End-of-Year COBBLER Cheer

Special highlights of the SUPER-newsy end-of-year issue included an update on our bullying workshops, fun with sports and pastry, some quotes about me by my husband, and some quotes BY me in an article ABOUT me.

Then there was another great link to a Moya Stone article about The Souls of Her Feet.

And some sad and silly goodbyes to my dear friend and dog-daughter, the lovely, elegant goofball Maddie Moose Maddyson Maddog von Caven. Or however she spelled it.

A.k.a. Mad-tilda, Madison Square Garden, Madagascar, Madeline Albright Caven.

They Can't Take Maddaway From Me

Love song for Maddy Caven, 1997-2013 ~ apologies/gratitude to George & Ira Gershwin

There are many, many crazy things

That we’ll always love about you,
And with your permission
May I list a few?

The way you’d get the cat.
The way you’d run so free.
The memory of all that -
No, no - they can't take that away from me.

The way you’d fill the bed.

The way we fixed your knee.
The way you’d shake and shed.
No, no - they can't take that away from me.

We may never, never meet again
On that bumpy road of life
Still I'll always,
Always keep the memory of...



The way you filled my lap (do-do-do-do do-do).
The way you’d lick your pee.
The way you changed our life.
No, no - they can't take that away from me.

No, they can't take that away from me.

Pumped up Kicks

Good morning, KFOG.
I tried to call in during the song that woke me up this morning, but there was no answer.
"All the other kids better run, better run... faster than my bullet."
This is an upbeat song about a kid shooting other kids. I like the catchy tune, but the song is morally twisted, and not in a good way; it's sociopathic and horrible. There is no frame of reference for the evil sentiment. The songwriter said he was 'exploring the mind of a young killer,' but it sounds more like he's glorifying it. At least with A Clockwork Orange there was some framing of the sentiment of cheerful violence, and a resolution at the end. (And songs like Jeremy, I Don't Like Mondays, etc. at least reflect an authentic emotional tone.) This song says, "it's okay and fun to kill other people! I like it!" It feels like the normalization of a phenomenon that destroys the fabric of American lives over and over again.
On the plus side, a comment made on the YouTube video did tip off Phoenix police that a 14-year-old was inspired by this song, and his rampage was prevented.
I'm a big fan of whimsy, even serious whimsy, but this song really upsets me, and I always turn off the radio when I hear it. But I like KFOG, especially in the mornings, and figured it would be worth the trouble to ask: Could you please not play it anymore? The tune gets stuck in my head for hours, and I hate myself. Maybe ask your other listeners what they think.
Thanks,
Kristen Caven
Oakland parent

Too Much to Swallow

This is a reprint of Innocent Perspective: A Mother's Reflections on September 11, 2001, an essay I wrote for Child-Friendly Initiative.

On Tuesday, September 11th, my four-year old vehicle expert told people very importantly that "an airplane had crashed into a building." The next day he wanted to "watch New York" on TV - all the rescue and construction equipment was much more interesting than nap time. I took a deep comfort in his innocent perspective.

By the time the weekend rolled around, though, a loneliness hung around our small family, perhaps exacerbated by the fact that mom and dad were on the phone all the time, and friendly visitors also seemed to carry a cloud of debris in their hearts. On Sunday my son grew warm and listless, and that night began crying out every hour in a fever.

For the next few days the fever clung, and he clung to me. This time I took comfort in the small scale of a bad virus and willingly sat under him for a few days. I was grateful for the moments he was asleep, for then I could turn on the television and try to absorb it all, sort it all out. He was desperately afraid of being alone, and I would run to him each time he woke.

He complained of a sore throat and stopped eating. The doctor blamed a virus that had caused blisters in his mouth and prescribed tylenol, liquids and rest. After a few days I was exhausted. I didn't know what was worse - battling with him to get him to take medicine, or hearing him cry out in pain each time he swallowed. His mouth and throat were covered with white, oozing sores. Eventually we discovered a strep infection raging behind the blisters.

Today he is on the mend, thanks to an army of antibiotics and a new construction set to play “can we fix it” with. But he hasn't seemed himself. Every interaction is demanding and tense. I figure it's because he's cranky because he hasn't eaten in three days.

But finally, he opens up his feelings. “Mom, dad, I'm worried,” he tells us on the cranky edge of sleep, beginning to weep. He is worried about Oakland. About the buildings falling down. About car crashes. Suddenly I realized he has been there with us in our confusion and grief. He is not a baby anymore. Although it seemed important at the time, I wonder now if letting my vehicle-loving son (who wants to see every jack-knifed big-rig and derailed train) see those bulldozers was the right thing to do. Did he feel something was being forced down his throat? Was it too much for him to swallow? A part of him must have welcomed that virus and that bacteria. It gave him a time-out. He gave me the gift of a time-out, too.

Tonight after we fought about toothpaste (I let him win), we talked a long time. About bad guys. About sadness. About safety. I told him we were all sad but we were glad to be together. I told him our house wouldn't fall down. I told him this terrible thing that happened had never happened before. I told him all the presidents of every country in the world were going to work together to try to make sure this would never happen again. Because they all want to protect and take care of children. “And you'll take care of me, right?” he asked. Yes little one, I will, no matter what.

