Anyone with health issues is held hostage by their insurance carriers. One of my favorite insurance policies is the amount of money each body part is assigned by an insurance provider. Once someone reaches the maximum amount for a specific body part, like a shoulder, the provider will no longer pay for treatment. Physical therapists have to deal with this issue all the time. A person is obviously in need of treatment, but the insurance company will no longer pay because the person has 'tapped out' the amount of money allotted for that particular part.
What about those who have preexisting conditions or who are denied coverage for an illness they don't have? My husband had a staph infection three years ago. He is completely cured, and yet he cannot get health insurance because he's been flagged as having 'chronic arthritis of the shoulder.' He's been trying to get ahold of someone who knows how to fix this incorrect diagnosis. He pays an exorbitant amount of money each month for a paltry insurance plan that covers very little.
My current insurance plan is a huge waste of money...at least for me. I have the privilege of paying for the plan each month, and then I have a 2000.00 deductible to make. This means my prescriptions are full price! If I need testing or blood work I pay full price. On top of my cut in pay, this is ridiculous.
After my husband and I have had several necessary surgeries, we've also learned about insurance negotiations. Insurance companies negotiate the price they'll pay for treatment and surgeries, so doctors get hosed when it comes to billing for their services. It's no wonder doctors have more patients than they can care for, or the fact most double and triple book appointments. They can't provide quality care because they're trying to cover their losses from insurance companies. Because insurance companies will only pay so much, I've found that doctors are also passing those differences onto their patients. Negotiation is unfair to both doctors and patients; those who win are insurance companies. Since insurance companies make it difficult for doctors to make a living, it's no wonder many have to join existing practices, or they form practices with established doctors. They cannot afford to have their own offices. My last surgeon, for example, belongs to two different practices and has three different offices. I don't think we spent more than three minutes with one another over the course of multiple appointments. He doesn't have time for patient care as he's too busy trying to cover his overhead.
What about those of us in the midle class or lower class? Many of us are barely making ends meet as it is, plus we have to pay for our insurance and additional costs from treatment. Some cannot afford insurance so they allow months or years to pass without seeing a doctor. I knew a man who had uncontrolled diabetes and whose foot had gangrene. He lost two toes but had no way to pay for his hospital stay or his medication.
I don't understand how we can live in the US and feel fine with our healthcare system. Many argue that it isn't their problem, but it is. We passively allow insurance companies to dictate our medical needs and treatments, and in the end, we lose. Being denied a prescription the doctor determines I need because the insurance company determines I don't is wrong. Denied coverage for preexisting conditions like high blood pressure or diabetes is wrong. Creating a system that makes insurance unaffordable for millions of Americans is wrong.
The question is: what do we do about it?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Doing what is right isn't always what's easiest
Yesterday, my son's great grandmother died. Today, the most beautiful white kitten, with gold tipped ears and a gold tail, and gorgeous blue eyes showed up at our house. I don't know why it chose our house, but I do know we wanted to keep it. But what if it belonged to someone and got out of the house accidentally? What if it was sick? What if we kept it? Ultimately, we decided to take it to the animal shelter because it might belong to someone or a coyote might eat it.
My son cried and cried regardless of me telling him to not get attached to it. He got attached to it, of course. He named it, "Kitty" of course. It was thin so we gave it some milk. It drank nearly an entire bowl! Kitty climbed a giant tree and wouldn't come down when we were going to take it to the shelter, so we left it. I had secret hopes its owner would show up and claim it. Upon our return, it was waiting for us in the tree.
The right action was to take the kitten to the animal shelter. I know it was. I also know it felt really crappy to do so. Out of all the homes on the block, this kitten found our house and wanted to be part of our family. But we already have a dog who isn't fond of cats, a father who is allergic to and who dislikes cats, and limited funds to take care of another animal. And while my son was entranced with the kitten, I knew that 'love' would wear off quickly, and cat care would become the responsibility of me or my husband. Could we do that?
Ultimately, the answer was no. Kitty, riding in a basket with a beach towel, sat next to my son on the way to the shelter. I tried once more to get my husband to agree to keep it. I drove slowly and took a circuitous route as I worked on him. To no avail. Finally, the animal shelter was in sight, and my son and I kept talking to Kitty, convincing Kitty and us that this was the right decision for us all.
I held that warm bundle of gorgeousness until an employee came and took her. I felt her purring with contentment and saw her shake with fear as she left us. To make us feel better, I gave the shelter my phone number if no one wants her.
Although the decision sucked, it was the right decision. At least, I hope so.
My son cried and cried regardless of me telling him to not get attached to it. He got attached to it, of course. He named it, "Kitty" of course. It was thin so we gave it some milk. It drank nearly an entire bowl! Kitty climbed a giant tree and wouldn't come down when we were going to take it to the shelter, so we left it. I had secret hopes its owner would show up and claim it. Upon our return, it was waiting for us in the tree.
The right action was to take the kitten to the animal shelter. I know it was. I also know it felt really crappy to do so. Out of all the homes on the block, this kitten found our house and wanted to be part of our family. But we already have a dog who isn't fond of cats, a father who is allergic to and who dislikes cats, and limited funds to take care of another animal. And while my son was entranced with the kitten, I knew that 'love' would wear off quickly, and cat care would become the responsibility of me or my husband. Could we do that?
Ultimately, the answer was no. Kitty, riding in a basket with a beach towel, sat next to my son on the way to the shelter. I tried once more to get my husband to agree to keep it. I drove slowly and took a circuitous route as I worked on him. To no avail. Finally, the animal shelter was in sight, and my son and I kept talking to Kitty, convincing Kitty and us that this was the right decision for us all.
I held that warm bundle of gorgeousness until an employee came and took her. I felt her purring with contentment and saw her shake with fear as she left us. To make us feel better, I gave the shelter my phone number if no one wants her.
Although the decision sucked, it was the right decision. At least, I hope so.
The travesty of nursing homes
There is no other way to describe the smell of death than to liken it to a nursing home. They smell of unwashed bodies, cleaning supplies, and urine/feces. I hate walking into them, and I feel terribly sorry for those who must live there.
Why do we relegate our elderly citizens to spend their last years in nursing homes? Shouldn't they be with their families as they grow closer to death? Aren't families responsible for caring for their elderly members? Not necessarily. While I pity those who must live in nursing homes, there is an unfortunate need for them. As we live longer, we have more medical needs than in years past. Families often make the difficult decision to place parents and/or grandparents in nursing homes because, for one reason or another, they cannot take care of them. However, I take issue with the quality of life, the quality of care provided in nursing homes.
An element to nursing homes that bothers me are some of the employees. Clothes are stolen, jewelry, snack foods, lotion...nothing seems off limits to them. When my grandmothers were living, if that's what it's called, in nursing homes, my mother would write my grandmothers' names in permanent marker with large letters across all their clothes to make sure they didn't 'lose' them. Some employees were rude to the residents, or treated them abusively. Much like any job dealing with the public, nursing homes don't seem to pay well, but that isn't the faults of the residents, some of whom are paying (or their families are paying) 9000.00 or more a month to have them there. Yet it seems that many employees feel no guilt by stealing from residents or by treating them abominably. Many residents don't know their own names and have reverted to childish behaviors, which should be something nursing home employees consider. And just because "Granny" sleeps 14 hours a day doesn't give an employee the right to help him or herself to "Granny's" snacks, jewelry, lotion, or clothes.
