Babies and Bomb Shelters

 I am in no way an historian. My personality doesn't lend itself toward all the methodical research required.  However, I am a therapist. Since 2005, I have been working with children in a variety of different school settings. And both by training and by personal experience, I know a little bit about intergenerational trauma. As I watch the current chaos unfold in Ukraine, it's impossible for me to not think of the millions of children whose lives will forever be altered. What will happen to them? What will happen to their futures? How much trauma and chaos can they endure? If they even survive?

About a week ago I saw a picture of an hours old baby named "Mia" on Instagram.  According to the poster, she had just been born in a subway station that was suddenly turned into a makeshift bomb shelter. It was presented as an image of hope. But what will happen to this baby girl? She will be born into what? Destruction? Poverty? Russian despotic rule? How many of her relatives will survive the war?

I imagine her mother. I am am guessing she and most of the mothers giving birth in the dark on a blanket in the subway station with hundreds of other dirty, sick and frightened people were not picturing  this "birth experience" when they first learned they were pregnant nine or eight months ago. I so hope these newborn babies survive into their childhood. But even if they do (and oh how we hope they all do), how will their lives be forever altered? 

Intergenerational trauma is defined much as one would guess.  Specifically, it is trauma that gets passed down to the next generation (and often those that come afterward as well). It was first officially identified by those who studied the children of Holocaust survivors. Decedents from those enslaved clearly also can experience it, as do other  groups who have been systematically abused. But if one even thinks about it for even an minute, it makes sense that many individuals also suffer from its effects.  In fact, many scientists now believe that not only can humans pass on trauma from previous generations via our emotions, environment and parenting, but even via our DNA. Not only do we experience and manage our own trauma, but we know that it can also be passed on to our children and to generations well beyond. 

My father was like one of those Ukrainian babies born into war and chaos. He was born in late December 1944, at the end of World War II, just as the Russians were approaching Budapest, Hungary for a final battle to finish off the Nazis. It's known as the Siege of Budapest. Hungarians were desperately hoping that Americans would come and save them, but that scenario didn't work for the greater anti-German plan. The Hungarians fought valiantly much as the Ukrainians are now, but eventually Russian power overcame them, and Budapest finally surrendered on February 13th, 1945. 

As the Russian bombed, murdered, and raped it's way toward the capital city, my father was born in the basement of a bombed out hospital. A few other women had gone there to try and give birth. No doctors were left, but there was some equipment, and I assume, it just felt like the safest place to go to most of them. My grandmother arrived with her mother and older sister to help her. My father was born. The story told was that many of the other new mothers could not produce milk for their babies, but my grandmother could. Not only did she feed my father, but she produced breast milk for some of the other babies there as well. Light, hope, and perseverance in the darkness of war. 

It sounds like an heroic and happy ending story. And it many ways it was. My father grew up. In 1949, he and and my grandmother were later able to escape communist Hungary,  and eventually my father ended up attending MIT at age 16. He married my mother, had two children, and started up his own very successful business. An American success story one could say. But my father was never able to shake that baby who was born among bombs. Nor was he able to remove the trauma of everything that happened afterward. 

My aristocratic grandparents were not used to taking care of themselves. They were used to butlers, country homes,  and nannies. They too suffered immensely in the war, and they were just not able to care for a child while simultaneously saddled by the trauma of war.  Without the complex safety net that that they were so used to relying on, parenting fell by the wayside. My father often had to fend for himself--he was often left outside by himself for hours on end as one or two year old, there wasn't always enough food to eat, and his parents were preoccupied with their own troubles much of the time. 

As a result, my intelligent and kind father, really didn't know how to be a person. He certainly didn't know how to be a father.  What would he have been like if he had been born into normalcy? Would he have been able to stop searching? Would he have been able to connect better with others? Would he have been able to feel his emotions and actually experience life? And what about me? Would I be more confident? Not have to manage depression? Be a better parent myself? How did those events in the late 1940s continue to affect my life?

I don't know these answers. I have my guesses, but I will never be able to confirm or deny them for sure. My father is dead. Death by suicide at age 62. He wasn't ever able to fully shed those early years of his life. He certainly tried, but I fear it was impossible. The abandonment and fear that developed early on for him got into his core, and he could never get rid of it as much as he tried. 

I think of my father, and I want better for the Ukrainian babies and children of 2022. So I send money and buy items on Amazon wish lists, and post a Ukrainian flag on my Facebook profile in solidarity.  And hope some of it actually gets to the correct destination and actually helps in some small way. Is that enough? Probably not. But I try.   

I want better for those babies and their families, but deep down I know I also want better for myself...and my father. With every dollar I send,  I am trying to recover a little piece of myself, but also that baby boy born in in the dark and dirt in Budapest in late 1944 without any sort of clear future or societal safety net. I hope I'm not too late. 

