CurrentMom

Return to Zero - An important movie and a request for your help

Truth Thursday

Dear Friends, Family and Current Mom readers,

This is a request, but not for money – please keep reading to see how you can help.

As most of you know, I am a storyteller. There is one story I have told many times over in the past 15 years, which is among the saddest stories of my life.

I had a baby son. His name was Ari Joshua Stern. He was born on March 5, 1998, and he died on March 10, 1998.  The four months I spent on bed rest leading up to his birth and the many months and years I have spent mourning, grieving and trying to give voice to that experience have been one of the defining pieces of my life.  

A few months ago, I was reading a blog and it had a link to something that caught my eye – a movie that was being made called “Return to Zero.” It stars Minnie Driver, Paul Adelstein, Alfred Molina and Kathy Baker in a story about a couple facing a stillbirth. It is, according to the filmmakers, the first film ever made about stillbirth and its effects on those who go through it. 

Although my birth and neonatal death experience was slightly different, I was still so moved that this film was being made that I joined a Kickstarter campaign to help the filmmakers finish their work and submit the movie to festivals.

I contributed financially to make “Return to Zero” a reality because I know how hard it is to tell these stories. I know how important it is to tell these stories. And I know how hard it is to hear these stories.

But I have long been dedicated to telling my story because it helps me heal, and it helps the world understand how better to respond. 

I decided to take my contribution one step farther, and I have just signed up to be a Local Leader in the “Return to Zero” Kickstarter campaign. 

The F Word

Truth Thursday

It’s not what you think, although I am a renowned potty mouth.

And it’s not even what I’ve written about before in many ways – feminism. Although it is in some ways.

It’s about self esteem. It’s about being self conscious. It’s about life, and love, and what I wore.

It’s about being … fat.

I had been thinking about writing this even before the latest skirmish in the fat wars.  Not the "obesity” wars, which are all about keeping our children healthy, Michelle Obama, the war on food insecurity and food deserts, economic privilege and social gaps – all guised in the mantra that we are trying to be more healthy as a nation.

No, the fat wars. In which one complete and total bully, who is 61-years-old and still hasn’t figured out that words hurt, or that being the tallest, the skinniest, the most beautiful is not what our children should be striving for in this world, has decided that his clothing should not be modeled by anyone over a size Medium.

This is what Abercrombie CEO Mark Jeffries has said about his stores:  “We go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong.”

In other words, no one fat. No one who needs a Large or, god forbid, and Extra Large size. You will not find them at Abercrombie. He has been quoted as saying that he doesn't want fat chicks shopping in his store. Really.

Just Another Sunday in May

Truth Thursday

I just can’t bear to try to find another way to talk about Mother’s Day. It’s a non-holiday, one that I really dislike.  I am not interested in cards, in breakfast in bed (which no one in my family would think to do anyway) or even in a day at the spa on my own.

We have a kids baseball game and a field hockey game to attend. That’s good enough for me. I love attending my kids' events. I love being with my family, and relish the opportunities, especially now that I’m working full time. And when I need time and space away, I find it, and not on one particular Sunday a year.  

I don’t need my kids trying to find ways to show their love, when in fact, it wouldn’t really occur to them except in this manufactured way. I prefer to look at the bigger, long-term picture, and hope that our family life, for all its flaws, will sustain them into adulthood and they will be able to look back and say, you know, those parents of ours were ok.

Coffee Talk

Truth Thursday

Last week on National Public Radio, as is often the case, there was a week-long series on a very serious topic – coffee. 

Java.
Joe.
Mud.
Mocha.
Cuppa.
Brew.
Regular. 

Probing journalism on where it comes from, who drinks it, as well as songs, shows and other art created as a paean to the world’s favorite drink.

In honor of this retrospective, I will reveal my secret.  My family and friends who visit my house already know it, but I will announce it here for the world to discover. 

I don’t drink coffee. 

Never have, never will. Don’t like it. Don’t like the flavor, don’t like the temperature, don’t like the caffeine. I like the aroma, but that’s about it. Don’t like mocha in my desserts. Don’t like coffee ice cream (although Ben & Jerry’s is passable.) The only thing I drink at Starbucks or, preferably, local coffee shops like the great Mayorga in Maryland, is iced chai lattes. Thank goodness for non-coffee drinks, with which I can still behave like a grown-up and throw away $5 on a drink just for the heck of it. 

The Still Point of the Turning World

Truth Thursday 

You inhabit the land of grief. You can’t run away from it, back away from it, ignore it. You can’t shroud it in euphemisms – “pass away” – when someone has died. They’ve died. They’re gone. Trying to make it sound easier, softer, gentler, does nothing. In fact, whenever I hear that phrase my body stiffens and I want to scream. 

My mother did not pass away. My infant son did not pass away. They did not “pass.” They died. Call it what it is. Run into it and face it down. It’s the only way to work through it.

“The Still Point of the Turning World” is Emily Rapp’s meditation on grief. Her infant son, Ronan, was diagnosed with the always-fatal Tay-Sachs disease in the first months of his life, even after she had had the requisite genetic tests. 

Rapp is sad. She is angry. She is full of questions, both spiritual and grounded. She uses words to process and delve and deny and question. She paints descriptions of her son’s first and only full year of life – of his body, of his eyes, of her pain and her husband’s pain watching him regress. 

She wonders about the hierarchy of grief. Who is more entitled to be sad? Who has experienced more pain? Those of us who have wandered in these hills understand these questions. My second son died when he was five days old, after a troubled pregnancy and five days of hope and wonder. I grieve his loss, and will to the end of my days.