Why we CANNOT re-elect the same governor and mayor in IL

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CPS Teachers Asked to Take 7% Pay Cut—Bound to attract the Finest

First, here’s a 2016 Chicago Public School Library:

 The unused library at Paderewski Elementary. CPS has 160 librarians for 661 schools, according to the Chicago Teachers Union.

The unused library at Paderewski Elementary. CPS has 160 librarians for 661 schools, according to the Chicago Teachers Union. DNAinfo/Chloe Riley

CHICAGO — Leaders of a national organization of librarians are bemoaning cuts in Chicago schools that they say “makes it impossible for CPS to achieve its mission of preparing all students for success.”There are 218 librarians in 178 CPS schools, meaning 36 percent of schools have dedicated librarians,” according to Emily Bittner, CPS spokeswoman….I mean, really, why would reading or access to reading material be a priority to a HUGE public school system? (Question added by me.)

 

On top of that

For many who don’t understand the history of the great Chicago Public School teacher rip-off, here’s an excellent article written by Will Caskey. It is a six-minute read, worth every second. PLEASE take six minutes and process how insignificant our children’s education’s are to the powers-that-be in Chicago politics and understand why they MUST be voted into oblivion.

The Truth About the CPS Pension Fight

To understand why the Chicago Teachers Union is threatening to strike — and why Mayor Rahm Emanuel is lecturing them — you need to go back three decades in time.

But let’s start with the 2015–16 school year. Chicago Public Schools were definitely broke. They issued a budget with a mystery $500 million dollar hole. They borrowed and borrowed, to the point that CPS now is maxed out on the public debt market and is forced to issue private debt at exorbitant rates. CPS publicly mused that they might not make their pension deposits. They threatened to cut teacher pay and even to randomly fire teachers.

It was grim. But then Illinois state government came through for CPS, sort of. The Legislature passed a law allowing the school district to raise property taxes by $250 million for pension payments. They also said CPS could keep receiving $70 million in state funds even though fewer students are attending, and that CPS might get another $200 million if the Legislature passes a pension reform bill that meets Gov. Bruce Rauner’s approval.

This level of state funding leaves CPS functional — almost. In order to fill the remaining $200 million hole in the budget though, Mayor Emanuel wants to cut something called the pension pickup.

Basically, The pension pickup is a mechanism by which CPS pays for the employee side of pension contributions, to the tune of 7% of teachers’ salaries. It’s as if your employer started making your entire 401(k) contribution instead of merely matching a percentage of yours. It’s a pretty good deal.

Mayor Emanuel says that eliminating the pension pick-up will make Chicago Teachers Union “part of the solution.” CTU is so infuriated that they are threatening to strike.

And this is where we have to back into history.

Once upon a time, CPS ran out of money, and the Republican governor of Illinois and mayor of Chicago couldn’t agree on how to fix it, and CTU was really mad about it.

Sound familiar? It was in 1979. CPS ran out of money. Then-Gov. Jim Thompson and then-Mayor Jane Byrne blamed each other for the crisis and rejected each other’s plans to fix it.

Then CPS LITERALLY ran out of money and stopped issuing paychecks.

When the dust settled, CPS was placed into financial receivership by a State-created board. Teachers were understandably enraged that there was now no guarantee that they would receive their next paychecks. They also understandably wanted back pay for the time during which they all turned into interns.

To placate angry teachers, it was decided that CPS would make teachers’ pension contributions — in effect, granting teachers a 7% pay hike while buying CPS some extra time to figure out how to fill up the resulting hole in the pension system. Thus, the pension pickup was born.

This was a new twist on a familiar strategy: Chicago and Illinois governments have a long history of awarding future pension benefits instead of pay raises in the present, on the logic that actual pay raises mean spending money right now, while pension increases put off spending money to the indeterminate future.

That was, in technical terms, a truly terrible idea.

Because 7% of $14,459 (a starting teacher’s salary in 1980) didn’t sound like all that much to make up. But over the years, that teacher received annual raises — and probably a few more increases as well, for earning a master’s degree or taking on coaching duties. So by the time that teacher hit retirement, in 2014, the base pay was about $71,000. From then on, the teacher receives 3% annual cost of living adjustments based on salary at retirement.

