the label and you may use it only if they feel positively about it.  For example, you could label me fat, but unless you want to make me cry, please don't.  Label me funny and you will be right...and if I cry it will be because I am a total sap, not because you've hurt my feelings.  

Positivity in labeling is VERY tricky in the world of disabilities.  That is a post (or seven) for another day.  All I will say here is PLEASE follow the lead of the individuals with disabilities and their advocates; always.  Words matter.  

I found it interesting when Ash spoke about how angry it made her to be asked whether she was a boy or a girl.  I wondered why she chose to dress in a way that made it ambiguous if it was such an issue.  I mean why?  If you want people to know you are a woman you should have long hair and wear pink and not camouflage, right?

I'm kidding, ...sort of.  The problem, of course, is the boxes that we put people into.  The ??? box does not work for us.  We need to name it.  We need to know.  Does a gay man go in the pink box or the blue box?  What about a woman?  What if she is straight but HATES the color pink? What if she had cancer and her hair has not grown back?  What if she is happily married, but HATES long, sweaty hair?  What if she is a lesbian but (horrors!) looks straight?  What if they are trans-gendered?!?!? Boom. Heads explode.  

And to answer my own question about how Ash dressed:  Maybe she was comfortable that way.  Maybe she wanted a fight (I can relate to that).  Or maybe, it was a little of both.  Or, maybe she just didn't feel that she had to put herself in the "girl" box.  She is a girl/woman, she is gay, she dresses in jeans and button downs and her hair is short.  Geez, that's a long label.  It doesn't fit and that bothers us.  In turn, it bothers(ed) Ash (she seems cool with it now) that it bothers others.  

This is getting to be like a movie that involves time travel.  I'm going to leave the "chicken or the egg" conundrum for another day as well.

This talk also made me pause and think about how my occasionally (okay, often) militant approach to issues might have backfired.  It is something I have been thinking about; trying to figure out a way to get my REALLY IMPORTANT POINT across without resorting to shouting, or my absolute favorite: sarcasm.

It's really, really hard.  

I don't think I realized I was doing it, or rather, realized how it sounded until I encountered some other shouty people with whom I mostly agreed.  The substance of what they were saying had merit, but the delivery system was flawed, to say the least.  

NOONELISTENSWHENYOUSHOUTATTHEM!!!

Wait, what?  No one listens when you shout at them.

They might hear you for a few seconds before it becomes BLARRRGH!  and they tune you out; maybe forever.  

So, you need to pick your battles, your forum and recognize that you are not the only one fighting.

Lastly, this talk got me thinking about my own labels.  It's funny, because when I think of labels for myself, none really come up, other than ME.  Finally, I am me, after years of trying to figure myself out.

I have short hair, which I love.  I am a mom.  I am a terrible dresser.  I have blue eyes that I think are nice. I am married to the best guy I have ever known.   I identify as being straight, but I love K.D. Lang and think Salma Hayek is hot.  What does that mean?  I means I have ears and eyes; not much more.

It's not that I don't think labels can be useful.  They can.  They can help navigate grocery aisles, or libraries, or help you find a file.  I'm just not so sure how great they are when used to identify an actual, living breathing human and not some caricature.  Labels don't tell the whole story, just a little, tiny piece of it and only the piece that your mind can perceive.  No matter how many labels you put on me, you'll never never know ME, unless you put them away.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Escape

In March 2004, I found a flier at my gym advertising marathon training.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had written "run a marathon" on my sub-conscious "before I die" list.

I think it was there because it seemed really, really hard; almost impossible.  If I can do THAT, I reasoned, I could do just about anything.  It wasn't that I had never run before; I had.  When I was seventeen and going through my first, painful breakup, I ran as means to deal with my feelings.  I ran a lot.  I ran in the dark and came home so exhausted that my brain didn't have room for making me feel terrible.  I slept, ran, went to school...repeat, for months.  I lost about twenty pounds that I really didn't need to lose at the time.  Lots of running and eating one meal a day will do that to you.

That spring, I came out of my funk, wiser, more driven and with a hard body to boot.  How I envy that girl.  17 years later, plus three kids, running was not quite as easy as it had been in those days.  My youngest was not quite four and my oldest was seven and a half.  I was coming out of the constantly-sleep-deprived phase of parenting and smack in the middle of school-homework-IEP hell.  I was starting to feel like maybe I needed to get a job; but really, I wanted to get a life beyond being "Mommy".

