KEEPING UP WITH THE KARDASHIANS?

As the holiday season barrels forward, it’s only natural that my thoughts turn toward the Kardashians.   That’s right.  The Santa’s, the wreaths, the Bing Crosby songs, the season of goodness and giving causes me to think… what are those pesky Kardashians doing this holiday?  They are everywhere.  I simply can’t avoid them.

 

The Kardashian clan is like a polyp-filled colon, popping up on magazine covers, on the morning shows and entertainment programs, look-alike contests, photo opps, tweeting and hawking products, waking up with a full face of make up.  There’s Khloe’s new perfume ad where she purrs next to a giant, oiled-up ripped dude, who flexes isolated lower back muscles (who can do that?).  And now, look, here’s Kim’s bovine ex-husband of 10 minutes on Good Morning America, stumbling through his lines about his new foundation for childhood obesity..Huh?  Sincerity rolled off him like rain on a tarp.

 

I don’t want to keep up with these people.  I don’t even want my kids to look at them.  I want them to go away.  I want them to go the way of Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and all the others who have ratcheted up the “gimme-sphere” in America or whose scripted reality shows numb our kids out like crack cocaine.

 

What do I really know about the “Kardash-Klan?”  Not much. For a long time they thankfully stayed well below my radar. I’d heard snatches of things about them from my nieces and kids, had eyeballed a supermarket magazine cover or two.  I didn’t have much regard for a mother who pimps out her kids’ lives and encourages them to pose for Playboy or nods smugly when her little girls sex tape becomes viral. Yes, Virginia, we’re a long way from Mrs. Cleaver’s suburban Colonial with Beaver’s girlie mags stuffed under the bed.

 

Last fall I saw my first episode of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” by accident in a hotel room.  I decided to keep watching, like a slo-mo motorcycle accident, so that I could understand what the hoopla was all about.  In the segment one of the sisters had farted (EEK, EEWWW, OMG, LOL, P-U!) and then there was some serious sister-on sister speculation about whether or not Kim had gotten a butt implant. My manure meter went on high alert.

 

I’m one of three sisters.  And let me tell you that if one of us suddenly went from a size 6 to a size 16 in the seat of her pants; in short, if I could suddenly park a Coors Light on the junk in her trunk, my radar might go up.   I also wondered, how, if Kim had gotten two double D’s sewn in her ass cheeks, the family might not notice she was hospitalized and on pain killers, not to mention sitting on a inflatable doughnut for weeks.  Maybe they were all too busy staring in the mirror.  Or counting the loot they’ve made off we willing voyeurs. 

 

It’s way too easy to pick on the Kardashians.  America loves a family like this, beautiful, vulnerable, aspirational when it comes to their “stuff” and access.  Bruce  Jenner’s horrifying Skeletor-faced plastic surgery job alone is worth a gander.  This is what made America great, right?  Anyone can be Bill Gates or Steve Jobs or … Snookie.  We love to watch greed and we love to watch people overreach and then blow up.  Tabloids are filled with these stories and we inhale the self-immolation.

 

But that isn’t the point of this rant.  The point is about gratitude.  It’s about navigating kids though places like the world of Kardashian.  The parenting challenge of instilling a sense of giving back is an evergreen one.  But in the era of Kardashian, keeping up with seems to mean acquiring more and giving less.  Our children’s faces are pressed against the flat screen of the Kardashian household watching Kendall “earn” her modeling job and the cougar mother’s cleavage spill out of her top like a fruit and cheese platter. We drool over the lavish gifts, the bounty for just being Kardashian—for simply being famous.  That’s the kind of “show don’t tell” learning that is getting harder to counter balance.

 

A few Sunday’s ago there was a sobering “60 Minutes” piece on the families and children who are living in cars and trucks in the present economy.  I wonder if the Kardashians ever sit around and ponder people like that.  I made my kids watch and then we talked about what they’d seen afterward.  I was struck by the optimism and resilience of the homeless children who had been interviewed.   One girl hoped to go to law school and help others in her situation.  My two girls had a lot to say, and in an effort at full disclosure, one daughter piped up that there was a shoe company that donated a pair to a homeless person for each pair you purchased.  Ok, I winced, that was a semi-Kardashian answer.  But we were halfway there.   She was at least getting the point. 

 

I applaud that cagey calculating mother Kris for grabbing the brass ring when it was presented to her.  I know what it feels like to wonder, after a tragedy or loss, how you will take care of them all—how you will make sure their little lives don’t suffer because of your choices or actions or simple fate and bad luck. And good for her that she’s stockpiling enough cash to buy gold plated Depends in the nursing home.   The greatest thing about America is the chance for the janitor to rise to the CEO, despite what they say at Occupy Wall Street rallies; this is still a land where talent, grit and timing can get you to the top.   And I think those Kardashians should make as much money as they can stuff in their bras.  But my advice to Kris and the girls is this --- while you are filling your pockets, don’t forget to feed your souls.