So here’s the math problem that CPS apparently couldn’t-or wouldn’t-understand in 1979. The pension pick-up for that starting teacher was worth about $1,000 a year, give or take. But by retirement, the value of the pick-up had grown to $5,000 annually. And the 3% cost of living increase (COLA) means that, in 20 years, (through the magic of compounding) the pension pickup will end up costing the pension systems an additional $9,000 — per year, per retiree.

If you want to math it out, that’s $180,000 over an average retirement. It’s a pretty sweet compensation for a paycheck scare during the Carter Administration.

So it makes sense for Mayor Emanuel to ask teachers to start picking up that 7% again. Right?

Well, the problem is that we’re now asking today’s starting teachers to take a 7% pay cut — and keep in mind, the value of that 7% will increase year-by-year over the course of that teacher’s career. A teacher with a bachelor’s degree will lose about $150,000 over his/her career when you factor in contractual raises over thirty years. Teachers with advanced degrees will lose even more.

So Mayor Emanuel is asking today’s novice teachers to accept a pay cut that will accumulate to more than the cost of a bachelor’s degree at a top private school. That’s a gut punch to 20-somethings who are already worried about when, if ever, they will pay off their college loans.

Ah, but Mayor Emanuel says everyone else is chipping in for this, so teachers should as well:

“Chicago taxpayers have stepped up to be part of the solution. The State of Illinois, for the first time, has stepped up to be part of the solution. The [CPS] central bureaucracy, in the sense of the fat, has stepped up to be part of the solution. And I think the teachers should be part of the solution in not only stabilizing their finances, but strengthening our classrooms.”

HAVE Chicago taxpayers stepped up? Official numbers will come out with the Cook County Clerk’s office next year, but a decent estimate of the $250 million property tax increase comes to an additional $284 a year from the average residential property in Chicago. For kicks, let’s assume that the value of that average property will double in that time. So by 2046, the average homeowner will be kicking in an additional $575 a year. That’s about ONE-SIXTH of the amount that a novice teacher will lose THIS YEAR.

It’s true that the original pickup decision was a panicked, thoughtless attempt to triage an insolvent school district. And some people may believe that teachers should simply be paid less.

But there is no rational reason to say that CPS teachers taking a massive pay cut that will add up to hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of their careers makes them part of a fair and equitable solution to the CPS budget disaster.

The solution with minimal impact is pretty simple: raise property taxes more. The Chicago City Council can raise taxes and transfer the funds to CPS; in fact, they already did so for additional school construction funds last year. Raising taxes by another $284 per year for everyone is not pleasant, but it is far less severe than a 7% pay cut for teachers. Seven percent of the median household income in Chicago is $3,300, over five times the size of that total potential property tax increase.

Of course, property taxes have been a third rail in Chicago. Former Mayor Richard M. Daley spent his entire tenure assuring everyone that property taxes would never ever go up. So an entire generation of Chicagoans grew up thinking a property tax increase is an unthinkable, apocalyptic event. This is patently false: even after the City Council’s historic property tax increase last year, Chicago’s effective property tax rate is still below the median in Cook County.

Many people will read this and conclude that Chicago cannot handle another property tax increase. And Chicago politicians are going to listen: Property owners disproportionately vote in municipal elections and Democratic primaries, so they have a lot more influence, even if it isn’t based on facts.

But eliminating the pension pickup won’t make CPS teachers part of the solution.

It will make them pay for prolonging the problem.

Are College Campuses Relevant If They’re Censured?

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In Meghan Daum’s recent Los Angeles Times column, she discusses the brouhaha over the University of Chicago’s announcement last week that it would not support “trigger warnings,” signals that a sensitive topic is about to be addressed.

Apparently the American college campus, though probably more progressive and demographically inclusive than at any time in history, is really a bulwark of sexism, transphobia, post-colonial bigotry and just about any other social injustice you can think of.

university-105709_1280And that’s frightening. After all, isn’t the very essence of higher learning the pursuit of
open-minded, civil debate? Isn’t it the role of professors at these institutions to help mold our high-school brains into learning how to look at issues objectively, showing us the value of being willing to at least listen to different ideas if not provide the tools that allow us to discuss dissension rationally?

The idea that trigger warnings ever existed is more troubling to many of us, and Meghan’s column nails the issues. It’s worth the read: When it comes to campus groupthink, trigger warnings aren’t the half of it.

 

 

George Bush Was Right!?!