Housewives

I have a dirty little secret, and it's time to come clean. My name is marshmallowsoup(s) and I watch the Real Housewives of Orange County. There, I said it. I feel much better already.

I have become obsessed with these self-involved, fake, life-preserver breasted women. Clearly, lots of other people have too. If I am going into full disclosure mode, I might as well also come clean about checking Bravo message boards as well. There, I said that too. I feel better again.

This show causes quite a commotion on both the television and computer screens. Soon after I started checking in on how other people felt about these ladies, Bravo revealed that they were getting so many posts (many of which were extremely mean spirited) that they had to start censoring messages for the first time in their web site's history. I also heard rumor that Television Without Pity (another well traveled message board) had to actually shut their entire Real Housewives message board down for good. These women sure do engender a lot of feeling in people--mostly negative it seems.

Which brings me to this question: Why the heck do I like this show so much? If we all hate the Real Housewives so much, why do we spend our time watching and reading about them? If I'm honest, I think it's because I like to feel superior to these women. Yes, they may all drive $75,000 cars, wear outfits that cost more than everything in my closet combined, live in huge houses with pools, and seem to have a lot of time to play tennis and drink cosmos, but they also all seem pretty sad and not that bright. Most of the women are terrible parents, seem to have no clue about how to have a satisfying relationship with anybody, and one of my biggest pet peeves--possess absolutely no self awareness. And this it seems, is exactly why I watch.

I watch because I like to heckle at the screen, sigh loudly when one them does something ridiculous, and cry foul at all their stupid choices. I admit it, I like to watch rich people make fools of themselves. But, I must also admit that I feel a little sorry for them all too. These women have every material want supplied, but they sure don't seem very happy or fulfilled by life.

Whether intended or not, the show highlights the cracks in our country's current obsession with all things luxury and monied. One can have all the money in the world, and it still doesn't guarantee to make you happy. In fact, if one believes the things we see on the Real Housewives, being obsessed with money is more often than not a symptom of some sort of deep seeded psychological problem. Get these women some therapy!

Let's hope that the women of Coto, Orange County can serve as a cautionary tale for the rest of us. Having 15 Louis Vuitton bags and two Mercedes SUVs in your four car garage doesn't solve life's problems. In fact, it may actually cause some of them. Diamond necklaces and designer bags are nice and all, but they don't replace everything else in life. Let's stop obsessing about our own need for more and more luxury items and leave it to the ladies on television. Clearly, it's working out so well for them.

Put in Place

I was complaining to my mother today about something annoying my downstairs neighbors had done last week. Then, to put that final punch on my story, to show how absolutely, completely annoying they are, I ended my story with the following: "And then when I walked by their apartment today they were vacuuming. Can you believe it? Vacuuming. How bourgeois is that?"

My mom just looked at me. Rightly so.

Lucky Magazine

I know that some of my dear readers have heard this rant before, but I believe that it warrants yet another reminder. Here we go. Why oh why did Lucky magazine go over to the luxury goods dark side?

I am what they refer to as a charter subscriber of Lucky magazine, and I remember back in the day when I was actually a tiny bit proud (okay, maybe the better word is pleased) to be tangentially associated with them. I liked that they were a bunch of smart girl Oberlin grads who seemingly created this magazine because they wanted to make sure that you knew it was okay to be intellectual and also like fashion. I liked the sly references to Carol Gilligan and Walt Whitman. Most importantly, I liked that the clothes they featured were actually within financial reach. There was a chance I could put together some of these outfits.

Fast forward four or five years, and Lucky has almost completely shed her sexy librarian image and has morphed into Ivanka Trump on steroids. It's difficult to find any item of clothing that costs less than $400, and when one does, it's listed as a "cheap deal." Gone are the sly references to life outside of fashion--literature, travel, or philosophy. Instead, we are handed only crumbs of the old Lucky in the form of glowing profiles of Daddy's little girl jewelry designers who live on the upper east side with their dog, huge walk in closet, and very shiny hair. I must admit that a small piece of me wishes that was my life, but there are plenty of magazines to turn to if I want to live vicariously through models and socialites. I miss the original and unique zest of Lucky.

I always say that I am not going to renew my subscription this year. And every year I do. I think it's because I'm holding out hope. Hope that someday Lucky will return to the way it was--or at least give me some sign. A reference to Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed perhaps? That would seem just. But of course I just keep hanging on--either hoping they finally do see the light, or I can start affording $400 sweaters.

Teeny Boppers

It's been a long time since I have written here. It's a whole new year in fact--2007. Take a bit of inertia, add a glob of job exhaustion, and then mix them both with a little fear. I'm back though, at least for a while.