Walking into nursing homes depresses me. Ironically, most nursing homes have cheery decorations, flowers, and other welcoming aspects, but watching once-vibrant and active people deteriorate is difficult to see. Occuptational therapists, for example, take advantage of whomever is footing the bill for the home. When my grandmother was in a nursing home, the OT was working to help her get back to living independently. Seriously? My grandmother was having mini-strokes regularly and would never be able to live independently again, which the OT would have known had she/he taken the time to read her chart. My grandmother wasn't an isolated incident. Not only that but we never knew how long the OT was going to stay at that home. My grandmother would make a little progress, the OT would leave, another would come in and begin a new treatment program. It was ridiculous!
Nursing homes are businesses, yes, but it's unfortunate that we have a need for them.
Why do we relegate our elderly citizens to spend their last years in nursing homes? Shouldn't they be with their families as they grow closer to death? Aren't families responsible for caring for their elderly members? Not necessarily. While I pity those who must live in nursing homes, there is an unfortunate need for them. As we live longer, we have more medical needs than in years past. Families often make the difficult decision to place parents and/or grandparents in nursing homes because, for one reason or another, they cannot take care of them. However, I take issue with the quality of life, the quality of care provided in nursing homes.
An element to nursing homes that bothers me are some of the employees. Clothes are stolen, jewelry, snack foods, lotion...nothing seems off limits to them. When my grandmothers were living, if that's what it's called, in nursing homes, my mother would write my grandmothers' names in permanent marker with large letters across all their clothes to make sure they didn't 'lose' them. Some employees were rude to the residents, or treated them abusively. Much like any job dealing with the public, nursing homes don't seem to pay well, but that isn't the faults of the residents, some of whom are paying (or their families are paying) 9000.00 or more a month to have them there. Yet it seems that many employees feel no guilt by stealing from residents or by treating them abominably. Many residents don't know their own names and have reverted to childish behaviors, which should be something nursing home employees consider. And just because "Granny" sleeps 14 hours a day doesn't give an employee the right to help him or herself to "Granny's" snacks, jewelry, lotion, or clothes.
Walking into nursing homes depresses me. Ironically, most nursing homes have cheery decorations, flowers, and other welcoming aspects, but watching once-vibrant and active people deteriorate is difficult to see. Occuptational therapists, for example, take advantage of whomever is footing the bill for the home. When my grandmother was in a nursing home, the OT was working to help her get back to living independently. Seriously? My grandmother was having mini-strokes regularly and would never be able to live independently again, which the OT would have known had she/he taken the time to read her chart. My grandmother wasn't an isolated incident. Not only that but we never knew how long the OT was going to stay at that home. My grandmother would make a little progress, the OT would leave, another would come in and begin a new treatment program. It was ridiculous!
Nursing homes are businesses, yes, but it's unfortunate that we have a need for them.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Frustrations with Fat
I'm tired...all the time. I'm having trouble sleeping at night. I'm fat. I exercise five times a week. I watch what I eat. I can't lose weight, but I can quickly gain it. My body isn't cooperating with my mind. While I adore my family doctor, I am frustrated that he hasn't been more aggressive with these complaints. Happily, I told all of this to my ob-gyn, and we already have an action plan in place to find out why I'm struggling so much.
Granted, part of my sleep issues have to do with grief. So does my weight. But so many people report having more energy and sleeping better as they exercise more, and I find the opposite: I'm struggling to wake up and I see little change in my energy level. However, after three years on WeightWatchers, tracking what I eat, I'm still losing and gaining the same five pounds. I don't want to give up on WeightWatchers, but I know that I have to lose 70 pounds. It's a necessity for me to stave off diabetes and any other weight-related health issues I could have. I enjoy riding my bike; I enjoy walking and hiking. I don't enjoy the weight around my belly and hips.
I'll go in next week for some bloodwork, and my doctor has ordered some specialized tests, especially to see if I'm anemic or if something is going on with my thyroid. She's given me a recommendation to visit a diet center, one with a doctor, nurse, etc., that could help me get a jump start on losing weight. I appreciate her proactive stance on these issues. With luck, this will work.
A perception exists that fat people don't care about themselves. Or that they are too lazy to exercise and eat good food. What if, however, a fat person does exercise? Cooks healthy foods? Eats fruit and vegetables? Drinks water, not sodas or alcohol? Being fat is a medical problem for a number of people. But there's such a stigma to fat, such stereotypes around fat, that fat people are often afraid to say something to their doctors. It isn't unusual for doctors to insult their fat patients, catering to the stereotype that their patients are fat because they are lazy. So we fat people continue to wonder what's wrong with us and assume we must be defective in some way since we can't seemingly lose weight. Then fat becomes an esteem problem, fed by the prejudices and stereotypes that exist.
Granted, part of my sleep issues have to do with grief. So does my weight. But so many people report having more energy and sleeping better as they exercise more, and I find the opposite: I'm struggling to wake up and I see little change in my energy level. However, after three years on WeightWatchers, tracking what I eat, I'm still losing and gaining the same five pounds. I don't want to give up on WeightWatchers, but I know that I have to lose 70 pounds. It's a necessity for me to stave off diabetes and any other weight-related health issues I could have. I enjoy riding my bike; I enjoy walking and hiking. I don't enjoy the weight around my belly and hips.
I'll go in next week for some bloodwork, and my doctor has ordered some specialized tests, especially to see if I'm anemic or if something is going on with my thyroid. She's given me a recommendation to visit a diet center, one with a doctor, nurse, etc., that could help me get a jump start on losing weight. I appreciate her proactive stance on these issues. With luck, this will work.
A perception exists that fat people don't care about themselves. Or that they are too lazy to exercise and eat good food. What if, however, a fat person does exercise? Cooks healthy foods? Eats fruit and vegetables? Drinks water, not sodas or alcohol? Being fat is a medical problem for a number of people. But there's such a stigma to fat, such stereotypes around fat, that fat people are often afraid to say something to their doctors. It isn't unusual for doctors to insult their fat patients, catering to the stereotype that their patients are fat because they are lazy. So we fat people continue to wonder what's wrong with us and assume we must be defective in some way since we can't seemingly lose weight. Then fat becomes an esteem problem, fed by the prejudices and stereotypes that exist.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Perceptions of Working Moms
When I was pregnant, I remember different conversations with other expectant moms about whether I would work outside my home after my child came. If I answered affirmatively I was treated to lectures about this decision. It's been ten years since my pregnancy, and I'm still not immune to the stereotypes and perceptions of working mothers.
