90 Days of Play

I've been thinking a lot lately about play. In June, as we neared the end of the school and extracurricular activity year, I asked Stellina if she wanted to continue with tap dance in the fall. This conversation took place in the dance school bathroom as she suited up for her final class. "En. Oh!" she said with uncharacteristic fervor. "I thought you liked tap?" I said. "I like it OK, but I just want to do nothing. No classes, no nothing." She made big X gestures with her arms. "I want to be home, just go where I want, see you and Daddy, play with Posy and Meow Meow. Just PLAY."

Then I read this, and a couple weeks later heard this, and realized there's a collective "En. Oh!" being shouted at the moment. As defined by Dr. Stuart Brown of the National Institute for Play, "Play is something done for its own sake. It's voluntary, it's pleasurable, it offers a sense of engagement, it takes you out of time. And the act itself is more important than the outcome." Yet, it seems that as a society we've overscheduled, goal-oriented and enrichment-activity-planned ourselves and our children into a corner -- a corner decorated with color-coded wall calendars, sticker charts and payment installment reminders.

Now, Moses and I already are big on leaving our kids' unstructured time that way. My stepson has always been inclined toward team sports, but similarly resisted additional planned activities. We let him quit violin lessons and chess club (though he still plays the latter on occasion), to allow more unscheduled breathing room (a.k.a. time to play Nerf guns, paintball and xBox). Most days after school, Stellina free-ranges around the house or outside, watching an episode of something via the PBS Kids app, making art, jumping on the trampoline or giving the cats relationship advice. Occasionally, her teenage pal Addie comes over for a ukulele "lesson," which means three minutes of fingers on strings and 87 minutes of playing with her Calico Critters. For most of the summer she's been at Audubon camp all day (since her dad and I both work full-time-plus). Her time is pretty activity-packed there, but the activities are of the play-based, exploratory, running through the woods, feeding injured birds of prey variety. She comes home calm and filthy and bug-bitten, with cicada shells and dried owl poop in her pockets.

But how do we, as grown-ups, rate on the play-readiness scale? Moses is far more skillful at it than I, both at playing with his kids and at engaging, per Dr. Brown's definition, in things he enjoys that take one "out of time." In contrast, I usually just feel out of time -- as in, that there isn't time to play. I prided myself preparenting on being that childcare provider or full-grown friend who joined kids on the swing set and kept a stash of dress-up costumes on hand. Now that I have ultimate responsibility for the survival of, and share surnames with, legal minors, however, I take things far more seriously than is probably healthy or useful. Even when wearing my best R&R face, my Virgo inclinations to fret and keep shit in order are ever-perseverating just under the fun-times, tattooed surface.

 I've realized I respond to "Mom, will you play with me?" not always, but too often, for me, with some version of "No." Usually I phrase it as yes-like as possible: "I'd love to, but I have to finish this [fill in the blank work-freelance-task at the computer]." Which is a total dodge, because after that's done, then it's homework-shopping-cleaning-chores-dinner-bath-reading-bedtime, and playing just ain't happening.

So, I've decided to play, just play, every day for the next three months. I started out calling it "100 days of play," a la the "100 happy days" trend making social-media rounds, but I like the ring better of 90 days, since it's that magical-yet-proven recommended time frame for forming new, good habits (such as exercising daily or not being a drunk). Plus it's shorter. Though, of course, the point is to play every day (one day at a time) for all the rest of my days.

 So far, that's involved hula-hooping; playing Twister (past bedtime!); doing somersaults and handstands in the neighbor's pool (despite feeling pretty certain that I'll die whenever in water deeper than the bathtub); and asking Moses to reteach me to play cards, resulting in many, many hands of Gin -- and an evening that felt like a lovely, impromptu, at-home date, during a summer when we've been working and parenting largely in shifts. Another pearl from Dr. Brown, from this NPR story a couple days ago: "The couples who sustain a sense of mutual playfulness with each other tend to work out the wrinkles in their relationships much better than those who are really serious." (Especially important: Yelling "Gin, MOTHERFUCKER!" and then realizing it wasn't, actually, and having a partner who mostly thinks you're cute when you act a fool, and being able to laugh with him, at yourself, in a way that feels like it heals some less charming, dictatorial know-it-all moments from the past.)