My husband, who has always been my loudest cheerleader, read the flier I brought home and said "do it!".  No whining about giving up the next six months of Saturday mornings to take care of the kids while I ran (like I would have done if the shoe was on the other foot), no complaining about not having any free time of his own, he gave the thumbs up with no hesitation.  

He wins husband of the decade for that.

My training was taking place a thirty minute drive away from home.  We would run at 7 am every Saturday until the weather got warmer, then we would run at 6.  6 am runs meant going to bed early on Friday and getting up at 4:30 on Saturday.  It is a testament to how desperate I was, that I was willing to get out of bed in the middle of the night to do it.

As the runs got longer and longer on the weekend, I realized that marathon training was the perfect metaphor for being frustrated with parenting, with things that were out of my control, with life in general:  I wanted to run far away.  Since I couldn't run away from the crap in my life without losing the wonderful parts (my husband and kids), running for hours, thirty minutes from home became my salvation.  

I did wind up completing the Chicago marathon (read about it here), along with a 28 mile warm up run a month before.  I have honestly never felt prouder of an accomplishment than I do of that.  Yeah, I traveled alone around Europe on very little money and I moved far away from my hometown at a young age; but those accomplishments were achieved before I had any real fear.  The world of being a parent and the world of being a single, young adult looks very different and there is a good bit of fear involved.  As much as I think that that teenager could learn from this 43 year old; I think this 43 year old could learn a lot from that fearless teen.  

I don't want to be shaken out of stagnation by a health emergency or any more death.  Too often it is a cataclysmic life event that makes us (me) think about what really matters.  Why?  Why can't I learn from my own glorious triumphs and bitter failures?  Why do I not seek out my own greatness because of the fear of failure?  Why am I so afraid of being poor that I can not figure out how to have money?  Why is it easier to stay still, rather than move in a positive direction?

I think I have just answered my own question.  It's not.  It's not easier to stagnate.  It's awful and soul crushing.  It makes the fear bigger.  

Who am I?  Am I the middling house wife whose biggest accomplishment on any given day is doing all the laundry and dishes?  Or, am I Adventurous Amy? 



Friday, November 8, 2013

Why the R-Word Sucks with guest blogger, Nidhip Mehta

This post is a culmination of spending years trying to convey my feelings.  You can read this year's r-word campaign posts here and here.  I have written at least 427 other posts on the subject over the last 14+ years, but I will spare you those.  This latest post came from hearing about Kat Von D and her lipstick line at Sephora.  Long story short, they collectively decided that naming a lipstick "Celebutard" was a hilarious idea.  

Celebutard - from the Urban Dictionary:  


A famous stupid person. Typically refers to the current crop of vapid celebrities.


Similar, but not exactly the same as Celebutante: 


A person of high society and wealth whose famous just for the fact of being rich and fabulous. A socialite who is "famous for being famous."


It seems that no one spotted the irony of a tattoo artist who is famous for having a reality show and for sleeping with Sandra Bullock's ex calling anyone out for being vapid, or famous for being famous.  But, whatever. You can read more about that here.  


Once the disability community got wind of it, it took about 24 hours of tweeting, sharing and public shaming to get Sephora to stop selling the offensively named shade.  It was a victory, but a hollow one.  I am glad that as a community we were able to mobilize and have our voices heard.  I am troubled by the fact that it's a battle we have to keep waging.  


Here's another great post from a friend, here.


In the midst of the fracas, a good friend of mine, Nidhip, decided to play Devil's advocate.  He posed a few, well thought out questions asking why the r-word is so offensive.  He got quite an eye/ear full from me on the subject. We had a little back and forth with no real resolution, just a lot of anger, hurt and frustration on my side.  Again, I was getting nowhere and with someone who liked me and actually cared about my feelings!  How was I ever going to get the point across to anyone else?  


I went to bed fuming and in the morning I realized that getting upset was getting me exactly nowhere.  To top it all off, I was going to quite possibly lose an old friend in the process.  I did a little soul searching and then I wrote a note to Nidhip that said:  