The first stereotype of working moms is that we aren't thinking of our children, we are only thinking of ourselves. Stay at home moms will tell me how 'blessed' they are because they can stay home with their children. While I agree to a certain extent...they are blessed to be able to make that decision...I am also blessed. I have a good job that affords me time with my son. My employment allows me to pay the mortgage on our house as well as most of the bills. My employment has come in handy when my husband lost his job, or when my husband goes a week or two without a paycheck. Each day as I drive to work, I'm thinking about my son, hoping he has a good day, worrying about his tests or the playground bullies. As I hurry to pick him up in the afternoons, I can't wait to hear about his day.
Another stereotype that I hear is that women work to afford fancy homes, clothes, cars, or vacations. Not true in my case. My last exotic vacation was my honeymoon to Victoria, BC. I haven't been to Mexico or the Caribbean, I have a regular home in a regular neighborhood, and I most definitely do not have fancy cars. In fact, I celebrated the fact that I recently paid off my car. I work to afford my home, the clothes my son constantly seems to need, and to pay our bills. When we do take time as a family, we go to places that are nearby, where we can bring our camper (also almost paid off!), and where we can do fun, outdoor activities. Once a year, I buy a new and expensive bra, and all my clothes come from Target or Kohls.
Another misperception of working moms is that we don't work as hard as stay at home moms. Excuse me? I work 8-10 hours a day at a job, and then I come home to laundry, cooking, cleaning, homework, and yard work. On Saturdays I run errands and grocery shop. When I can grab a free moment, I like to relax, just like all moms. However, while I do agree that stay at home moms work hard, I don't see how we can say they work harder than moms who work outside the home. Our work is both similar and different. Both groups cook, clean, do laundry, shop, but one group has a second full time job on top of their first full time job.
I've been told by stay at home moms that they want to be the ones who raise their children and who don't want strangers witnessing milestones. Seriously? My son has a sense of independence, which served him well this past year when he switched schools. I and his father have raised our son, not strangers. We are with him when he's sick, we go to all doctors appointments; I have held him when he has his shots. He crawled and walked for us; we worked to potty train him. I don't feel like I've missed out on quality time with my son because I have a job. Am I healthier mentally because I work? I am. My son is too because he is used to me not always being there to pick him up. He has learned to stand on his own feet. Ultimately, that's what I want for my son...to be an independent and functioning adult.
There are plenty other perceptions and stereotypes of working moms, but these are a few that I hear regularly. I don't know why stay at home moms have to criticize those of us who work, but I wish they'd stop. I respect women (and men) who make the choice to stay home with their children. It's difficult to be a full time caretaker to children, spouses, and sometimes, aging parents. But instead of knocking our 'sisters' down if they work outside of the home--and vice versa--again, shouldn't we support them? They are doing what they think is best for their children and themselves.
The first stereotype of working moms is that we aren't thinking of our children, we are only thinking of ourselves. Stay at home moms will tell me how 'blessed' they are because they can stay home with their children. While I agree to a certain extent...they are blessed to be able to make that decision...I am also blessed. I have a good job that affords me time with my son. My employment allows me to pay the mortgage on our house as well as most of the bills. My employment has come in handy when my husband lost his job, or when my husband goes a week or two without a paycheck. Each day as I drive to work, I'm thinking about my son, hoping he has a good day, worrying about his tests or the playground bullies. As I hurry to pick him up in the afternoons, I can't wait to hear about his day.
Another stereotype that I hear is that women work to afford fancy homes, clothes, cars, or vacations. Not true in my case. My last exotic vacation was my honeymoon to Victoria, BC. I haven't been to Mexico or the Caribbean, I have a regular home in a regular neighborhood, and I most definitely do not have fancy cars. In fact, I celebrated the fact that I recently paid off my car. I work to afford my home, the clothes my son constantly seems to need, and to pay our bills. When we do take time as a family, we go to places that are nearby, where we can bring our camper (also almost paid off!), and where we can do fun, outdoor activities. Once a year, I buy a new and expensive bra, and all my clothes come from Target or Kohls.
Another misperception of working moms is that we don't work as hard as stay at home moms. Excuse me? I work 8-10 hours a day at a job, and then I come home to laundry, cooking, cleaning, homework, and yard work. On Saturdays I run errands and grocery shop. When I can grab a free moment, I like to relax, just like all moms. However, while I do agree that stay at home moms work hard, I don't see how we can say they work harder than moms who work outside the home. Our work is both similar and different. Both groups cook, clean, do laundry, shop, but one group has a second full time job on top of their first full time job.
I've been told by stay at home moms that they want to be the ones who raise their children and who don't want strangers witnessing milestones. Seriously? My son has a sense of independence, which served him well this past year when he switched schools. I and his father have raised our son, not strangers. We are with him when he's sick, we go to all doctors appointments; I have held him when he has his shots. He crawled and walked for us; we worked to potty train him. I don't feel like I've missed out on quality time with my son because I have a job. Am I healthier mentally because I work? I am. My son is too because he is used to me not always being there to pick him up. He has learned to stand on his own feet. Ultimately, that's what I want for my son...to be an independent and functioning adult.
There are plenty other perceptions and stereotypes of working moms, but these are a few that I hear regularly. I don't know why stay at home moms have to criticize those of us who work, but I wish they'd stop. I respect women (and men) who make the choice to stay home with their children. It's difficult to be a full time caretaker to children, spouses, and sometimes, aging parents. But instead of knocking our 'sisters' down if they work outside of the home--and vice versa--again, shouldn't we support them? They are doing what they think is best for their children and themselves.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Striving for Perfection
I'd like to begin by announcing that I'm not perfect. I've never been perfect, nor will I ever be perfect. And yet, I live in a culture that preaches perfection; it's all around me...on television, in magazines, on the internet. I can't escape this idea of being perfect, which, for someone as aware of my imperfections as I am, has caused me anxiety throughout my life.
Perfection is an unreal idea. What is perfect? No matter how 'perfect' someone or something is, there are flaws, problems, annoyances. Actually, I think the word 'perfect' is overused, similarly to the word 'like.' I've never had perfect skin, for example, but I'm told repeatedly of what to buy that will give me perfect skin. Actually, if I had my own personal photoshop that I could carry around with me, erasing skin flaws, maybe then I'd have perfect skin. Since that isn't possible, I take good care of my skin, hoping that'll be enough. My body is far from perfect, but it functions pretty well. My health is good, and my physical abilities have improved dramatically. We recently hiked into a place called Zapata Falls, which is only 1/2 mile but at 9400 feet above sea level. When I did it several years ago, I could hardly breathe and had to stop repeatedly because it exhausted me too much. This time, I hiked all the way up without stopping and without panting like a dog. My body has flaws, but I have good health.