As it turns out, predictably, playing takes work! Or effort, rather. It's an effort for me to play versus to play-teach-correct-coach. That's uncomfortable to see in myself, and to say. Teaching-demonstrating a new activity is part of play sometimes, but I default so fast to a hands-on-hips stance (whether literally or in tone) that it admonishes the fun out of anything.

Last night I came home from work to childcare pal extraordinaire "Uncle" Diane hanging with the kid, clothes strewn about, Play-Doh and snippets of Barbie hair on the floor (some was pinned into Diane's hair, I think), Princess Mononoke on the TV. I admit that my first, internal reaction was not, "Look at the fun! Look at the creativity!" but rather, "Where's the vacuum? And why isn't she in her PJs yet?" But I persevered, faking my way into a dance party. We sang "Lucky Star." Diane had an impressive Cha Cha Slide debut. Stellina was on the dining room table at one point, wearing tap shoes and a vintage men's straw hat, legs still covered with mud from a ponding expedition at camp. While boogying down I calculated the time until lights out, if allowing for a quick bath and two chapters of our current read-aloud book (Betsy-Tacy). 55 minutes. I am getting better at pretending to play, anyway! Not bad for Day 5.

Happy Singles Awareness Day!

I've never really been single, not for more than four, maybe five months. I'm not bragging; this isn't a point of pride. There are certainly times I should have hung the "closed for business" sign, or cloistered myself for a designated period.

I thought I was doing the latter when I went to stay with a friend in Greenwich, CT, following a breakup of a relationship that had followed a breakup. I felt like I was lurching away from a three-car collision, technically intact but unsure of my whereabouts or who the current U.S. President was. My plan was to move back to California after a short stint in her guest room, settling my affairs without having more affairs. I'd only spent a few hours in Greenwich before, mostly at Whole Foods, the only one in the county at that time. My frame of reference for health food stores will forever be the food co-ops of my childhood: bulk vats of tofu and tahini; a peanut grinder that produced a dreaded bland and sticky paste that Skippy and Jif would have beat up on the playground; Dr. Bronners soap, natural sea sponges for sopping up kitchen spills and/or mentrual cycles, and chunks of crystallized mineral salt with purported deodorizing properties not in evidence among the co-op's worker-owners; posters of Angela Davis and Cesar Chavez.

Of course I knew by then that Whole Foods, or any natural food chain, bears little resemblance in either content or labor practices to its 1970s forbears. But the patrons were a total mind fuck. In place of an earnest and gentle bunch with reusable canvas totes bearing public radio call letters who were still the mainstay shoppers of such stores, coiffed women in fur coats (!?) and men with tiny whales on their neckties commandeered Range Rovers and Beemers through the undersized parking lot, hollering at each other and at their children  and at workers collecting shopping carts -- anyone coming between them and the juice bar.

Add to those experiences the episode of TV Nation where Janeane Garofalo takes a coach bus of NYC residents on a field trip to Tods Point, Greenwich's residents-only beach. Turned away at the gate, they attempt to reach the beach via a fleet of dinghies, only to be intercepted by the cops. And the Coast Guard. Residents regrettably respond as expected, making "shoo"ing gestures and protesting that they embrace diversity by employing minorities in their homes.

I knew that if my friend, a writer and yoga teacher, lived there, she surely had a community of like-minded and lovely friends. The town boasted an incredible library (I went to readings by Frank McCourt and Jhumpa Lahiri), two independent bookstores, a cheap French creperie, and oh, those beaches. But all told, the overarching attitudes and aesthetics make my libido curl up like a pill bug. Which was a very good thing.

This lasted five weeks. Then someone who either lived in Greenwich's gritty neighbor, Port Chester, NY, or, as indicated by his work boots and Carhartt jacket flecked with sawdust, was working on one of the myriad palatial residences that went up during that prerecession housing boom, came into a diner where I sat with my friend and her like-minded and lovely friends. We spotted each other, and there's no way to describe it that isn't a cliche. All I knew was that my celibacy was inevitably over, however the logistics would play out. He was Italian, and had hands that swung a hammer, not a golf club. He had tattooed, Popeye forearms. He swaggered in not a macho way, but in a way that said he had swaggered since age two. Women got all primal and squirmy in his presence, voices involuntarily rising an octave, chests thrusting forward. Still, I tried. I literally ran away from him that day and the few sightings thereafter. Finally, too annoyed by the junior high vibe of it all, or too turned on to help myself, I introduced myself.
"You want to go get tea?" he asked.
"I'm not dating right now," I said.
"So it won't be a date," he said. We both laughed. It couldn't be anything but. I moved in with him a month later.

