Author: Sheila Quirke

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Mr. Rogers and Tragedy: When the Neighborhood Isn’t Always So Beautiful

I noticed yesterday, as the news was unfolding in Boston, that Mr. Rogers’ comforting face and words kept popping up in my social media feeds.  Like Newtown, just four months and a day before, we sought comfort in one of our most comfortable of childhood icons — Fred Rogers.

Why is that, I wondered.  What is it about Mr. Rogers that we gravitate to in these darkest moments of communal distress, confusion, and fear?  On the surface, he is a kind and trusted figure that we recognize with words of great comfort attributed to him.  On a deeper level, I wonder if we all seek an older, wiser figure to answer the unanswerable, help us feel protected when we know we are unsafe, provide us with clear, direct instruction (“Look for the helpers . . .”) in the midst of chaos.  Hmmmmm . . . that sounds a wee bit like someone else, doesn’t it?

Has Mr. Rogers become the God that is universal and safe?  Athiests as well as Jews as well as Christians as well as Muslims can find solace in his presence.  Who knows?  That sounds like an angsty dissertation premise for someone far younger than myself.  Whatever the appeal, whatever the phenomenon, I like it.  Mr. Rogers is cool and he always makes me feel better.

If you like deep thoughts like the ones above, check me out on a regular basis, yo.  I am chock full of this kind of stuff.

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Listen to Your Mother, Yo

In just a few weeks I’m gonna do something that makes me a wee bit nervous.  Imma take the stage at Chicago’s Athenaeum Theatre and read some words I wrote in front of a crowd of oh, you know, about a thousand folks.  BAH!  Actually, I kid.  I don’t feel too nervous about this.  Excited and honored, but not so nervous.

Listen to Your Mother was created by a gal named Ann and started in the humble burg of Madison, Wisconsin.  It is now a 24 city juggernaut of vocal explorations of motherhood and all its facets.   Ann says it best:

Isn’t that cool?

I got to meet the rest of my Chicago cast mates a few weeks ago at the first rehearsal.  They are amazing.  I feel so lucky to hear their stories, which is how I hope our audience feels.  Motherhood is powerful stuff.  Talking about motherhood is powerful stuff, too.  And as a celebration of motherhood, aside from breakfast in bed and a new pair of shoes, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than hear other folks talk about this grandest of roles.

For me, motherhood and Mother’s Day are complicated.  The day especially clobbers me over the head time and time again with both my Mom and daughter not here to celebrate with me.  The two folks so primary to my motherhood are no longer here to share it.  That just sucks.  There will be more of that in another post, another day.

I feel so grateful, so lucky to know motherhood.  And it’s amazing to hear sixteen other takes on it.  These gals are funny, sad, relatable, spirited, triumphant, joyful, strong.  You want to belly up to the bar to and trade war stories with them.  I know this because I’ve done this.  I am one lucky mother.

Please join me!  Here are the details:

WHAT:  Listen to Your Mother, live reading

WHEN:  Sunday, May 5 2013 @ 2PM

WHERE:  The Athenaeum Theatre, 2936 N. Southport, Chicago, Illinois

COST:  $22 (includes $2 theatre restoration fee)

HOW:  Click here and have your credit card at the ready

WHY:  Because your mother would want you to.  And I said so!

Now go eat your vegetables.

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When Facebook Sucks

You a Sex and the City fan?  I was.  I always wanted to be a Carrie, but was instead a Charlotte, with a sprinkle of Miranda to cut the sweetness.  Being a Charlotte is a little bit like height — it just is and you can’t really change it.  I could dress like Samantha, but it wouldn’t make me any more bold.  It would just make me look silly.

Back to Charlotte.

Truth be told, I loved Charlotte.  She was hilarious.  Charming, prudish, but with more than a hint of naughty, a proper girl who didn’t judge and always hoped for the best.  Do you remember when she miscarried?  She was newly pregnant, miscarried pretty quickly, and then sank into days and days of bad television.  Faced with the first birthday party of Miranda’s son, she couldn’t go.  It was too hard.  She couldn’t face celebrating the birthday of a baby when she mourned her own.

I get it.

I am struggling right now, for a lot of reasons, but adoption is one of them. Adoption is hard.  Many things in life are hard, I know, but this is one of my challenges right now.  We are waiting to adopt.  And there isn’t a damn thing to do about it, but wait and hope.  So wait and hope we do.  But it’s hard. Facebook makes it harder.

Today I logged on to find that two acquaintances just learned they are pregnant.  With twins!  Scrolling further down, I see a friend’s enormously pregnant belly with a pint of ice cream resting on top.  Yum!  And, oh yes, the ultrasound photos.  There are lots of those.  Did I ever mention that three of my four miscarriages were detected in ultrasounds?

So pardon me, please, if I wallow for a bit as I have done today.  I do NOT want to be that woman — you know the one cause you all have one in your life — the woman you are afraid to share your good news and fortune with because you know she wants nothing more than the same good news and fortune and it just ain’t happening for her.  Ugh.  I am now, officially, at least today, THAT WOMAN.

I hate being that woman.  I do.

I want to share in your joy, I want to applaud all the new life and growing families and hope and love that these new babies will bring.  I do.  I really do. And most every day I can.  Today, I am struggling.  I hate to admit that, but it’s true.

Facebook, such a staple in my life, is not always good for me.  Sometimes, it makes my life harder.  Completely unintentionally, but still harder.  My friends and family should post their joys on their feeds, just as I post mine.  And their joys should not lead to my sorrow.  But sometimes they do.

I am not proud of that.  And I wish I could change it, but in all honesty, I probably can’t, at least not today.  My best bet, for now, is to step away for awhile.  Build up my reserves, replenish my strength, lick my wounds, pick up a book and put down my keyboard.  Stop obsessing about surprise pregnancies and babies and growing families and waiting, waiting, waiting.

UGH.

Damn you, Facebook.  So much of you I love, but parts of you I hate.  You bring out both the best and worst in me.  I can be witty and inspired and impassioned on Facebook, but you can also make me feel small, petty, and isolated.  It’s hard to lick your wounds when every time you open your lap top you’re faced with news that for a million different reasons you will view from your own personal lens, even when it has not a fig to do with you.  Not a fig. Which, strangely, is the size of the eleven week old fetuses my friends keep posting photos of on Facebook.

Not so confidential note to friends:  You know I love you.  Forgive me my transgressions.  I still want that shower invitation.  

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