The Power of One Word

"When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain."

So said William Shakespeare....and channeled by many a hopeful job interviewer, when they ask: "If you had only one word to describe yourself, what would it be?"

Follow-up question: Do you hate that question as much as I do? I mean, how COULD any one word sum up the complexities of an individual? And yet, ABC News listed it as one of the top 25 "great" interview questions.

I think, on the contrary, that one-word descriptions often do the opposite of describing a person accurately - they represent a stereotype, or a preconceived picture of attributes associated with that word.

Autistic * Jewish * Gay * Blonde * Russian

Each of these words likely will conjure a set of characteristics in your mind...characteristics that may not apply to the next person you meet who self-identifies with one of these terms. Okay, I know, in a job interview you're supposed to pick words like "resilient," "innovative" or "diligent." But still, why just one word? WHERE ARE THE OTHER WORDS, DAMMIT?

The WHATIFs Grow Up

The whatifs  have a way of sneaking up on us, edging their way in through cracks in the veneer.

We ward them off with a smile on our face; with sleeping pills; with best-laid plans.

Some of us, vulnerable to anxiety's Machiavellian maneuvers, have learned to ignore the whatifs, or rather deny them. We stay busy to hide from them. We run. We play. Or we use exhaustion as a means of defense (they can't attack while we sleep).

Still, the whatifs  are patient - content to lie in wait, satisfied knowing they soon will have the chance to stretch their tentacles, regenerate and multiply.

A movie theater shooting. A marathon bombing. A child abused by a teacher. An autistic girl found face-down in a lake. A friend diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer.

Each of these tears down our defenses and allows the whatifs to burrow in...stronger, scarier, realer.

Shel Silverstein/Where The Sidewalk Ends

The night before a school camping trip, my son asks, "Whatif  I sleepwalk into the cave and get eaten by a bear or lost forever?" What an outlandish whatif,  I think, instantly realizing that MY whatifs once were outlandish, too. Are they still?

It's much harder to combat whatifs when they've become so real.

The whatifs  no longer are about my own mortality or suffering. They dance around the people I love. Whatif  something endangers them? Or prevents me from protecting them? How can I shield my nonverbal daughter from a predatory world? Whatif  my son doesn't make it to the hospital in time when his shunt fails? Whatif  I abandon them, or rather, WHEN I abandon them in death? What will happen then?

Flowers Are Pretty (Except When Scattered on My Floor in Shards of Glass)

WIN A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS - COMMENT BELOW TO ENTER

Some complicated, new disclosure laws have caused upheaval in the blogosphere, requiring all kinds of fancy language around sponsored posts. Well, of course! The good news here, though, is we don't have to worry about any of that today. Here's your disclaimer: The sponsor is giving me absolutely NOTHING. You get a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. Me? Nada. Except, hopefully, your adoration and gratitude, so give it generously!

As you can imagine, I hear from and turn down so many sponsors wanting to give you stuff (that's a lie), but when Teleflora contacted me, I jumped on it for two reasons  First, it allows me to give YOU something quite lovely. And second, I immediately remembered that I snapped this pic awhile ago and have been waiting for just the right moment to share it. Win and win. (Really, can you BELIEVE sponsors aren't beating down my door!)

Happy Valentine's Day, Sucka!

So, my husband brought me flowers on Valentine's Day. I tell him time and time again, I don't care about celebrating Valentine's Day, but I know he's not sure if I mean it.

I swear I honestly mean it, but he wasn't willing to take the risk...so he gave me this completely original bouquet of red roses (wherever did he come up with the idea?). In a vase. A glass vase. Oh they sure were pretty. And "pretty" always translates into "too pretty for our home."

She Talks Funny

My Child Is Not Your 'Teachable Moment'

We're perched at a rectangular, kid's-size table in the art room of an indoor play gym, and she is painting a collection of methodically selected picture print-outs. Embracing her focus and age-appropriate activity - ephemeral as it will be - I attentively respond to her endless, artistic demands like an attendant in an operating room. I don't want to break the spell.

Her word approximations erupt loudly, jumbly and jolty: "Wa du"..."On-ch"..."hep." Instinctively, I know to present water for her paintbrush; fresh, orange paint; and the help she wants un-sticking her painted papers - all the while, rewarding and validating my autistic, apraxic child's emerging language and articulation.

A younger boy enters, maybe around 4 or 5, his mom by his side. (I know this because be calls her "mom" with the startlingly perfect clarity and tone that sucker-punches me every time. It shouldn't surprise me to hear children half her age orating like rock stars, but somehow it still does.)