It was all wrong on paper (though the actual paper record of my swoony journal entries declared otherwise). He had a kid and wouldn't move more than 20 miles away, never mind to the West Coast. He was five years younger and hadn't graduated high school. He drove a van with doors a different color than the rest of it, and lawn chairs where a back seat ought to be. He had just gone on short-term disability for a work-related back injury. The first time I met his son's mother, she threatened me with bodily harm. I was no prize, either, what with my track record of serial (and occasionally overlapping) relationships, crash-and-burn breakups, and mounting debt from some compulsive post-breakup shopping and a dry spell in my freelance work. But he was deeply intelligent and funny. He could cook, and listened to Charles Mingus, and he was a great dad. And, fortunately for me, his ex's temperament and life choices made mine appear entirely sane.

Dare I say it? Despite (maybe because of, who's to say) the circumstances, it turned out to have been love at first sight. We lived together well, especially considering that the whole place was the size of my friend's guest room. Which kind of made it feel like we were teenagers holed up in his bedroom. The whole thing felt young for some reason, considering we were 29 and 34. Maybe because he'd do anything to make me laugh, we were broke, and we had sex all the time.

When Valentine's Day rolled around a couple months later, my expectations were low, given our financial status. Call it a Hallmark holiday, but I've always been a fan, from the days of gluing a construction paper heart to a doily for my preK teacher crush. I also haven't been single on Valentine's Day since I was 13, which a friend who refers to it as "singles awareness day" pointed out when I so very ignorantly asked what she was so grouchy about, as her coworkers' desks filled with obligatory, overpriced bouquets.

When I came home, though, the kitchen counter and coffee table were covered with flowers -- several vases filled with roses, gerbera daisies, cala lilies.
"What is this? They're gorgeous, but--"
"It was no problem. What, I'm not going to give you flowers on Valentine's Day? Come on."
As I admired them more closely, I noticed something odd -- while they were loose bouquets, some of the stems had little green clumps stuck to them.
"What's that green stuff?"
"Oh, that's nothing. You want something to eat?"
"It looks like that foam from flower arrangements."
"Huh."
"Where did you get these?"
"From the flower place."
"What flower place?"
"It doesn't matter. Here, eat your sandwich."
I realized the only two places he could have gotten the flowers were a wedding or a funeral, and he hadn't been to either that day. "Please tell me you didn't take these from a cemetery."
"Ok, I didn't take them from a cemetery."
He totally took them from a cemetery. It was horrifying, and the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.
He shrugged, and bit my neck. "What? You deserve flowers, and they don't need them anymore."

Parenting vs. Big Parenting

Last spring, Edline sent a notification about my stepkid's Biology grade. For those not familiar with Edline, it's utilized by schools to host their internal websites, student records and staff contact information. Emails from Edline come in every few days — primarily with updates on grades so that parents can track a child's progress over the course of the school year. It feels sometimes like an unwelcome shove into hovering parent mode. Other times it's a useful tool — like when my husband, Michael, and I were virtually informed that his son hadn't turned in his Biology homework for a month.

"Looks like you haven't turned in your Biology homework for a month?" I said.

"Ayuhuh." (Translation: Ayah, sometimes pronounced "Mmnnm.")

"So, you haven't turned in your Biology homework for a month?"

"I guess."

"What's up with that?"

"Mmnnm." (Translation: I don't know)

When someone answers "I don't know," but does, but isn't in the mood to talk, or to deal with the issue at hand, I get ... testy. Throw me a bone, already.