Hey. good morning! First of all, thanks for getting me so riled up last night, it made me really think about things. Second, sorry about telling you to get off your high horse. I have an equally tall one and don't like to have it pointed out to me. Anyway, I was thinking that this conversation is a good one. I want people to understand where I am coming from, but it is very hard if you are not in the same situation. It's frustrating, to say the least. From the outside, you might see it as a debate over a word (which, in the scheme of things, seems inconsequential) but for me and many others, it's a fight for inclusion, for dignity, for justice and for civil and human rights. The word merely is a reminder of how far we still need to go in these areas.
I'd really like to write some more about it. I know I won't convince everyone, or maybe even you, but I would like to try and engage in healthy debate. As you can tell, debate is not easy for me. Arguing is fine if I don't truly care about the answer, but when I do...oh boy. I am all emotion. I know logically that a word should not hold so much weight, but emotionally, it does, it really does.
I'd like to try and work through this some more. Would you be okay with me putting your questions in a blog post and answering them? Or would you want to write something different? Or go back and forth? I think it could be a really good thing. If you don't want to add anymore, I understand, but if you would allow me to use your questions, I'd be grateful. Think about it.
And being the good guy that he is, he said this:
Hey, first of all, I just want to say I'm sorry again. I know with hindsight, you're thanking me, but I really should've gauged the situation better before opening up something which clearly has an emotional resonance. You're right, I tried to intellectualize something which, at its heart, is emotional. But I honestly think that it helps to do that when you're trying to create awareness or change minds. Which is why I was getting at you for simply saying that it shouldn't happen because it makes people angry. As you know, progressive thinkers like us do a lot of things that make other people angry, but that shouldn't stop us from doing it. Like wanting that anybody can marry anybody else, regardless of what the Bible says. That sure makes a ton of people angry, but I'm gonna go on wanting it.
Anyway, like I said last night, my questions came from a point of inquiry, not argument. I genuinely wanted to hear your point of view and well... I got it, I guess.
Sure, I'd be okay with my questions in your blog... after all, that was my point in bringing it up... to initiate discussion. But I really don't want to get anyone upset, let alone you. You are a great person and I admire you a great deal, but I want to respect your limits and tolerance as well.
And thanks for reaching out to me this morning. I really felt bad about upsetting you and regretted bringing it up. I admire that you're willing to put that aside and engage me again. That says a lot about you.
So, here is Nidhip's query. I will break it into parts in order to address different pieces of the issue; but first, here it is in it's entirety:

Ok, so my question is essentially this:
I sympathize with the feeling of being offended by a word or phrase. Ever since I learned that the R-word is offensive to some (particularly to those who have family members that are intellectually disabled), I stopped using it. I don't even use it when those people are not around, and I try to remind others when they use it. Also, I understand the negative connotation when the word is used to describe someone with Downs Syndrome or autism spectrum. It's really not appropriate, and it's not such a big thing to simply use another word.
What I don't completely understand is when the word is used outside of that context; when the intent has been changed from the original meaning. This happens in language. It happened with the words "moron" or "idiot" or "stupid", which were all used at one point as clinical descriptions of people with intellectual disabilities. These days, no one bats an eye or hesitates to use these words. Heck, even people who have family or friends with intellectual disabilities use these words, which a century ago had the same meaning and connotation as the R-word.
Is it not possible to divorce the word from its meaning? Can the perception of those who use the word be more nuanced? Shouldn't there be a distinction between those who use the word offensively and those who do not mean offense?
I'm not exactly saying that people should simply ignore it when people use the R-word, but that perhaps they should react in accordance with the intent in which the word was used, and not simply react from pure emotion.
I also think that in order to make people better understand why they should not use the R-word, the reason given should be more than "it makes me angry" or "you'll never understand unless it happens to you". I think these don't help the cause, primarily because unless the person involved is a friend or relative, no one really cares whether something they say makes some anonymous person angry. I believe in many things that make people angry, like feeling that gays should be able to marry or that all people should have access to affordable (or free) health care. The fact that this makes some people angry does not bother me in the least; it's a fundamental disagreement. So, I guess that in order to better understand the issue, I'd prefer to see a more intellectual rationalization for not using the word, as opposed to an emotional one.
Of course, what I prefer doesn't always matter. There may not be, after all, an intellectual rationalization. Maybe it should suffice that enough people (whatever that critical mass is) find it offensive. But the intellectual part of me wants to know where to draw the line, because it seems very fuzzy and, to be honest, hypocritical. Especially when I see the words "moron" and "stupid" being used all the time. I don't know, perhaps it simply has to do with the amount time that passes for a word to fully change its meaning. It's difficult to parse, unfortunately.
Again, I want to reiterate that if the word offends people who I like and admire and want to stay friends with, that's good enough for me. But it may not be good enough for everyone.


My response: 

I think there are essentially three parts to this:


  1. Is it not possible to divorce the word from its meaning, in the way idiot and moron have lost their original clinical meanings?
  2. Shouldn't there be a distinction between those who use the word offensively and those who do not mean offense?
  3. Is there a way to intellectually rationalize why it is wrong?