He went to sleep peacefully for the first time in days. He just grew up a lot, and as a mom, I did, too. I really want my words to be true. We will all work together to protect and take care of children.

Joe Climbed Up On The Roof..

Okay, so Joe died. We knew he would. Everyone does, right? But we’re sad, we’re disappointed, since we really didn’t want him to die of ALS. We wanted him to be the one (or one of the few) who figured out how to turn this disease around on its path, show it the door, pull himself back together cell by cell, get up out of that wheelchair, and start walking again. Up to podiums to talk about his journey, inspiring others to follow him. Onto stages to accept the acclamations he deserved. Down the aisle with Julie when she got married. Through the woods with Diane when he was old. No, we wanted him to die instead with dignity, say, clutching his chest in the middle of a joke and keeling over into his cream pie at age ninety-nine.

We sure didn’t want ALS to win. Joe was the underdog from the beginning, by all rights. I want to say he kicked its ass, gave it a whuppin, showed it who was boss, etc... but idioms of might are not appropriate in describing Joe's fight, since his muscles were slowly deactivated by the disease. Joe's many triumphs came from curiosity, from skepticism, from communication, from investigation, from thoughtfulness, from introspection, from prayer and from humility. That being said, Joe was just like Rocky: he went fifteen epic rounds with inspiring courage and faith, (and we all got to take the journey with him,) so it’s not like he lost, really. Even at age 61, he still lived longer than your average NFL player. To use a word the kids like these days, Joe pwnd (poned) that lame-ass disease.

Look: the truth is, death isn’t so bad. It’s part of life, it happens to everyone, and reports keep coming in that it provides some relief to this problem of living. The worst thing to me about Joe dying is not getting one last email, one last blog post. Joe so faithfully shared his adventures in healing that I want to know what it was like at the end. I want to know what he thought about, what he decided, if he decided anything. I want to know what it felt like and what he said and who was there. I want to know what he understood, and if indeed he got a final flash of insight that wrapped up his research somehow. I want to know what it felt like for him to suddenly and finally be released of his body.

ALS, ALS, ALS. Joe’s life was defined by a greater drama when that gene activated, but ALS is not who he was. Joe was a strong and positive person who saw life in his own way, managing this and that with humor and with love, magnetically drawing good people to himself. In our living room, Joe once laughed hard at my husband’s favorite joke. It’s about a guy who was traveling through Europe when his brother called with the news that his cat had died. “That was so cold and cruel, to tell me the news like that,” he cried. “What else could I have said?” asked his brother. “You could have broken it to me slowly,” the guy sobbed. “You could have said, ‘the cat climbed up on the roof.’ And then called the next day to say ‘the cat finally came down, but caught a cold.’ And then a few days later, you could have said, ‘The cat’s cold got worse, and we took her to the vet.’ And then you could have said, ‘there were complications.’ And then a few days later, ‘The infection couldn’t be stopped, and we had to put her down.’” “Oh, I see,” said the brother. “Yes, that was very insensitive of me.” The guy in Europe sighed, wiped his tears, and said, “Well, as long as we’re on the phone, is there any other news?” There was a long silence, then the brother said, “Um… well, mom climbed up on the roof.”

Today, when I got Dan’s email, I cried. Then my husband asked me if Joe had climbed up on the roof. Oh my. There's a thought. The racket he must have made in that wheelchair…!

But seriously. Diane, you are my hero, for partnering gorgeously with Joe and his troublesome gene. Julie, and Dan, your lives have gotten off to an interesting start and you are both magnificent people. I look forward to seeing you enjoy every adventure life brings you, with your dad’s wonderful spirit watching over you. And Joe, you're not gone, you're with us all. I can't wait to read your book.

Killing Osama

In the weeks following 9/11, I wished death to Osama bin Laden. But I am against death penalties and war as much as I am against murder, so I struggled with my feelings. I lay awake at night pondering capital punishment. How can victims express their hurt and anger without becoming killers themselves? Having a government do the dirty work seems like a good solution until you realize governments are made of individuals, and when it comes down to it, someone has to pull a trigger, push a button. I thought about firing squads and public stonings, hangings and guillotines — all efficient but imperfect — and at last the poetic part of me came up with a theatrical solution. I imagined a pageant for mass-murderers that could be used all over the world in events that provide emotional closure for victims and a reckoning for those who have brought evil. Without making murder anyone's professional calling.

That night, here is how I imagined Osama's final moments:

At Ground Zero, a chair is prepared where he will sit. Above the chair a canopy is stretched, a simple tarpaulin suspended by poles. Outside the poles there is a walkway that goes around the perimeter of the canopy, with stairs leading up and down on either side. Nearby, bulldozers have delivered a pile of rubble saved from the dark mess he made.


The crowd gathers around, and anyone who has been hurt by his actions may take a piece of rubble in their hand. Children, parents, widows, friends, firefighters, rescuers, targeted Muslims, air travelers file past Osama and tell him what he did. They walk up the stairs and toss their object onto the tarp in the name of the Lost, perhaps with a shout, a silent prayer, or the words they've been dying to say. As the day goes on, each small stone adds to the next and the canopy begins to sag. At some point it will break, crushing him under the rubble and pain he created. But the pageant does not end until all the rubble is gone and every harm is spoken.