("I don't know," of course, can be a powerful, liberating statement — for 16 year olds and everyone else — a demonstration of humility, and the confidence to display a lack of knowledge alongside the desire to acquire it. As a lifelong know-it-all — even/especially when I didn't — this has been a revelation in the past few years. I actually kind of get off on it. Just yesterday, my manager in my new-ish role at work referred to the Something or Other Special Report. "I don't know what that is," I said. I swear I had a little dopamine pleasure surge. When I catch myself opining on something I know absolutely nothing about, I will cut myself off, with a motto adopted from an old colleague [who, in fact, knew more than a little about almost everything]: "Often wrong, never in doubt!")

"Can we talk about this in 15 minutes (or tomorrow, or never)?" would be a fine response. And is rarely the response I get, despite years of modeling, suggesting, and asking for this. So, I get the opportunity to remind myself that the brain of a 16-year-old boy looks something like this:

And, since I know that neither polite inquiry nor relentless nagging can be processed by said brain, I employed a new tactic:

"Since the only thing I've liked less in my life than nagging you about your homework was doing homework, can we bypass the bullshit here?"

Lip twitch (Translation: smile)

"Why aren't you doing it?"

"I forgot."

"Huh. As far as I can tell, you have an excellent memory. Do you mean 'Homework is stupid busywork and I'd rather stab myself in the eye than do it after sitting in school all day and then kicking ass at wrestling practice for three hours'?"

"Yeah, something like that."

That right there? That was big for us! Because somewhere along the parenting line, step- or otherwise, I'd forgotten that basically all a kid needs (besides housing and benzoyl peroxide) is to be heard, and to be understood. Or, for there to be a willingness to understand, so they will hopefully talk, and thereby be heard. 

Most often what they need is for adults to shut the heck up. My go-to in this department is Vicki Hoefle of Parenting On Track, and the author of Duct-Tape Parenting. Some of her suggestions are too radical for me — not that I doubt they'd work; I'm just not evolved enough to employ them — but the basic premise that 1) training one's kids for self-sufficiency from Day One and 2) putting in the time and mindfulness for a fun and trusting relationship naturally result in cooperation, familial connection and respect. Managing, micronagging, and keeping under surveillance, on the other hand, don't exactly engender an open and communicative relationship. Hoefle asserts that when there are problems with kids, they're either due to breakdowns of relationships or lack of training.

(The duct tape is for us, not them)

I suspect this homework thing is a training issue, despite the hours and evenings logged over the years. He knows how to do his homework, but does he know when and where to do it, aside from while cross-eyed tired at night, or during a 45-minute study hall? And, do we really know if he knows how to do it? He was an honors student until two years ago, then had a slight-but-not-red-flag-raising dip in his grades that could be chalked up to the difference in academic challenge — and hormonal distractions, and heavier sports schedules — from middle to high school. He had always brought home report cards with smiley-face-accented comments written in the margins, and we were lax about checking his homework or appraising his time management methods, because it seemed that whatever he was doing was working for him, until it didn't, in the form of Cs and Ds.

Also, he came to live with us when he was 9, and while I was the grown-up most game to do so — his dad has a PTSD response to math worksheets and the smell of chalk, having been sufficiently shamed by the nuns for what was likely dyslexia — I didn't feel comfortable, at all, jumping into classroom-parent mode. His mom was suddenly, temporarily out of the picture, our living arrangement a few months' out was a big unknown, and my aim was to covertly do the parenting stuff necessary while maintaining lady-friend-who-happens-to-live-with-your-dad status. 

My involvement with his education prior to that was one incident, the weekend before he entered fourth grade. I asked if he had summer reading. I was working at a magazine for K-8 educators at the time, so I had elementary school curricula on the brain. Plus, we'd tentatively connected by reading together the four nights a month he spent at his father's. I was hyperconscious of not treading into the mom realm, but as they didn't have a read-aloud routine, I felt comfortable bringing on the kid lit, with a wall of review copies at work to choose from. He had never gotten his summer reading book. As we drove to the library, I had to chew my cheek to prevent uncharitable thoughts from slipping out in spoken form, and to remind myself that it was unfair to judge someone else's oversights when I only had one life, my own, to keep track of at that point. He picked out Sideways Stories from Wayside School by Louis Sachar, and applied for his first library card. It was my first experience feeling parent-y with him. It was thrilling, and complicated. It would get way more complicated, then necessary, then easier, but never easy, to determine when I needed to parent, and when I needed to leave it to the people on his birth certificate. 