 

Giving, truly giving back to the world, whether you are a millionaire or you can only throw a dollar in the Salvation Army bucket, comes from a place that goes beyond the photo opp.  Giving isn’t your publicist telling you to show up at St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital dressed in a spandex elf suit to pass out gifts some PR person hands you.  We model by example, as we do so many other things in life. 

 

I can’t tell you I’ve done a particularly good job of it as a mother.  It’s hard work, and it requires constant nagging, vigilance and reminders.  None of us relishes being the taskmaster Mom in the era of “be your child’s friend” parenting.   My kid’s Christmas lists this year are full of  “me-me-me” with the website links included. None of my children have offered to go to a soup kitchen or to wrap gifts that go under the tree at church.  But learning to give back can be a process, like getting in shape or training a puppy.  I’m working on it in my house. 

 

Looking at the landscape of stardom there are many I admire who have used their celebrity platforms and even their sex appeal to do good – Angelina Jolie, Sean Penn, Gary SInese, Jerry Lewis, Michael J Fox, Christopher Reeve to name just a few.  Make your own judgments about their politics, causes and commitment, but the list is healthy.  The point is these public figures use their voices to try to advance the human condition.  And they don’t always do it with a camera rolling or a hash tag in front.  You don’t have to start a 501C3 or visit the Sudan to give back.  Giving takes place in big and small ways—but it all feels the same kind of wonderful when the sentiment is genuine.

 

As parents this is a great time of year to take a moment and course correct with our kids.   We can remind them that keeping up with the Kardashaians isn’t real life. Perhaps I’m being too cruel to poor Kim and her family.  Maybe they are quietly peeling off thousands of bucks to charities or mentoring foster kids or supporting our troops in tangible ways.  I’ll be the first to admit that there may be honest give-back going on behind the scenes of their reality show.  It’s impossible to know what’s real and what is scripted.  Do-gooding isn’t as sexy or as jaw dropping on camera as farting or booty shots.

 

I want to tell the K-sisters to Google Donna Rice and Monica Lewinsky, OK, OK, they were famous for mistress sex scandals, but we were obsessed with them at the time… and now?  Pushing their grocery carts with pimple cream on like the rest of us schlemiels.  Check out other famous people who were famous for, well, being famous.  What will Kim do when her Kate Gosseling moment is over and she’s stuck staring at the framed People Magazine covers making eight PB&Js everyday or scheduling the parent teacher meetings?  What happens when America discovers the next family willing to unzip their sequined jumpsuits and show us their landing strips and tats.

 

If a life is based on sucking oxygen in the spotlight, than that’s a tough detox when the klieg shifts.  But if we can give our kids a sense of something more behind the curtain, the foundation of learning how good it feels to give, not just to take, that’s probably the biggest gift not just of this season—but for a life well-lived.

 

HORSING AROUND IN THE SHOWER

I can still feel his creepy little sausage fingers on my thigh.   Babysitting his kids wasn’t my favorite job, but my parents expected all of us to earn spending money.  The father always volunteered to drive me home and I dreaded the discomfort of the short ride, the forced conversation, the way he leaned toward me with boozy breath as I hugged the door.  Front seats in the sedans and station wagons of the 70s stretched into one long make-out sofa.  Great for boyfriends, bad for rides with creepy Dads.

I wanted nothing more than to bolt out of that car and run into my house.  But I ‘d been taught to show respect to adults, to be, above all, polite.  He was probably in his 30s or 40s – old -- someone who knew my parents, and a neighbor.  And if I thought much about it at all, I assumed, with a victim’s shame, that his veiled sexual advances were connected to something I had done wrong.  Perhaps my braces-filled smile and newly developed body sent an erroneous message that I had yet to decode amidst the confusion of burgeoning adolescence.

A few years before him there had been a family friend who liked to photograph children as a hobby. When I displayed an interest in photography, he offered to “teach” me about developing film in his basement darkroom.  I remember the feeling of my skin prickling, like filings lining up on a magnet, as he moved next to me in the covert blackness and then kissed me, as if I was his for the taking. “Uummmm… that’s nice,” he said and yet I can’t recall anything about how I got out of there, what excuse I muttered as I fumbled at the door.   But I do remember thinking that above all I should be polite.  Good girls didn’t make a scene.   Scroll ahead in time to the roguish professor who sat too close on the office couch while reviewing my “work.”   I sensed only smarmy low-level alarm bells before he grabbed me and shoved his tongue in my mouth.