I also wonder about the notion of being a perfect wife. My husband has flaws, and so do I. We recognize and appreciate the flaws within one another, but we don't necessarily force the other to change. One of my husband's flaws is his Chicken Little attitude toward money. I try to keep track of our money so I don't have to hear him ranting and raving about how our financial sky is falling. We've talked about this flaw of his, and he knows how I feel when he is upset about money. To his credit, he tries to temper his reactions to our finances, and I try to help by recording what we spend. It's not perfect, but it works for us. As for one of my flaws, I like to cuss. A lot. Most people don't expect me to drop F-bombs everywhere, and it's fun for me to shock them. My husband hates when I cuss and has told me so. Out of respect for him, I do my best to watch my language in front of him. Also, I don't work at home and am, in fact, a lazy housekeeper. I hate to cook, but when I do cook, I try to make delicious meals. I don't know where my husband's slippers are, and I'm more likely to be found reading the newspaper than him. However, we are--with all our imperfections--perfect for one another as we accept, respect, and love the other.
Striving for perfection has, over the years, caused me a great deal of anxiety and stress. There are better wives, mothers, daughters than me, but I have a lot to offer as well. There are far better teachers than me, but I work hard to be good for my students. There are plenty of skinny women or fit women, but I can only worry about me. And isn't that what is wrong with the idea of perfection? I will never be tall, skinny, or have the right length of hair. I will never wear trendy clothes, live in a trendy place, or visit trendy restaurants. I can only do justice to who I am, what I have, and find peace within myself.
Perfection is an unreal idea. What is perfect? No matter how 'perfect' someone or something is, there are flaws, problems, annoyances. Actually, I think the word 'perfect' is overused, similarly to the word 'like.' I've never had perfect skin, for example, but I'm told repeatedly of what to buy that will give me perfect skin. Actually, if I had my own personal photoshop that I could carry around with me, erasing skin flaws, maybe then I'd have perfect skin. Since that isn't possible, I take good care of my skin, hoping that'll be enough. My body is far from perfect, but it functions pretty well. My health is good, and my physical abilities have improved dramatically. We recently hiked into a place called Zapata Falls, which is only 1/2 mile but at 9400 feet above sea level. When I did it several years ago, I could hardly breathe and had to stop repeatedly because it exhausted me too much. This time, I hiked all the way up without stopping and without panting like a dog. My body has flaws, but I have good health.
I also wonder about the notion of being a perfect wife. My husband has flaws, and so do I. We recognize and appreciate the flaws within one another, but we don't necessarily force the other to change. One of my husband's flaws is his Chicken Little attitude toward money. I try to keep track of our money so I don't have to hear him ranting and raving about how our financial sky is falling. We've talked about this flaw of his, and he knows how I feel when he is upset about money. To his credit, he tries to temper his reactions to our finances, and I try to help by recording what we spend. It's not perfect, but it works for us. As for one of my flaws, I like to cuss. A lot. Most people don't expect me to drop F-bombs everywhere, and it's fun for me to shock them. My husband hates when I cuss and has told me so. Out of respect for him, I do my best to watch my language in front of him. Also, I don't work at home and am, in fact, a lazy housekeeper. I hate to cook, but when I do cook, I try to make delicious meals. I don't know where my husband's slippers are, and I'm more likely to be found reading the newspaper than him. However, we are--with all our imperfections--perfect for one another as we accept, respect, and love the other.
Striving for perfection has, over the years, caused me a great deal of anxiety and stress. There are better wives, mothers, daughters than me, but I have a lot to offer as well. There are far better teachers than me, but I work hard to be good for my students. There are plenty of skinny women or fit women, but I can only worry about me. And isn't that what is wrong with the idea of perfection? I will never be tall, skinny, or have the right length of hair. I will never wear trendy clothes, live in a trendy place, or visit trendy restaurants. I can only do justice to who I am, what I have, and find peace within myself.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Feminism: my definition
I know a woman who proudly and loudly proclaims herself a feminist, but when asked to define it, she struggles to clearly state her views. I've heard women and men denounce feminists as 'man haters.' Rush Limbaugh has referred to feminists as 'femi-nazis.' Feminists are believed to be 'bra burners.' But really? Do these definitions, or lack thereof, truly define feminism?
What if the definition of feminism were personal for each of us? In my mind, feminism is respect for others and the decisions they make for themselves and their families. For example, those women who choose not to change their names after they marry, why do we judge them? Women are no longer property whose last names identify their 'masters.' Many of my female students support changing names after marriage, but when asked why, can only offer the rationale that they want to. This is fine! But let's not judge those who keep their names or who hyphenate. Society does not hold the same expectation for men who marry. In fact, men who change or hyphenate their names to match their wives' names are often the subject of ridicule. Respecting a decision of whether or not to change a name, for example, is being a true feminist.
Another personal decision women make is whether to stay home or go to work after children come. I've found a plethora of stay at home moms who say, "I don't want strangers raising my children" or "I'm the one to teach my children" or even "Why have children if you aren't going to be home with them?" Those comments have routinely cut me, and other moms who work outside the home, to the core. My child has been raised by my husband and myself, not strangers. I also work; some well meaning women will say, "Well, if you have to work, at least you're a teacher and can be home in summers." Ouch. A true feminist will support a woman's decision to work and have children or to stay home with children. No one knows my family's financial situation but my husband and me. No one knows why I have to work--both for psychological reasons as well as financial reasons. Yet, I have been judged for my decision to work since my son was in my womb. Not all women work because they don't like their children or they want fancy clothes, expensive cars, and exotic vacations. And yet, women judge one another based on their 'sacrifices' to their families. No doubt, staying home full time with a family is a sacrifice and is difficult work. I have no intention of minimizing the contributions stay at home moms make to their families, our schools, and society in general. I just wish they felt the same way toward those of us who work outside our homes.
As a woman and a feminist, I know there are some things I cannot do like my husband. He is definitely physically stronger than I am. He has a better understanding of math than I do, although I do know a man whose wife has a better understanding of math than he does. However, we are both intelligent, competent people who complement one another. No one can take apart stuck Legos like I can, for example. I multitask in a way he cannot fathom. The best part of our relationship, though, is that we support one another fully. I don't expect to be treated exactly like my husband because I am not him. I do expect to be treated with respect, which takes many different forms.
Ultimately, that's what feminist bashers miss. Feminists aren't after 'separate but equal' treatment. We want to be respected for the decisions we make. I don't want to walk into a typically male domain, say an auto parts store, and be treated like a moron. Just because my husband is a guy doesn't mean he necessarily knows more or less about auto parts than I do. Don't judge me because I'm a woman. In fact, don't judge me at all. I make decisions for myself and my family based on careful consideration and in fellowship with my husband, not based on my ovaries or fallopian tubes.
I am a proud feminist.
What if the definition of feminism were personal for each of us? In my mind, feminism is respect for others and the decisions they make for themselves and their families. For example, those women who choose not to change their names after they marry, why do we judge them? Women are no longer property whose last names identify their 'masters.' Many of my female students support changing names after marriage, but when asked why, can only offer the rationale that they want to. This is fine! But let's not judge those who keep their names or who hyphenate. Society does not hold the same expectation for men who marry. In fact, men who change or hyphenate their names to match their wives' names are often the subject of ridicule. Respecting a decision of whether or not to change a name, for example, is being a true feminist.