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When our 43rd president spoke at the interfaith memorial service in Dallas on July 12, he expressed a powerful truth:

Too often, we judge other groups by their worst examples, while judging ourselves by our best intentions.

I abide by a similar notion—life would be far more pleasant if families, friends and colleagues chose to define and talk about us based on our best moments instead of those we undoubtedly wish never occurred.

graffiti-1472472_1920Over a lifetime, painful and embarrassing experiences stack up for everyone. How people acknowledge or disavow that reality is always interesting. I’m acutely aware of mine and would suffocate under the weight of humiliation if they were my sole focus. Thankfully, they are scattered among weeks, months and years bursting with everyday events and remarkable occasions that are infinitely more worthy of remembering.

Hence my hard time with those who choose to keep everyone’s most unpleasant incidents top of mind, not only singling them out as the default material for conversation but holding on to them as the irreversible benchmarks to forever measure character or assess intentions.

We do not elevate ourselves by knocking others down. Millions of us in full knowledge of our imperfections offer up many times more positive and colorful anecdotes with which to be judged.

I find it overwhelming that George Bush shared these remarks at this difficult juncture in our country’s history. I’m not one if his fans, but I’ll never forget his observation earlier this week. Neither am I naÏve, still I relish those words, and I’ll never be able to think about him again without recalling them.

There were many profound moments during that sad service. President Obama reminded us:

As we get older, we learn we don’t always have control of things, not even a president does. But we do have control over how we respond to the world. We do have control over how we treat one another.

Two US presidents from rival parties came together in Dallas despite the deep political schisms wrenching our country apart. Even with their many differences, together they appealed to the greater good. The recognition that we are all imperfect is a powerful first step in helping us do better at home and in the world, if we make the conscious decision to choose respect.

Is that too much to ask?

Rabid Dogs, Fences, Aliens & Christians

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Or, If I Tweet it, is it true?

I haven’t posted here since July because I’ve found it difficult to be anywhere on line. I’m only minimally connected, yet I know GOP presidential candidate Ben Carson referenced Syrian refugees as rabid dogs, a couple other contenders suggest prioritizing Christians, another gleefully touts building a fence around Mexico to stop the influx of illegal “aliens.” The amount of crazy here soars beyond troubling into a whole new universe.

Terrorism and a looming US presidential election have collided to create a 21st century black hole where fact-checking has been sucked dry, taking humanity as collateral damage. What remains is no shortage of bigotry. In fact, racism and profiling exist in abundance, as if the sanctity of human suffering is only the luxury of a particular people of a certain faith.

Any suggestion of compassion for basic human rights not to mention common sense are quickly and loudly denounced because those of us with even a modicum of empathy are what?…too tolerant?

It is frighteningly predictable the House voted the other day to require stringent vetting of any Syrian or Iraqi refugees despite all factual evidence disproving theories that they are the terrorists. Here’s hoping the House shares this screening expertise with the Vatican, NRA, IRS and our Banking and Securities sectors.

Equally troubling are that the misguided senses of entitlement reach into our own homes where politicians want the power to impose their beliefs over what may be in a woman’s uterus while bellowing about government being too big, thereby not in the business of providing aid to mothers and their newborns. And, you should see the carnage of this kind of hypocrisy in urban public school systems.

How can those who pretend to care so much for the United States feel no responsibility not only for the freedoms we are all assured but for the essence and tenets of the Christianity they tout as a litmus test when their words and actions oppose every value that religion represents?

Aren’t we better than this? In the 1950s when McCarthy was saving the world by outing Communists and “homosexuals,” at least you had to find the news to find the insanity. How is it with the ubiquitous access to information and even facts(!) today’s candidates don’t recall our own terrorist Hall of Fame—Oklahoma’s Timothy McVeigh, Unabomber Ted Kaczynski, the Columbine High School Massacre duo of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold and the Ku Klux Klan, to name a few. They’re inconvenient reminders, not irrelevant freaks of nature, and it would serve our politicians well to acknowledge the inflammatory vitriol they screech into microphones and disseminate in forty character Tweets fuel equally the angry, displaced and, yes, even Christians of the nation they profess to love.

It is terrifying to be riddled with endless commentary over unthinkable atrocities like the most recent Mali and Paris terrorist attacks on the heels of yet another school shooting in the United States, while hundreds of thousands of war-torn refugees suffer shakedowns and now stringent screening to find refuge.