 

 

The shame of these incidences still burns.  I’ve never mentioned this publically until now.  In those days no one was actively teaching girls to stand up and call someone on the carpet.  No parents I knew gave lectures about pedophiles or molestation or Sunday school teachers who took advantage of their charges.  There were only bad boys, boys our own age who could ruin our reputations.  Danger didn’t come disguised as grown-ups we knew or authority figures.  That kind of power was unquestioned.

 

Years later I told my mother about the family friend in the dark room.  At the time I had merely mentioned that I wasn’t comfortable with him and she had brushed me off, minimized my ambiguous feelings.  I didn’t have the words back then or the vocabulary of experience to communicate all the complex and shameful things I felt. My mother’s face went slack at the dark room story.  I understood her pain in learning that she hadn’t armed her child, or protected me.  In fact, she had muted me and minimized my concerns.

 

“We didn’t know about those things back then, dear,” she said to me sorrowfully.  “The 60s and 70s were a lot more innocent.”  Were they?  Or was it just that in the safety of those suburban neighborhoods, no one wanted to listen for the hissing in the lawns?  But the potential lurked, unnamed, in the Boy Scout leader, the Pop Warner coach, the parish priest and the yearbook advisor, just as surely and pervasively as it lurks today.

 

A friend of mine emailed me the first breaking news on the Penn State abuse scandal.  A few summers ago, a teenaged neighbor molested her son.  My friend’s guilt and shame, the anger and the storm that followed had galvanized her family and rocked the other.  But my friend had moved her family forward.

 

Abuse of power is an age-old story.  But those who wield their authority over a child for sexual pleasure are in a whole other category entirely. There is a special circle of hell for the cowardly predatory Coach Sanduskys of the world.  And yet as parents navigating today’s landscape it is often perplexing to articulate to our children the precise balance, the nuances between caution and fear, wariness and openness, acceptance and skepticism.  How do you effectively teach a young child to respect their elders, yet be continually alert for transgressions?  There is good touching and bad touching.   Expect the best and look for goodness but be sure to keep your guard up.  These can begin to feel like jumbled, mixed messages.  Yet in the end, the truth is simple.  When it’s wrong, you know.  You just know.

 

  

“No one talked about this stuff when I was a kid,” I say to my girls, who then look at me like I’m a Neanderthal’s fibula at the Museum of Natural History.  The point is to remind them when it smells like a rat they need to stand up and box back, tell a grown-up.   Or get the hell out of there.

 

Trust yourself, I tell my kids, call me at whatever hour, use your judgment and your instincts, don’t ever let anyone tell you what you should do if it doesn’t feel right.  We drill into their heads how to speak up, to run fast and hard when the man in the car offers them a ride home.  Don’t talk to people you don’t know, and remember that ”no” means “no.”  But evil doesn’t always come in the form of strangers. Sometimes the people you know can be scarier than the bedroom intruder.  They come cloaked in good intention, they are the familiar faces, the ones you trust with your children, the people society looks up to.

 

I’d like to believe that if I’d known what my kids know now, I would have flung that sweaty sausage hand off my leg and leapt out of the car.   I wish I’d had the temerity at 12 to slap the father in the darkroom and ask what the hell he thought he was doing.  And although I ended the meeting with the leering teacher quickly and subsequently dropped his class, I didn’t rise off that couch indignant.  I never stormed out. There was no Norma Rae moment.  He was my teacher, responsible for evaluating my performance.  And in the absence of being comfortable with naming what had happened or understanding its origin, I never said a word to him or anyone else until years later.  I let my old self down.

 

I’ve watched the Penn State story unfold with the same dark stone in my throat that other parents feel. The fact that is was allowed to go on, that it was pushed under the rug and covered up is beyond inexcusable. But authority figures have faces and voices.  They have credibility and influence.  They can have superpowers.  Finding a voice against that kind of might and celebrity is a big deal.  It requires tremendous strength.

 

Eating over at a friend’s house the other night their adolescent daughter was headed out the door to a party, dressed to the nines.  I jokingly teased her father that he would need to purchase a weapon to keep the boys away.   “Windpipe, eyes, groin and then stomp on their instep,” he said reflexively. “Huh?” I replied.  “I’ve taught both girls where the vulnerable points are if they get in a situation.” So, naturally, I made him show my girls those moves on the spot.

 

I’m going to hope and pray that if one of my daughters finds herself in a car being driven home by a creepy father she will do better than I did.  I’m going to hope that she and every kid in her generation can find their voice in the moments they need it most.  And not only when they experience abuse, but also when they see it happening around them.  As parents we need to use the stories like Penn State in ways that can educate, not terrify.  It’s up to all of us to help.  The alternative is the cost of the shame of silence.