Another personal decision women make is whether to stay home or go to work after children come. I've found a plethora of stay at home moms who say, "I don't want strangers raising my children" or "I'm the one to teach my children" or even "Why have children if you aren't going to be home with them?" Those comments have routinely cut me, and other moms who work outside the home, to the core. My child has been raised by my husband and myself, not strangers. I also work; some well meaning women will say, "Well, if you have to work, at least you're a teacher and can be home in summers." Ouch. A true feminist will support a woman's decision to work and have children or to stay home with children. No one knows my family's financial situation but my husband and me. No one knows why I have to work--both for psychological reasons as well as financial reasons. Yet, I have been judged for my decision to work since my son was in my womb. Not all women work because they don't like their children or they want fancy clothes, expensive cars, and exotic vacations. And yet, women judge one another based on their 'sacrifices' to their families. No doubt, staying home full time with a family is a sacrifice and is difficult work. I have no intention of minimizing the contributions stay at home moms make to their families, our schools, and society in general. I just wish they felt the same way toward those of us who work outside our homes.
As a woman and a feminist, I know there are some things I cannot do like my husband. He is definitely physically stronger than I am. He has a better understanding of math than I do, although I do know a man whose wife has a better understanding of math than he does. However, we are both intelligent, competent people who complement one another. No one can take apart stuck Legos like I can, for example. I multitask in a way he cannot fathom. The best part of our relationship, though, is that we support one another fully. I don't expect to be treated exactly like my husband because I am not him. I do expect to be treated with respect, which takes many different forms.
Ultimately, that's what feminist bashers miss. Feminists aren't after 'separate but equal' treatment. We want to be respected for the decisions we make. I don't want to walk into a typically male domain, say an auto parts store, and be treated like a moron. Just because my husband is a guy doesn't mean he necessarily knows more or less about auto parts than I do. Don't judge me because I'm a woman. In fact, don't judge me at all. I make decisions for myself and my family based on careful consideration and in fellowship with my husband, not based on my ovaries or fallopian tubes.
I am a proud feminist.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
A bad parenting day
Today was an embarrassing and frustrating parenting day. It didn't begin that way, but it changed quickly when some friends came over to go on a bike ride.
We love riding our bikes, and our favorite ride takes us into a local golf course. We do that ride frequently because the highlight is coming down several hills as fast as is safe. For our ride today, we took our friends, who are new to our state, on our favorite ride. All went well during the first part of it. And then we began our ride home. My son took off, and I couldn't find him. He left his new friends in the dust, he left me in the dust. I was furious! And I know this sounds paranoid, but many years ago, a child was murdered in the park where we ride and the murderer was never caught. I never let my son out of my sight in that area. Until today.
As I came across the bridge, and my son was at our favorite rest stop, I wanted to hug him and scream at him at the same time. I did neither. I quietly scolded him in a manner that didn't necessarily embarrass him in front of his friend. I remember my mom embarrassing me in front of my friends, and I don't want to do that to my child. However, he was told there would be consequences when his friends went home. He was pouty and sulky the rest of the afternoon. Moreover, he was rude and obnoxious to our guests.
What bothers me about his behavior, among many issues I have with his behavior today, is his unrealistic ideas about friendship. He seems to have no idea what makes a good friend, and he doesn't grasp that he has to be kind as well. I know friendships are hard for kids, and they are learning how to function within the boundaries of friendships, but he seems to have no clue.
I lost my temper with him regarding his idea of friendship and with his snotty behavior. He's grounded for leaving us. But I just don't know how to impress upon him the need to treat others with respect. The kids he played with today are nice kids if he'd only give them a chance.
But, in some ways, he reminds me of myself in terms of friendships. For years, I was demanding, juvenile, unforgiving, and simply a bad friend. I don't know why people stayed friends with me. Now I see this ugly trait, this expectation that a friend should be a certain way, in my son. This gives me pause. How do I help him learn to be a good friend?
I love my son, and I was disappointed in his behavior. But even more, I am disappointed in myself for somehow teaching my son to have unrealistic expectations in his relationships with others. Not only was it a bad parenting day because my son embarrassed me in front of our new friends, but he held a mirror up and I saw myself in it.
We love riding our bikes, and our favorite ride takes us into a local golf course. We do that ride frequently because the highlight is coming down several hills as fast as is safe. For our ride today, we took our friends, who are new to our state, on our favorite ride. All went well during the first part of it. And then we began our ride home. My son took off, and I couldn't find him. He left his new friends in the dust, he left me in the dust. I was furious! And I know this sounds paranoid, but many years ago, a child was murdered in the park where we ride and the murderer was never caught. I never let my son out of my sight in that area. Until today.
As I came across the bridge, and my son was at our favorite rest stop, I wanted to hug him and scream at him at the same time. I did neither. I quietly scolded him in a manner that didn't necessarily embarrass him in front of his friend. I remember my mom embarrassing me in front of my friends, and I don't want to do that to my child. However, he was told there would be consequences when his friends went home. He was pouty and sulky the rest of the afternoon. Moreover, he was rude and obnoxious to our guests.
What bothers me about his behavior, among many issues I have with his behavior today, is his unrealistic ideas about friendship. He seems to have no idea what makes a good friend, and he doesn't grasp that he has to be kind as well. I know friendships are hard for kids, and they are learning how to function within the boundaries of friendships, but he seems to have no clue.
I lost my temper with him regarding his idea of friendship and with his snotty behavior. He's grounded for leaving us. But I just don't know how to impress upon him the need to treat others with respect. The kids he played with today are nice kids if he'd only give them a chance.
But, in some ways, he reminds me of myself in terms of friendships. For years, I was demanding, juvenile, unforgiving, and simply a bad friend. I don't know why people stayed friends with me. Now I see this ugly trait, this expectation that a friend should be a certain way, in my son. This gives me pause. How do I help him learn to be a good friend?
I love my son, and I was disappointed in his behavior. But even more, I am disappointed in myself for somehow teaching my son to have unrealistic expectations in his relationships with others. Not only was it a bad parenting day because my son embarrassed me in front of our new friends, but he held a mirror up and I saw myself in it.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Grief, anger, and perspective
I find people fascinating. The way we respond to life's ups and downs, joys and sorrows is a fascinating study in human emotion. Our joys are often transparent; it is our sorrows and our ability to grieve that I find interesting.
My grandmother died seven years ago. At the time, I felt like my childhood was over. Nana was gone. No more would I be able to visit her, have her pull open her refrigerator, offering me anything and everything that it contained. No more would I be able to hear her stories, or be in her physical presence. I cried with wild abandon; I cried as an adult forced to let go of childhood. Within a few days, I felt better. I was grateful for the times we'd had, the fact that, for a moment, she was able to know my baby, her third great grandchild. I was glad she no longer suffered from dementia, 'arthuristus,' and painful feet from too many years of wearing bad shoes while standing all day. I missed her, but I moved forward. I had a family to care for, work to do, school to finish. I knew she would understand.