I wish I'd owned the academic arena with him more, and sooner. It's clearer cut now. He'll be the first in his family to go to college, and I'm the de facto docent on that journey. Come to think of it, while both my parents have their BAs and beyond, my stepmother brought me to visit a college campus or two, and she was the one who suggested I just might love my now-alma mater, a school I never thought I'd get into, never mind be able to afford (the higher the ivy, the deeper the pockets, as it turned out).

So, homework: "I get it," I said. "The problem is that it affects your grade, and grades affect your grade point average, and colleges care about those things. So, if you want to have more choices about where you go to college, you have to do your homework." As I said all of this, I felt deeply tired, and wanted to pack up all our crap, buy one of those little trailer campers, head to South America and call it home schooling, which Michael and I have seriously contemplated, if only the other parent in the picture would go along with it (not literally, since those campers comfortably sleep about one petite person and a napping cat, and she has myriad small children and a Winnebago-sized personality).

Then I had a radical and unthinkable thought. What if he's a morning person, but doesn't know it? I realized about a year ago, only out of a desperate attempt to find quiet, uninterrupted time in my day, that I work better early in the day than late at night. Really early, like 5 a.m. Maybe it's a new development borne of being forced awake by small people around the hour I used to go to bed in the old days. Or maybe it's always been the case, and unfortunately I didn't know it in high school or college, or in all my years as a freelancer.

Indeed, he didn't look impressed with my theory. I said I'd wake him up, and would make him breakfast,* if he was willing to try it for a week. Since his bus comes at the obscene time of 7:07 a.m., this meant 5 or 5:30 a.m.

This is rather counterintuitive, considering teens' night-owl circadian rhythms. Which was clearly not considered by whatever geniuses in education decided it made sense for those humans most biologically prone to staying up til midnight to start their academic day while it's still dark out four months of the year. Our kindergartner is up, dressed and ready to party on the playground by 6:30 a.m., and her school day doesn't begin til 8:55. This schedule had to have been built around bus/traffic logistics, or to accommodate high school athletics — because field hockey is critical to academic competitiveness for the 21st century, and football is a viable career path.

Anyway, he agreed. (!?) It wasn't a fix-all, but he did most of his homework for the rest of the year. His grades did go up, and he consistently ate breakfast for a change (which no doubt helped, as well).

So, here we are, at the beginning of 11th grade — the PSAT this fall, the SAT and ACT in the spring, college visits, the make-or-break year for hiking up that GPA. At this point, a few weeks in, he's entirely unwilling to get up before 28 minutes before his bus.** Edline is now Infinite Campus — an even more Big Parent-like name. I have resisted checking his grades online so far. His dad and I recently asked how it's going, and are told, "All right, I guess," which could mean he's in the front row with his No. 2 pencil and graphing calculator, or sitting behind the tall kid, texting under his textbook. But he wants to, and expects to, go to college. He said, "I averaged my GPA in with the possible best grades I can get, and I don't think I can get it to a 3.5." (Translation: I'm concerned. I'm disappointed. I might go into "I don't give a fuck, self-protection mode" in about 30 seconds if you don't say something hopeful.) I opened my mouth and urged something smart to come out. "That's good, to know what you're working with. Colleges look for improvement, though, and give a lot of weight to test scores and application essays, too. What can you do to be certain about that GPA average?" He said he'd check with his guidance counselor. I pulled up a U.S. News and World Report article, optimistically titled "A+ Schools for B Students." I watched his face loosen up a bit. Hope, restored. What I didn't say at this juncture is that community colleges are an excellent starter option, and may end up being the most strategic way to afford his higher education. Part of parenting is holding high expectations for your kids, so they can think big, but how to do that without Big Parenting? There should be a night course on the subject. Or an early-morning one.

—————————

*Another Vicki Hoefle gem is that our job and responsibility as parents is to train up, relate closely to, and back off from our kids, so they can sail out the door at 18, confident, self-sufficient, and able to cook their own dinner — and will want to come back for visits, versus feeling compelled to flee our familial clutches and be basically MIA for the next decade. While we neglected to spot the time-management issue for a while there, the stepkid has done his laundry since he was 10, puts his lunch together if he wants to brown bag it, and theoretically knows how to make a bed. And he certainly can boil up a bowl of oatmeal. But I know I certainly appreciate having breakfast made for me sometimes. There's an importance balance between fostering independence, and easing another's burden because that's just a nice thing to do, and to teach, in a family. 