And you know what has inspired me to blog again? A stupid television commercial--a stupid television commercial for a breakfast cereal no less.

Said commercial is for Total cereal and involves a teenage girl and mom. Girl borrows her mother's "vintage" jeans from some unknown past era. Girl wears the jeans a lot and looks good in them. Mom gets jealous because daughter looks good in jeans (um, hello? Your 16 year daughter is SUPPOSED to look better than the 45 year old you--that's called the cycle of life), and starts obsessively eating Total cereal every morning.

It seems mom starts eating Total cereal at the expensive of good parenting. We watch her passively let her daughter walk in and out of the kitchen day after day with different boyfriends (in the MORNING!), hair styles, and outfits, but always wearing those jeans. Mom only has eyes for her 100 calorie serving of Total cereal--and for one upping her daughter it seems.

Finally, the day arrives. Mom has eaten so many bowls of Total cereal that she can now get her new and improved "Mom butt" into those jeans again. She smuggly tells her daughter that she wants them back, and the last scene shows her bouncing down the stairs, hair in ponytail, t-shirt on, and wearing of course, those jeans. All she needs is some bubble gum to complete the teeny bopper picture.

I know I sound old and decrepit saying this, but parents are supposed to be parents. They are not supposed to be their children's best friend or co-conspirator, and certainly not their competition. They are the parents. They make rules, they set boundaries, and they care if their teenage daughter wanders up to her bedroom with a variety of sketchy looking teenage boys!

Parents and people over 30 are not supposed to try to look like they are 15. It may be tempting, but it is unbecoming. I thought for a brief moment that some of the more current teenage wannabe fashion trends were fading. Audrey Hepburn's image starting showing up in Gap ads, waists got a little higher on pants, and layering and structure showed up in clothes again. It seemed that it was beginning to be cool again to act your age.

I'm not so sure now. If Total cereal is trying to appeal to the typical American consumer, I take this ad as a very bad sign. I pity the poor teenage girls trying to navigate the world these days. And I think I pity the poor moms even more.

Daylight Savings

I used to somewhat look forward to daylight savings. It was an event that often worked in my favor. When I was in college, it gave me an extra hour to finish that paper or study for a test. When I was newly out of college and exploring my new home of San Francisco, daylight savings gave me an extra hour to spend out and about experiencing city nightlife. And don't forget that glorious feeling of being able to sleep yet an hour longer without the guilt. I still didn't like that it got darker earlier every evening, but the perks that came along with it made it seem not that bad. I should also mention that living the west coast also tended to soften the blow. I don't ever recall it getting dark at 3:45 p.m.!

But fast forward a few years, and daylight savings is practically giving me hives. You see, now I live on the east coast, where it does in fact seem to get dark at 3:45 p.m. in afternoon. The changing of the clocks also serves as a harbinger of what is to come--wintry, cold, miserable days. I'm older now, and getting to spend an extra hour on Saturday night drinking doesn't bring the same thrill anymore. I'm much more likely to be in bed by 11:00 p.m. now.

And now, due to my job, I'm afraid that I will won't see the sun again until April. I leave the house at 6:30 a.m. and often don't get home until 5:30 p.m. or so. I also never leave the building once I get to work. Minus a few moments in the morning when I am too sleepy to care, I predict long, depressing days lighted only by office quality fluorescent overheads. Goodbye sun, hello Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).

I better start searching the Internet for sun lamps and discount trips to Aruba.

Berk's in Harvard Square

When I was a Massachusetts high school and college student I tended to favor fuzzy sweaters, patched jeans, and I must admit, accompanying fuzzy hair.

I was still finding my own personal style, but I did love to shop. Harvard Square was my shopping Mecca, and I loved the shoe store Berk's most of all. If I remember correctly, it was even where I bought my first pair of Doc Martens! I could always count on Berk's to provide me with some stylish, yet comfortable shoes (minus that Doc Martin purchase--but hey they were cool and stylish for ladies back in 1990).

My taste in shoes and hair products has become more sophisticated over the years, but I still love Berk's. And why shouldn't I? Just as my style has changed with the times, so has Berk's. Case in point: Berk's now carries a small, but well edited, collection of reasonably priced clothes.

The collection consists mostly of basics--designer jeans, American Apparel shirts, and Tulle jackets and sweaters. Although it's not the kind of place you would go looking for that perfect party dress, it's definitely the place to go to fill out a wardrobe. And if you are like me, you have a lot more use for a great fitting pair of jeans and a sweater than a $300 silk dress. But that's just me. I'm much more of a Cambridge gal than a Newbury street gal.

I highly recommend taking a peek at both the current shoes and clothes.

I did note on my last trip there that they even still carry a good selection of Doc Martens. Sure brought me back, but I'm also sure glad that I've since figured out how to successfully defrizz my hair--well, most days at least.