Because she died at the beginning of the school year, my students knew of her death and my ensuing absences. And because they are young, they assumed I would come to school and act sad. Instead, I compartmentalized my grief and moved forward with each school day. Finally, a student, angered by my attitude, accused me of not caring that my grandmother had died. I was stunned. On occasion and in private, I still cried. I prayed for my Nana. I visited her grave. But my students could only judge based on outward appearances, and they didn't like what they saw. I learned that there is an expectation in our culture as to what is 'correct' grieving. Tears, wearing black, and being sad all the time are often considered 'correct.' Smiling, laughing, and moving on with life are not necessarily considered 'correct' grieving and people are often harshly judged if they recognize the fact that they are still alive.
When my mother died suddenly and unexpectedly, I became stoic in public. I put on my brave face and assured people I was okay. I did what I was expected to do, and I answered questions the way I was expected to answer. I smiled, I laughed, I tried to not show my grief because I figured that was best for me and those around me. My breaking point came almost a month after her death when I cried during a movie. Granted, the movie was sad, but my grief left me with wracking sobs and swollen eyes. As someone told me, your mother is your core. Who else cares about the minutiae of your day but your mom? My core was gone. My grief became my private shame. I would cry on the way to pick up my son but be finished before his school bell rang. I would furtively write in my journal, but close it up before my husband saw what I was writing. It seemed as though people avoided me at work, my grief was too palpable, to raw and I made them uncomfortable. No one likes confrontation with mortality. Now I grieve privately. I have my small rituals around my grieving, such as going to the cemetary with flowers once a month or saying a rosary for my mom once a week.
But watching others grieve is a hard process for me. Ironically, after my mother's death in January, several more staff members lost their mothers or fathers, a friend just lost her father, an old friend's father just died, and it seems as though my husband's grandmothers are both close to death. Death is busy on the periphery of my life. Watching people I know go through similar experiences has been fascinating. Some prefer to be stoic. Others are cynical and sarcastic. And some shed a great number of tears regularly. Observing the reactions of others leaves me angry and unsympathetic. The logical and rational side of me knows people have to grieve in their own ways, and there is no right or wrong way to grieve. Grieving is individual. But as I battle the anger stage of the grieving process, the irrational side of me responds quickly and harshly to others' reactions toward death. I find that even this is a process...working through my reactions until I can empathize and sympathize with others' loss.
Grief gives us new life perspectives. It's up to us to choose how we handle ourselves, our reactions, and our perceptions. Although I'd rather have my mother here, I've learned more about myself and how I react to death as well as life. I've learned that my life could quickly and unexpectedly be over, or I could live until I lose my memory and control over my bowels. Pable Neruda, in one of my favorite poems, once said, "The only thing you remember is your life."
Those words have put my life, my joys, and my sorrows into perspective.
My grandmother died seven years ago. At the time, I felt like my childhood was over. Nana was gone. No more would I be able to visit her, have her pull open her refrigerator, offering me anything and everything that it contained. No more would I be able to hear her stories, or be in her physical presence. I cried with wild abandon; I cried as an adult forced to let go of childhood. Within a few days, I felt better. I was grateful for the times we'd had, the fact that, for a moment, she was able to know my baby, her third great grandchild. I was glad she no longer suffered from dementia, 'arthuristus,' and painful feet from too many years of wearing bad shoes while standing all day. I missed her, but I moved forward. I had a family to care for, work to do, school to finish. I knew she would understand.
Because she died at the beginning of the school year, my students knew of her death and my ensuing absences. And because they are young, they assumed I would come to school and act sad. Instead, I compartmentalized my grief and moved forward with each school day. Finally, a student, angered by my attitude, accused me of not caring that my grandmother had died. I was stunned. On occasion and in private, I still cried. I prayed for my Nana. I visited her grave. But my students could only judge based on outward appearances, and they didn't like what they saw. I learned that there is an expectation in our culture as to what is 'correct' grieving. Tears, wearing black, and being sad all the time are often considered 'correct.' Smiling, laughing, and moving on with life are not necessarily considered 'correct' grieving and people are often harshly judged if they recognize the fact that they are still alive.
When my mother died suddenly and unexpectedly, I became stoic in public. I put on my brave face and assured people I was okay. I did what I was expected to do, and I answered questions the way I was expected to answer. I smiled, I laughed, I tried to not show my grief because I figured that was best for me and those around me. My breaking point came almost a month after her death when I cried during a movie. Granted, the movie was sad, but my grief left me with wracking sobs and swollen eyes. As someone told me, your mother is your core. Who else cares about the minutiae of your day but your mom? My core was gone. My grief became my private shame. I would cry on the way to pick up my son but be finished before his school bell rang. I would furtively write in my journal, but close it up before my husband saw what I was writing. It seemed as though people avoided me at work, my grief was too palpable, to raw and I made them uncomfortable. No one likes confrontation with mortality. Now I grieve privately. I have my small rituals around my grieving, such as going to the cemetary with flowers once a month or saying a rosary for my mom once a week.
But watching others grieve is a hard process for me. Ironically, after my mother's death in January, several more staff members lost their mothers or fathers, a friend just lost her father, an old friend's father just died, and it seems as though my husband's grandmothers are both close to death. Death is busy on the periphery of my life. Watching people I know go through similar experiences has been fascinating. Some prefer to be stoic. Others are cynical and sarcastic. And some shed a great number of tears regularly. Observing the reactions of others leaves me angry and unsympathetic. The logical and rational side of me knows people have to grieve in their own ways, and there is no right or wrong way to grieve. Grieving is individual. But as I battle the anger stage of the grieving process, the irrational side of me responds quickly and harshly to others' reactions toward death. I find that even this is a process...working through my reactions until I can empathize and sympathize with others' loss.
Grief gives us new life perspectives. It's up to us to choose how we handle ourselves, our reactions, and our perceptions. Although I'd rather have my mother here, I've learned more about myself and how I react to death as well as life. I've learned that my life could quickly and unexpectedly be over, or I could live until I lose my memory and control over my bowels. Pable Neruda, in one of my favorite poems, once said, "The only thing you remember is your life."
Those words have put my life, my joys, and my sorrows into perspective.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Suffering from Anxiety and Depression
There have been times in my life when I have felt sad, lonely, angry, detached, hungry-or so I thought. I've cried, wished to be dead, even briefly contemplated death. I scratched my hands until they bled; I ate pints of ice cream in one sitting.
I would have these 'black' periods, periods where I wanted to be left alone. Periods when I considered what would happen if I let my car hit the concrete barrier on the highway. I thought I was abnormal. Instead, I suffer from anxiety and depression, as do millions of other Americans.
At first, I denied the symptoms to myself. Of course I wasn't depressed, I'd tell myself, I'm simply stressed. Or I was menstruating, and you know how that goes. Or someone had upset me. I blamed as many outside forces as possible, refusing to look within. Then I decided that I'd be happy if: I lost weight, I had a husband, I had a child, I had a different job, I went to grad school, I had a better car...but as I achieved those benchmarks, deep inside, I was still struggling.
Finally, when I had everything I'd hope to have...a great husband, a beautiful child, a lovely home, a good job and vehicle...I still felt sad, angry, empty, detached. I still looked at the concrete barrier as I drove to work and wondered, "What if?" I knew I had to get some help.