WHEN REHAB MEDICINE IS CUT – YOU HURT TOO

Gabby Gifford’s amazing story and the release of her book and home video have put rehabilitation medicine and its heroic professionals—the doctors, nurses and therapists—temporarily in the public eye. But I have no doubt it will soon fall back in the shadows of public consciousness.

Medical rehabilitation isn’t sexy.  There’s no rush of the emergency room—no gurneys or defibrillators or physicians yelling orders in an environment of barely-controlled chaos.  There’s no discovering cures or fashioning a human heart out of stem cells.  And, while George Clooney would make a handsome rehabilitation physician on TV, the networks aren’t lining up to film a pilot involving a rehab hospital.

Rehabilitation does not provide instant results; rather, it is a long, hard road.  It is a near-relentless struggle over the course of weeks, months, and even years to help an individual who has been severely injured get back as close as possible to where they were before their injury.  It can involve countless hours of hard work and determination just to remember the word for an apple, to gain the motor skills to hold a fork, and the ability to dress oneself again.  

It’s a journey that most often involves families and friends.  It is a road that my children and I walked with my husband Bob when he was severely injured by a roadside bomb in Iraq.  But consider this:  at some point every one of us will need expert rehabilitation care for a loved one or ourselves.  How many of us know someone who has been in a car accident, or had a stroke, or broken a hip?  As I move through my 50s, I’m more keenly aware of my own pressing mortality, the fact that anything can happen to myself, my loved ones and my family members.  It’s simply a fact of life. 

It was impossible not to think of our own journey when I watched the home video of Rep. Gabby Giffords working hard and making such great strides.  Many things are possible on the journey of recovery.  I see them at work every day with Bob.  But none of my husband’s achievements and his “getting back to himself” would have been possible without rehab.  

Sadly, the type of quality medical rehabilitation care that Bob and Rep. Gabby Giffords needed—and the type of care that you or your loved ones may need in the future—is at significant risk due to current proposals in Washington proposed as part of deficit reduction.  These cuts will reduce patient access to care and threaten the viability of rehabilitation providers.  Thousands of people in need of medical rehabilitation will no longer receive these services.  Training as well as therapists and medical jobs will be cut – hospitals will have no choice.  

Patients in rehabilitation hospitals are often at their most vulnerable.  It’s an emotional and scary time, usually following an injury, sudden event or illness.  Most Americans already face very real limitations on their access to inpatient and outpatient rehabilitation care – their insurance runs out or benefits stop before their treatment needs end.  The average insurance plan for traumatic brain injury covers six weeks of rehab.  That barely begins to scratch the surface of an injury that can take years to heal.  

Patients and their families should not unfairly bear the burden of balancing the federal budget.  Cheaper is not better.  Who would ever choose to see their catastrophically hurt loved one in a nursing home instead of a rehab hospital?  But that will be the result if these cuts are approved.  

Talk with these people, as well as our returning wounded veterans, about how overwhelming the access and financial challenges can be.  At a time when our population is aging and returning veterans are in need of services in their local communities, services will be slashed or eliminated. Rehab is darn hard work—placing challenging policy and additional access obstacles in front of these patients are not in anyone’s interest.  

It’s easy to put medical rehabilitation at the back-of-the-bus in medicine.  But we need to fight cuts that will eliminate access to high quality care for your spouse, your grandmother, and your child.  Otherwise, society and each of us will pay in many unanticipated ways, including higher costs, reduced quality of life for the disabled, and higher levels of intense stress for families and caregivers.  

Rehab saves lives and families.  It saved mine.  In my lowest moments, it was the energy, motivation, expertise, and commitment of the professionals and caregivers in rehab hospitals that got me through.   I have a very clear memory of walking onto the floor of Bob’s inpatient rehab hospital, my spirits at their lowest ebb.  I had run out of gas, and my shoulders were hunched in a C-curve.  A voice piped up from behind the desk.  “Come with me Mrs. Woodruff,” the young physical therapist commanded.  She shut the door behind her tiny office, “ has anyone asked you how you are today?”  she inquired, as I burst into tears of gratitude and release.  She then proceeded to give me a ten-minute shoulder massage that I will never forget.  Her kindness and compassion humbled me that day.  And it lifted me up.  She had extended her care beyond simply focusing on the patient and offered it to an exhausted caregiver. That’s just a tiny slice of the magic that takes place in rehab hospitals.  We can’t allow these much needed resources to be vastly diminished. 

With the skills and support of the therapists, nurses, doctors and caregivers in medical rehabilitation hanging in the balance, I want to lend my voice to wake Washington up.  It may not be a sexy, but it’s a critical one.