But I’m not going to be intimidated anymore by the insinuation perpetuated by those who don’t have a clue that the promise of sanctuary is but a fairy tale unless we take their lead. Our humanity is not represented by the irrational exuberance of a one percent, a gender or the randomness of birthplace.

So there. I am heading into the Thanksgiving week grateful for my friends and family and all those I know who are smarter and more compassionate than the trending social media would lead us to believe. It’s time to focus on what’s important, not the loudest carnival barker in a tent.

Remembering What Counts

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Last Sunday a friend was in town for a week of business meetings, and we’d arranged months earlier to get together on what ended up being the nicest summer day Chicago had all season. We met in the Fall of 2001 at a job where we worked together for about six years. Jill was a part-timer, finishing a PhD in west Texas, although she’ll be the first to tell you she’s from New Jersey, which instantly makes me smile. So often her conversations begin with, “I’m from Jersey,” and if you’ve spent more than five minutes with anyone from The Garden State, you’d know she was raised there even if she hadn’t started the discussion with, “I’m from Jersey.”

I began the job about two or three weeks before her, and she was born a couple of months before me in the same year. That initiated the first Stone-1, Mullholland-1 rivalry. I may have begun the job earlier, she is forever younger than me, exemplifying a competitive predisposition foIMG_0643r which the Jersey girl hasn’t lost her passion. She’ll cleverly walk me into a Mullholland-1, Stone-0 faceoff on Facebook with a glee belying our presumed maturity.

We hit if off immediately, and by the end of October, 2001 we weren’t only colleagues, we were close friends. There are obvious commonalities like we’re only two months apart in age, both Type-A overachievers with plenty of pride and no fewer opinions, driven by perhaps a tad too much perfectionism. She’s finally a full-time employee but we never worked together in the association’s Merchandise Mart offices in Chicago when the association and I were located there.

From the moment we met we did and said silly stuff, laughed out loud a disproportionate number of times, although we are also good kvetchers. Still, we were very conscientious about our jobs, often disagreeing about certain aspects, but it never got in the way of our friendship. In the best of those times, I’d tell her she was full of it; she’d tell me I was overflowing in it. Then she’d do things like hang the phone up, call Jeannie the office manager and have her hide all my pens or create a crisis for Jeannie to deliver to me with an Academy Award-worthy performance, to which I’d respond by telling her to tell Jill she doesn’t need to earn a PhD, she needs to see one. In more serious times, our clashes might last a day or two, but we couldn’t sustain an argument too long. We’d disagree, sometimes loudly, get over it and stay over it. We’d always find some compromise and whatever the issue, it was never brought up again. Nothing was as important as our friendship. Six years flew by, we worked as hard as we played, and we’re still very proud of that.

There’d also been plenty of opportunity for colleagues, committee and Board members to pit us against each other when we worked together and even after I left. We saw many attempts, but they could never succeed although we’d never discussed such an “agreement,” for lack of a better term. We cared too much about each other, we had too much fun together. In hindsight, our closeness seems remarkable because we were two of only six permanent employees then, her being one of two part-timers and the only virtual one, living in an area as rural and distant as Chicago is urban and eclectic.

Then I left the association, abruptly. We spoke occasionally but not about work. She knew something went wrong. I know she heard all kinds of absurd stories just as surely as I know she gave them no weight because they weren’t words coming from me. We’d heard plenty of dirt on each other over the years but never once chose to acknowledge it. Although unsaid, we weren’t willing to ruin what we had by letting negative get between us.

It’s hard to stay connected when miles apart and gripped in details of separate lives. Except for an occasional Facebook post, text message or brief call where we still managed to laugh and disagree as if we’d never missed a day, we remained out of touch for over five years. And until we sat on the beach last Sunday, she didn’t know any “why’s.” In between laughing out loud about old pranks and goofy colleagues, I told her some of them. I’d been hit in a head-on car collision; our family had to sell our home because like others the Great Recession struck us hard, and some other unpleasantries. I explained they weren’t things I could talk about over the phone or through email, but I didn’t even need to say that. She’d never been mad that we weren’t talking, she just didn’t know why.