After a great deal of soul-searching and consideration, I went to see my doctor. I see depression running in my family; we all, grandmothers included, have battled this demon. I wanted to be present in my marriage and with my child. I asked for and received medication. After a couple of weeks, I felt...good. Happy. I felt content, capable, and I stopped looking at the concrete barrier on the highway.
I still have sad moments, and after the year I've had, it's understandable. But I feel emotionally stronger; I feel present. What bothers me lately, however, is reading negative remarks about anxiety and depression medication from famous women like Paulina Porizkova. She recently published an article, detailing her struggles with anxiety and depression and her choice to eschew medication. I was particularly disturbed by her article when she likened anxiety and depression meds to a fad. Anyone who knows me knows I don't necessarily care about what's trendy. And I don't take medication because it's easier than dealing with my emotions. The decision to take--or refuse--medications is individual and personal. I have chosen medication as a way to combat my demons, anxiety and depression, and I'm proud of my decision.
People, including Paulina Porizkova, have a right to their opinions on this subject. However, I spent sixteen years battling my mind, trying to feel emotionally present, trying to combat the negative voice in my head, the voice that told me how worthless I was. And while medication hasn't solved everything, it has helped me regain perspective and control over myself. Because I now have a clearer perspective and better control over myself, I have the ability to continue to improve myself, to grow stronger, to retrain myself to recognize my worth, and ultimately, if I so decide, to wean myself from my medications.
The power is in me.
I would have these 'black' periods, periods where I wanted to be left alone. Periods when I considered what would happen if I let my car hit the concrete barrier on the highway. I thought I was abnormal. Instead, I suffer from anxiety and depression, as do millions of other Americans.
At first, I denied the symptoms to myself. Of course I wasn't depressed, I'd tell myself, I'm simply stressed. Or I was menstruating, and you know how that goes. Or someone had upset me. I blamed as many outside forces as possible, refusing to look within. Then I decided that I'd be happy if: I lost weight, I had a husband, I had a child, I had a different job, I went to grad school, I had a better car...but as I achieved those benchmarks, deep inside, I was still struggling.
Finally, when I had everything I'd hope to have...a great husband, a beautiful child, a lovely home, a good job and vehicle...I still felt sad, angry, empty, detached. I still looked at the concrete barrier as I drove to work and wondered, "What if?" I knew I had to get some help.
After a great deal of soul-searching and consideration, I went to see my doctor. I see depression running in my family; we all, grandmothers included, have battled this demon. I wanted to be present in my marriage and with my child. I asked for and received medication. After a couple of weeks, I felt...good. Happy. I felt content, capable, and I stopped looking at the concrete barrier on the highway.
I still have sad moments, and after the year I've had, it's understandable. But I feel emotionally stronger; I feel present. What bothers me lately, however, is reading negative remarks about anxiety and depression medication from famous women like Paulina Porizkova. She recently published an article, detailing her struggles with anxiety and depression and her choice to eschew medication. I was particularly disturbed by her article when she likened anxiety and depression meds to a fad. Anyone who knows me knows I don't necessarily care about what's trendy. And I don't take medication because it's easier than dealing with my emotions. The decision to take--or refuse--medications is individual and personal. I have chosen medication as a way to combat my demons, anxiety and depression, and I'm proud of my decision.
People, including Paulina Porizkova, have a right to their opinions on this subject. However, I spent sixteen years battling my mind, trying to feel emotionally present, trying to combat the negative voice in my head, the voice that told me how worthless I was. And while medication hasn't solved everything, it has helped me regain perspective and control over myself. Because I now have a clearer perspective and better control over myself, I have the ability to continue to improve myself, to grow stronger, to retrain myself to recognize my worth, and ultimately, if I so decide, to wean myself from my medications.
The power is in me.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Confusing Behavior of Men
I love men, I really do. I love having men friends because I can be myself and because they make me laugh. But there are some men who completely have me baffled by their confusing behavior. Just when I think I understand them, they change into someone else, someone I don't know. Argh!
Last week was spent in New Mexico at a workshop with a male colleague. This is someone with whom I will team teach beginning this year. We drove down together...6.5 hours in a vehicle, ate most meals together, sat in a workshop together, went sightseeing together, and drove home together. That's a great deal of together time. In that time, we were able to learn more about one another, sharing personal stories, laughs, and some tragedies. In my woman's brain that means we're 'friends.' However, since we've been back--and we have some work still to do--I feel like he's blowing me off. It's not like I'm constantly texting, emailing, or calling him. I don't even know where he lives! I've simply tried talking to him about work stuff (and one personal item), and he's responded kindly but with a definite tone of "leave me alone."
I talked to my husband about this situation and the feeling I have, the feeling of rejection. I figured his male brain might be able to decipher what has happened with my colleague since we've been back. Hubby's advice? My colleague probably wants to spend time with his family and to not worry about it. Not worry? Seriously? Me? I worry about everything.
I guess my idea of friendship and my colleague's idea of friendship are dissimilar. I need to think more like a guy, to relax, and to not worry. If only I could tell my female brain to shut down!
Last week was spent in New Mexico at a workshop with a male colleague. This is someone with whom I will team teach beginning this year. We drove down together...6.5 hours in a vehicle, ate most meals together, sat in a workshop together, went sightseeing together, and drove home together. That's a great deal of together time. In that time, we were able to learn more about one another, sharing personal stories, laughs, and some tragedies. In my woman's brain that means we're 'friends.' However, since we've been back--and we have some work still to do--I feel like he's blowing me off. It's not like I'm constantly texting, emailing, or calling him. I don't even know where he lives! I've simply tried talking to him about work stuff (and one personal item), and he's responded kindly but with a definite tone of "leave me alone."
I talked to my husband about this situation and the feeling I have, the feeling of rejection. I figured his male brain might be able to decipher what has happened with my colleague since we've been back. Hubby's advice? My colleague probably wants to spend time with his family and to not worry about it. Not worry? Seriously? Me? I worry about everything.
I guess my idea of friendship and my colleague's idea of friendship are dissimilar. I need to think more like a guy, to relax, and to not worry. If only I could tell my female brain to shut down!
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
I pay your salary and benefits too
How many times have teachers heard this comment? I wish I had a dollar each time some parent, pundit, or politician have said this. While it is true that taxpayers pay teacher salaries and part of their benefits, it is also true that I, too, pay salary and benefits for others in the workforce.
To wit, when I shop and spend money, my money--at least part of it--is used to pay salaries and benefits of employees. When I buy a newspaper containing a columnist I dislike, a portion of my money goes to pay his or her salary and benefits. My taxes pay salaries and benefits of city and county employees, and if I spend money in another city or county, my money pays salaries and benefits for those employees as well.
Yet teachers seem to be the current target of parents, pundits, and politicians. Why? Is it because we are quiet and accept the abuse heaped on us? When statements like, "I pay your salary" are issued, it is a threat to try to cause trouble for the teacher. My rejoinder, if I were brave enough, would be, "I pay yours too. In fact, through my taxes, I pay my own salary!" Notice, I just commented that I'm not brave enough to make a rejoinder because I will be in trouble for disrespectful comments toward parents.