Is it not possible to divorce the word from its meaning, in the way idiot and moron have lost their original clinical meanings?

First, some people are bothered by the words idiot and moron and imbecile because of their historical significance to people with intellectual disabilities. For myself, I feel that those words have evolved to a point that when someone says any one of them, a picture of a kid like mine does not pop into their heads. I haven't seen any offensive memes using a picture of a kid with Down syndrome and the word "idiot"; but I have seen plenty with the word "retard". That makes them different, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe it's the role of social media that makes this word different (for me) from the rest. It certainly plays a part.
Secondly, I don't wish to drag up every old word used in reference to people with i/d. I feel they have run their course, history has moved on and so should we. The difference with "retard" is that it IS in common use these days and because of that, it keeps anyone who could be called "retarded" by a doctor (even though it is going away in the medical field) apart from everyone else. It makes them the "other", not like us, not worth worrying about offending, maybe, not even quite human.
Thirdly, though I could wait for this word to become innocuous, I don't want to. I want to stand up now and say that it matters to me and it matters to my family and many, many families like mine.  Why should my kid, who has been called a retard more times than I can count, have to hear that word in any form (including added "tard" to the end of other words)?  

Shouldn't there be a distinction between those who use the word offensively and those who do not mean offense?
Why should the offender (even if it was not meant to offend) get away with impunity?  I see it as a matter of simple humanity.  Most people don't want to hurt people's feelings, even people they don't know.  I think educating those who truly don't realize that their words are hurtful is important.  It's not about getting angry (Nidhip:  you seem to only see my anger and not my hurt.  I'm wondering why?), though I do get angry about it.  When someone uses the word "retard" and I am in earshot, more often than not, I use it as a teachable moment.  I avoid calling people out in public unless they are being blatantly disrespectful, but I typically pull them aside later on and say something to the effect of "this is a hurtful word, I know you didn't mean it to be, but it is" and nine times out of ten, they are apologetic.  Some (many) still use the word, but at least I have planted the seed.  If they hear my voice in their heads the next time they say it, it might not feel as satisfying and hopefully, they will re-think it.

The reason I brought up being hurt versus being angry is that it is much easier (I think) to dismiss anger than it is to dismiss hurt.  People get angry for all sorts of reasons (as Nidhip brought up) that I don't agree with.  Frankly, I think much of their anger is misplaced.  But hurt?  I don't want to hurt people or be hurt.  Knowing that the r-word can be hurtful should be enough.

While there is a difference between being deliberately hurtful (Hey, Retard!) and being unintentionally hurtful (That's so retarded!), the word still hurts.  It is associated with being bad, stupid, ugly and foolish AND it may be a part of a doctor's report; therefore making it a part of a person with a diagnosis.  Would you want any part of what makes you YOU be a slur? 

Is there a way to intellectually rationalize why it is wrong?

I've said that to disability advocates, this is the N-word. Do we use the N-word in any form?  No.  Because most reasonable people get that any form of it is degrading and wrong.  They wouldn't dream of saying "oh my god, you are such a nigger" to a friend who's acting silly.  But, "you're such a retard"  is fine.  Why?  What is the difference?  

The only difference I see is that blacks have had (and in many cases, still need) their civil rights movement, while the civil rights movement for the disabled is still in it's infancy.  You would be horrified if a school refused to accept a child because they were black today; but every day, schools refuse to accept children who learn differently, many without even giving them the chance to show that they can adapt in a mainstream classroom.

This happens today.  

Yes, kids with i/d learn differently than other kids.  And typical kids learn differently from each other.  With creativity, love and support, everyone wins and everyone learns more.  There is no excuse to leave some kids behind for any reason, whether it is sex (in some parts of the world, girls are still under-educated), race (hello?  American south in the 1960's?), or ability (today, all over the world).

My intellectual rationalization would be that the r-word keeps people with intellectual disabilities separate from the rest of society the same way the n-word kept black people separated from society.  Both words say "you are different, you are not worthy, you are not accepted".  If you look at the history of the civil rights movement, you will see that many of the things that were done to black people are still being done to those with developmental disabilities.  The only real difference is that not many have yet noticed that the disabled, as a group, are calling for their rights as human beings to be recognized.  Like African American, women and gay people before them, people with disabilities are calling for equal treatment.  Eliminating slurs against them must be a part of that movement.