**Breaking news: At 6:50 this morning, he asked for a ride. His Algebra teacher offers extra help before school, running through practice questions on test/quiz days. Just now he texted us that he got a 98.8%. (After a futile attempt to ban electronic devices, his school has an amorphous policy where students can use them — to listen to music or to look something up online — or not, at each teacher's discretion. He had to leave his at home for most of last year after being caught texting when not allowed — in Biology).

You Do Not Like Obamacare? You Do Not Like It, So You Say? Have You Tried It, Mr. Cruz? Try It, Try It, and You May!

Dear Senator Cruz,
Before citing children's literature in your fili-bluster against the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act (ACA), perhaps you should have done your homework on the authors of the books mentioned.

The Little Engine That Could was penned, under a pseudonym, by Mabel Caroline Bragg -- an expert in health and physical education. She was a champion of early preventative health measures for children, and of creative, varied physical activity integrated into school curriculum (kind of like our First Lady, no?)

Green Eggs and Ham -- really? Theodor Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss, was of our country's most progressive political cartoonists, ever. His children's books openly promoted environmentalism, cooperation, integration, a community's responsibility for its neediest members, and experimentation.

And, while you're at it, you should totally read the ACA. I know you have the best medical coverage in the country, but could you please peruse the entire law? (That would have been a great use of your time last night!) Here, too, is a handy explanation of the law and its timeline, with lots of colorful graphics (more like a picture book, if that's your preference).

Then, ask all your friends and constituents with grown kids how many of their children have stayed on their insurance (statistically, more Republicans have than Democrats). How many of those kids have avoided thousands of dollars of medical costs from accidents, surgeries, routine care, root canals? How many of your friends/family/constituents with preexisting conditions can now get insurance? (My husband was kicked off his for back injuries; we are thousands of dollars in debt for it, after paying Blue Cross $600/mo. for a single policy.) 

Price the exchanges (start in your Lonestar State! Lookin' good!). Ask your colleagues in states without affordable insurance for children, whose constituents' kids have gone without check-ups and dental care, the difference this law will make. Learn about new incentives and programs for preventative care that will save the U.S. millions in emergency room visits. And look at that cost -- how much $$ is wasted in ERs because people don't have an affordable option for routine care, no insurance due to a preexisting condition -- MS, Parkinson's, Diabetes, asthma, cancer? Ask anyone who's had to fight their insurance company while themselves terminally ill, or caring for a newborn (all those hours on the phone with United when getting two hours of sleep a night!) or so their loved one could get life-saving treatment, what difference the ACA will make. Or could have made. 

Please let this be your bedtime reading tonight. And perhaps consult with the researchers and physicians at Dartmouth Medical School, otherwise known as:

The Rapacious Creditor

If addiction was personified, I'm pretty sure it would look like this:

Breaking Bad's Uncle Jack and his grizzled pals perfectly symbolize the disease (in any form "the disease of more" takes): full-throttle, indiscriminately violent, heavily armed, wildly greedy. Anyone whose known, lived with, loved or been themselves someone in the death grip of addiction understands how it will excavate everything of value from a life, throw the bodies in the pit afterward, then kick back with a bowl of Ben & Jerry's to watch a hilarious confession tape robbed from the house of a murdered DEA agent, said confessor currently chained to a dog run out back, forced to cook meth between beatings. Just a typical Tuesday.

(Oh, spoiler alert. See? Addiction doesn't give a crap if it wrecks your plan to watch all of season 5 when it comes out on Netflix.)

What I've Learned After Two Years in the Corporate World

In a corporate environment with open floor plans, cubicles with low divider walls, and glass-fronted meeting rooms, this symbol doesn't deter the use by able-bodied worker bees of the one* private space on the premises.

After two years of research (i.e., watching people emerge from said space as I happen to be entering or exiting the multistall loo across the hall), I've concluded that:

1) Men use it to take a dump. (Note to men: Using your iPad whilst doing your business is a risky business. Even with one of these.)