I do not believe that teachers--or any group paid indirectly through taxes--is enslaved to the taxpayer. I do believe, however, that my job is to do my best for my students; they are who matter. Please don't jump on the 'teacher-bashing' bandwagon; instead, know and acknowledge that most of us are aware of the sources of our salaries and that most of us are in the classroom to do our best work with our students.
To wit, when I shop and spend money, my money--at least part of it--is used to pay salaries and benefits of employees. When I buy a newspaper containing a columnist I dislike, a portion of my money goes to pay his or her salary and benefits. My taxes pay salaries and benefits of city and county employees, and if I spend money in another city or county, my money pays salaries and benefits for those employees as well.
Yet teachers seem to be the current target of parents, pundits, and politicians. Why? Is it because we are quiet and accept the abuse heaped on us? When statements like, "I pay your salary" are issued, it is a threat to try to cause trouble for the teacher. My rejoinder, if I were brave enough, would be, "I pay yours too. In fact, through my taxes, I pay my own salary!" Notice, I just commented that I'm not brave enough to make a rejoinder because I will be in trouble for disrespectful comments toward parents.
I do not believe that teachers--or any group paid indirectly through taxes--is enslaved to the taxpayer. I do believe, however, that my job is to do my best for my students; they are who matter. Please don't jump on the 'teacher-bashing' bandwagon; instead, know and acknowledge that most of us are aware of the sources of our salaries and that most of us are in the classroom to do our best work with our students.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Fat Kid
I recently spent the past week at an educator's conference in New Mexico. Because of my husband's work schedule, we decided our son should spend six days with his paternal grandparents. His grandparents were excited to have him, and it seemed like a good idea...at the time.
When we picked up our son six days later, he stepped on the scale for fun. "Oh wow," he said, "I weigh 130!" My jaw hit the table. I've been watching my son's weight creep on, and while I'm trying to not be a dictator about how he should eat and exercise, he gained 10 pounds in one week! His grandmother denied he weighed that much, so he stepped on the scale again, and still it read 130 pounds. If my son were, say 13 or 14, I'd expect him to weigh that much for his height. But he's 9!
After our son went to bed that night, my husband and I discussed his weight. My husband was the 'skinny kid' as he was growing up, and his perspective is the ridicule he suffered for being too thin. I, however, was the 'fat kid,' the kid all the others laughed at and called names like, "Hungry, hungry hippo." I know what it's like to be the fat kid, and I know our son is headed in that direction.
My husband also made a good point about his parents' lack of concern regarding how our son ate. He mentioned that his parents don't seem to care about what goes in their mouths, how they eat the same way as they once did, regardless of what they know about healthful eating now. Why, he asked, should they care what our son eats? Plus, I realized that my mother in law is a 'food pusher'--she pushes food on people, forcing them to eat more than they intend to eat. I watched her do that to my husband the other day, and he ate more than he normally eats. My husband can burn five pounds in one day, so I'm not worried about his weight or how much he eats. However, I need to better educate my son to resist her food pushing, especially when he's full.
My son and I had a quiet conversation about his weight gain, and I knew I had to be careful. I remember conversations with my own mother about my weight, which often ended with me feeling worse about myself and sneaking cookies to make myself feel better. I don't want that same fate for my son. We simply agreed that 130 pounds is unhealthy for his height and age, and we need to remedy this. I told him that we would, together, up our activity, work on crunches, and eat better. He wasn't feeling so hot with such a stomach on him, and his self-esteem, which is generally pretty low, plunged lower. I told him that I love him and all I want is for him to be healthy.
Last night he grudgingly went on a walk with me and our dog, but I could tell he felt better by doing so. Today we rode our bikes for 11 miles, which doesn't sound that far but is because of hills, terrain, and heat. We did crunches before breakfast, and he chose how many we would do. He goes back to karate tomorrow, which will also help.
Heart disease, including high blood pressure, strokes and heart attacks, runs in both families. Diabetes and hypoglycemia are also problems on my side of the family. Both of his paternal great-grandfathers died of heart attacks. His paternal grandfather has had a stroke. His paternal grandparents have a host of health problems, some due to their weight. I want my son to have a better, healthier life. And while I struggle with my own weight issues, I know I need to work harder at being healthier because I'm a role model for my son.
I want my son to love himself and his body. And I vow to do whatever it takes for this to happen.
When we picked up our son six days later, he stepped on the scale for fun. "Oh wow," he said, "I weigh 130!" My jaw hit the table. I've been watching my son's weight creep on, and while I'm trying to not be a dictator about how he should eat and exercise, he gained 10 pounds in one week! His grandmother denied he weighed that much, so he stepped on the scale again, and still it read 130 pounds. If my son were, say 13 or 14, I'd expect him to weigh that much for his height. But he's 9!
After our son went to bed that night, my husband and I discussed his weight. My husband was the 'skinny kid' as he was growing up, and his perspective is the ridicule he suffered for being too thin. I, however, was the 'fat kid,' the kid all the others laughed at and called names like, "Hungry, hungry hippo." I know what it's like to be the fat kid, and I know our son is headed in that direction.
My husband also made a good point about his parents' lack of concern regarding how our son ate. He mentioned that his parents don't seem to care about what goes in their mouths, how they eat the same way as they once did, regardless of what they know about healthful eating now. Why, he asked, should they care what our son eats? Plus, I realized that my mother in law is a 'food pusher'--she pushes food on people, forcing them to eat more than they intend to eat. I watched her do that to my husband the other day, and he ate more than he normally eats. My husband can burn five pounds in one day, so I'm not worried about his weight or how much he eats. However, I need to better educate my son to resist her food pushing, especially when he's full.
My son and I had a quiet conversation about his weight gain, and I knew I had to be careful. I remember conversations with my own mother about my weight, which often ended with me feeling worse about myself and sneaking cookies to make myself feel better. I don't want that same fate for my son. We simply agreed that 130 pounds is unhealthy for his height and age, and we need to remedy this. I told him that we would, together, up our activity, work on crunches, and eat better. He wasn't feeling so hot with such a stomach on him, and his self-esteem, which is generally pretty low, plunged lower. I told him that I love him and all I want is for him to be healthy.
Last night he grudgingly went on a walk with me and our dog, but I could tell he felt better by doing so. Today we rode our bikes for 11 miles, which doesn't sound that far but is because of hills, terrain, and heat. We did crunches before breakfast, and he chose how many we would do. He goes back to karate tomorrow, which will also help.
Heart disease, including high blood pressure, strokes and heart attacks, runs in both families. Diabetes and hypoglycemia are also problems on my side of the family. Both of his paternal great-grandfathers died of heart attacks. His paternal grandfather has had a stroke. His paternal grandparents have a host of health problems, some due to their weight. I want my son to have a better, healthier life. And while I struggle with my own weight issues, I know I need to work harder at being healthier because I'm a role model for my son.
I want my son to love himself and his body. And I vow to do whatever it takes for this to happen.
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