During the short time we spent discussing it, I saw something that until that moment I thought one could only feel: empathy. The way she listened, the tilt of her head, her few but well-chosen questions, the different tone in which she spoke―it struck me harder than the summer sun and gin and tonic. Those tough times paled compared to the care radiating from her as spontaneously as the waves lapping onto the beach and the sun beating down on the lakefront. Let me be clear: it wasn’t sappy. She doesn’t do sappy and doesn’t accept it from others. She was hearing information she’d long wondered about and would only acknowledge from her friend, and despite her Jersey cool, her concern was palpable. We didn’t dwell on any of it; we picked right back up where we left off, teasing each other, acting nowhere near our age (which I tried to reduce and for some reason she stopped me before I could even finish the logic, though I’d been certain she’d appreciate it).

What is relevant is not talking for at least five years and then picking up where we
left off. Dissecting “why” and “what happened” also were never part of any “agreement.” We’re friends. We respect each other even when we disagree. Even when years fly by. Even when others try to interfere. Last Sunday I not only felt but I saw the blessings of friendship, the love that comes from two people who genuinely care and respect each other. I will always love her, and I know that’s mutual. But not in a sappy way, Jill’s from Jersey.

There are countless hugely frightening and equally irrelevant issues dividing out country, political parties and families every day. But not knowing when we’ll see each other again or even talk, aside from a few silly give and takes on Facebook, can’t disconnect my friend Jill and me. Those issues simply aren’t part of our definition of friendship, love, empathy.

What an enlightening observation for me. People who really care about one another without agenda or condition are a rare and wonderful gift. That tenderness is unrelated to one’s religious belief, culture, age, politics, even blood lines, much to my surprise. Real friendship and love mean laughing at the beach, remembering each other’s best moments, and feeling only sadness about the bad ones. Tallying them to use against each other never once a consideration.

Thanks, Jill, for reminding me about what really counts. Yeah, I know―Mullholand-1, Stone-0. I’m grateful I’ve got a lifetime to keep up that rivalry, a lesson I needed to understand at that moment more than I can say. But that’s what makes these kinds of relationships special, right? Ok, maybe too sappy, but it’s the truth, and I’m prepared for the fallout because I know whatever her reaction, it’ll never, ever be one that would make me feel bad or sad. Is there a greater gift?

Strain the Wine, Scale Back the Hopes

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Cait's last day of 1st grade

Cait’s last day of 1st grade

Despite understanding the concept of time, we were still stunned to get a picture of our granddaughter Caitlin on her last day of first grade. She’s the right age at seven. I remember her birth as well as my daughters’. This milestone, however, conjures a lot of different emotions than when her mom and aunt reached it and subsequent ones. Back then we were excited for many reasons, some we all shared: no more homework, worrying about lunch from the fridge or the cafeteria and sleeping schedules loosened up. As parents we watched our daughters worlds open wider each year—and watched them enjoy it although I’m not sure they’ll yet admit it—and we could only imagine what the next year would bring. Exciting times for all of us, and certainly an early peek into how swiftly time slips past.

My husband was married before and his son has three kids so I had some wonderful grandma training from his brilliant brood. That his oldest recently turned 13 even blew our daughters away. It took a full week for my husband to accept his son turning 40 (several years ago), thus he can’t/won’t ponder the differences between our kids and grandchildren aging.

It’s bittersweet, which sounds so cliché, but it truly does arouse feelings of both pleasure and sadness. What joy that our daughter shares these special moments with us, and the thrill of seeing Cait learn to read, understand math, quiz us about dolphins and genuinely embrace the notion of learning delights me to my core.The endless ways she says and does things just as her mom and aunt did are extra special when they remind us of idiosyncrasies long forgotten. Little things like how she pronounces certain words, that she still broadcasts she’s going potty although she’s beyond the age that once solo act was worthy of reporting, the resistance to allow a moment of silence in the car. So much we found funny, a few were eye-rollers then, but not in hindsight.

Caitlin standing at the front steps, backpack draped over one shoulder, taller and more confident than the day before, with a subject line “Last day as a 1st grader” filled her parents with the same awe we once felt. But buried just under our surface is the reminder we’re aging. We can only hope to witness the landmark moments they anxiously await as we quickly do the math determining our age when she graduates high school in 11 years. If we take care of ourselves and knock on wood there are no unanticipated events, we should certainly still be around. But the ifs and hopefulness are new and disquieting. Cait’s brothers are two and sixteen months. I refuse to do that math.