2) Women use it to cry.

*There's a private room without a crapper in it where new moms can pump (but you need a key for that one). Which is why corporate America is totally better than a small company, because they are considerate enough (a.k.a  required by law) to provide such amenities. There used to be a sweet icon on the door of a mom nursing her infant. But since the eight-week-old baby's in daycare and Mom's nursing a $400 milking machine and a resentment, they rebranded it the "wellness room," which I gather is a common term in the HR world for the lactation station. 

I'm Jessica, and I'm a Recovered Gun Enthusiast

Someone I know shot himself to death last month. He had recently referred to himself as a "gun enthusiast."

Headlines worldwide called Nancy Lanza, who reportedly owned two pistols, two hunting rifles and a semiautomatic "similar to weapons used by troops in Afghanistan," a "gun enthusiast."

Ted Nugent, whose hobbies include hunting large game in enclosed areas and issuing death threats to the President, is a "gun enthusiast."

When else is the word "enthusiast" paired with something the only purpose of which is to render something or someone (or many someones) lifeless? While guns may be used to perforate paper targets and puncture beer cans and shatter clay projectiles, their intended use, let's be frank, the reason they were invented, is to kill. Unlike Crock-Pot enthusiasts, chihuahua enthusiasts, collectible salt-and-pepper shaker enthusiasts, baseball enthusiasts, garage band enthusiasts, scented candle and troll doll and necktie enthusiasts, home-mulled wine and Western belt buckle and designer handbag and suspended-bridge enthusiasts, topiary and WWII memorabilia and Elvis LP enthusiasts, marijuana enthusiasts, Bowie knife enthusiasts, drag racing and drag dressing and gonzo porn enthusiasts, someone who puts their interest in and/or obsession with their hobby over the potential safety and lives of their family members, neighbors, pets, friends, passers-by and self -- and justifies said hobby with a line from the Bill of Rights that's been grossly misinterpreted to mean that said hobby trumps the larger safety of everyone surrounding said hobbyist, an assertion that can and should be summarily shot down (pun intended) by the little-studied ninth amendment -- is not an enthusiast. They're an "asshole."

And I say this as a recovering asshole. I've experienced the thrill of shooting and the neat-o mechanical fascination with guns. (As Dan Baum illustrates in the new Gun Guys, an AR-15 is like a lethal erector set.) I dated a "gun enthusiast" in my 20s. I wasn't thrilled to be in the regular presence of a loaded .45, but I figured that learning the workings of my sidekick's sidearm would help me be more level-headed if one was ever pointed my way.

I familiarized myself with its pieces and parts. I found myself enjoying the puzzle and precision of assembling it, as well as the single-minded (dare I say, meditative) focus and emotional gravity required of this task.

I took shooting lessons. That first day at the firing range, I guilelessly shot a few rounds into my paper target's heart and forehead. The instructor punched me in the shoulder and said something like, "You never used a gun before? Yeah, right." "I haven't," I said, startled and sort of proud. The instructor called me Annie Oakley.

That's all it took. One steady-handed day and a compliment, and I was ready to trade in my anti-gun stance for a thigh holster. Plus I read Armed and Female by Paxton Quigley, and thought, "You know, if I'm ever drugged and thrown in the trunk of a car, a concealed weapon sure would come in handy!"

So I bought a Ruger 9mm. My pistol packin' persona lasted a few months, and I never actually packed. In fact, the gun stayed in a safe at my ex's house, because I studied up on the statistics: that my gun was as or more likely to be used against me as by me; that the rates of suicide, homicide and accidental death are much higher in homes with guns. I couldn't conceive of a scenario or state of mind in which I would turn it on myself or use it in a domestic tangle. But how many "law-abiding gun owners" perceive themselves as potential suicides or murderers at the time of purchase?

Shooting was fun, and gun ownership offered me, as a 120-pound woman, the sense that I could equalize a size and strength imbalance with a bullet. But I was a realist, and a pacifist at heart if not by trigger finger. I took a full-contact self-defense class called Model Mugging, and bought a Taser. I collect vintage Pyrex and mermaid snow globes. Neither will deter a home intruder, but they won't result in the deaths of my 15- or 5-year-old children, myself, my husband, our cats or our elderly neighbors, either.