Time won’t stand still but it will allow us to embrace it. I’ve never before been a greater champion of carpe diem. Latin for “sieze the day,” Horace wrote it in his poem Odes:

“…be wise, be truthful, strain the wine, and scale back your long hopes to a short period. While we speak, envious time will have {already} fled: seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the next day….”

There’s comfort from the wisdom we gain as the clock advances. So much more love to receive, to give, to share with those whose every moment offers pleasure simply because the moment occurs.

My Caitlin and the new Caitlyn

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Well, she really isn’t mine, she’s my 7-year-old granddaughter and next to her mom and aunt, my favorite person in the world. Thus, for some reason I was particularly psyched the transgendered Bruce Jenner came out to the world yesterday as Caitlyn, because despite different spelling, the name is analogous with someone very special.

My Cait slept over the night of the famous Sawyer/Jenner interview and she only joined me watching it near the end. I hadn’t asked her mom if it was okay for her to watch it, but my heterosexual married daughter who works, has two sons and Cait, actively participates in the city’s LGBT rowing team, in fact, she’s on the board. A few months ago she told me a long-term goal is to establish a suburban LGBT community center where kids can take part in sports, get tutoring, make friends, talk to therapists—all in a safe environment that they wouldn’t even recognize as “different” just because the kids feel different.

Talk about special. I couldn’t be prouder although I take no credit. When Cait’s mom was born, I felt like she already knew all the rules. She slept through the night right away, even crawled to her crib if we didn’t get her into bed early enough. She’d wake about 8:30 am and nap between All My Children and General Hospital—three hours where I could satisfy one of my biggest vices: soap operas. Cait’s mom is my oldest, the one I was least experienced to parent. I’m sure I spoke way too early about boys, birth control, drugs, drinking, all the scary topics I addressed as easily as talking about Lindsay Lohan in “The Parent Trap,” mostly as she sat in the backseat and we headed somewhere. Now I estimate in an earlier life she probably lived  until around 17 or so because when she reached that age she started acting like a normal vs. an all-knowing teen. Since I wasn’t an experienced mom, I didn’t pick up on that nuance until in her early 20s she told me she was pregnant and keeping the baby.

They didn’t marry, but moved in together. They didn’t last as a family unit, but tried. He moved away and sadly died unexpectedly a little over a year ago. Caitlin was devastated; daughter’s love dads just because. Fortunately, Cait’s mom met a man who loved her and Cait equally, married and have had two sons. Cait loves being an older sibling. She misses her dad, yet has nothing but love and respect for her stepdad, sometimes even calling him “dad” now, but only when their family is alone together.

Regardless of the circumstances, I can’t imagine a world without Cait. It’s so much brighter because of her. Right now she’s about three feet of pure love. She doesn’t resent her new brothers six and seven years younger and all the attention they get; she’s never jealous about what others have. Like her mom, she seems like this isn’t her first go at the world.

She had lots of questions the last 20 minutes or so of the Sawyer/Jenner interview, and I talked to her just like I once did her mom. “He wants to be a girl, grandma?” she asked. “Why?” I said, “Listen to what they’re saying Cait. The blonde woman is trying to find out why, too.” After a few more whys I asked, “You know Caitlin that it doesn’t matter what we look like on the outside, it’s how we feel on the inside, right? He looks like a man but has always felt like a girl. So why shouldn’t he be happy and be a girl?” I told her there were lots of boys and girls of all ages going through the same feelings, but we’re learning from him what it’s like.

She saw him pick out his favorite little black dress, talk to his sister and heard his mom. “Is it going to hurt anyone, Grandma?” she asked. “He’s going to have some operations so he looks more like a girl, and he might be sore for a bit, but it doesn’t seem to me that he’s hurting anyone. I don’t think we can make anyone else happy unless we’re happy, do you?” I asked her.

She thought about it for a minute or so, then concluded, “You’re right Grandma. I’m sad if you’re not happy.”

These are the moments that make me feel like the luckiest person in the world. People may grow tired hearing me talk about my rock star daughters and now rock star grandchildren. But as long as they’re spreading all this greatness, I’m going to keep talking. The world needs more of it, and I’m surrounded by an abundance. Let the new and 7-year old Cait’s be reminders that there’s so much beauty, love and compassion in the truth. Simply revel in the things that do us no harm.