We have attended our current church for twelve years, and in that time, we've found its atmosphere move from joyful and enjoyable to depressing. We thought that if we volunteered, we might get more out of the service, but that hasn't necessarily happened. I love our church, don't get me wrong, but something has been missing for nearly three years now. Today, I realized what it is: music.
Our lead cantor has a lovely voice, but all the music she chooses is slow and sad. She can turn the most joyful music into a dirge. For example, "Go Tell it on the Mountain" is a joyful and upbeat song about the birth of Christ. No one would ever know it by attending our church and hearing it played and sung. Our music is funereal, which is truly too bad, and it's no wonder others are leaving the parish to join others, most likely in search of happines rather than gloom.
I walked out of our visited church today happy and uplifted, the way I once felt when we began going to our current parish. I'm sure our priest has something to do with the doom and gloom tone of our parish; he isn't the most uplifting priest I've ever heard. Nor is he a fiery priest. He just...is. In fact, our spiritual life at our church seems rather barren and cold, much like our priest. After the Sandy Hook tragedy, our priest offered no words of comfort or solace the following Sunday. Nothing. Nada. Zip. He continued with his usual sermon rather than deviate and console us. Granted, we are thousands of miles from the scene of this current tragedy, but many of us have young children and needed some solace.
I've always considered church as a place of reconciliation, peace, love, comfort, joy, so imagine my frustration that our church is no longer offering those to me. The logical person would forgo this current parish and find one that ministers to needs better, but I'm often illogical. I'll stay; we have invested too much time and effort into our current parish. However, whenever I can, I will most certainly attend our neighboring church, one that offers joyful, soul-enriching music and a happy,
life-loving priest. Our current priest only has three years remaining at our church; I can outwait him.
I can also do what our Catholic church tells us not to do...listen to gospel and other Christian genres to remember joy in our church music.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
#Missing friendship
At 18, I made friends with a brassy, bad-ass, bossy 17 year old girl. At first, I couldn't stand her, but as weeks passed, I began to appreciate her--as her personality was the antithesis to mine. I wasn't bad-ass, nor was I brassy, and I was only bossy at home with my brother. The two of us seemed an unlikely friendship, but she was the best friend I have ever had.
What drove us apart, honestly, was her husband. We spent a year without one another because her boyfriend (soon husband) and I detested one another. I found him controlling, mostly to make up for his lack of self-worth. I thought--and still think of him--he was a loser. A guy with a dead end restaurant job. A stoner who found God. He blustered and talked a good talk. But really, he was an asshole. I, and to his credit-limited though it is-and her husband tried to get along, tried to pretend our natural revulsion for one another didn't exist. Finally, after he moved her 45 minutes away from me, from their church, from her mother, we were sitting in my car in a parking lot, while she cried about how she didn't know who she was anymore, how he had overpowered her confidence in herself as well as her life, I began to realize how detrimental I was to her.
We tried to get together, we really did, after she moved. But her husband would call her repeatedly, asking when she was going to be home to take care of their children because he had plans. Or she would cancel because her husband made plans and couldn't change them. And I understood that I was not welcome in her life, at least from her husband's perspective. He did everything he could to make our times together limited and frustrating, and I knew I couldn't cope with him any longer. Each time I was around him, I wanted to lash out and hurt him the way I felt he was hurting his wife. Each time I kept my mouth shut, knowing my friend would pay the consequences-at least psychologically-for my transgressions.
Eventually, between a new baby, graduate school, a full time job, and my feelings about my friend's husband, I ended the friendship. I knew by removing myself from her life, her husband would back off her too. They are still together, and I'm pretty sure life is better without me in it.
However, especially now with my mom dead, I miss female friendship. It's hard for me to make friends, and obviously to keep them, and it's hard for me to trust women. Women can be cruel and competitive. Women are untrustworthy. That's what made my friendship with Shea so special; she wasn't anything of those things with me. I could trust her with my life.
I miss having someone to call and hang out with. I miss shopping with a woman; men don't always understand that it's about the experience rather than the money spent. I miss going to movies with a woman, crying and feeling better when the movie is over. I miss having lunch with another woman,complaining of our husbands and children, yet knowing how much we love them. I miss finding inappropriate cards for another woman, knowing she'll get the joke. I miss being myself with another woman. I'm always on guard with others, except my husband, and it would be nice to truly be myself with another woman without fearing she'll hate me.
As for my friend, the one for whom I mourn my loss, I know we'll never be friends again; too much has happened between us for this to happen. I wish I could find another friend, one with whom I can share my hopes, dreams, fears, and frustrations. Honestly, I miss friendship.
What drove us apart, honestly, was her husband. We spent a year without one another because her boyfriend (soon husband) and I detested one another. I found him controlling, mostly to make up for his lack of self-worth. I thought--and still think of him--he was a loser. A guy with a dead end restaurant job. A stoner who found God. He blustered and talked a good talk. But really, he was an asshole. I, and to his credit-limited though it is-and her husband tried to get along, tried to pretend our natural revulsion for one another didn't exist. Finally, after he moved her 45 minutes away from me, from their church, from her mother, we were sitting in my car in a parking lot, while she cried about how she didn't know who she was anymore, how he had overpowered her confidence in herself as well as her life, I began to realize how detrimental I was to her.
We tried to get together, we really did, after she moved. But her husband would call her repeatedly, asking when she was going to be home to take care of their children because he had plans. Or she would cancel because her husband made plans and couldn't change them. And I understood that I was not welcome in her life, at least from her husband's perspective. He did everything he could to make our times together limited and frustrating, and I knew I couldn't cope with him any longer. Each time I was around him, I wanted to lash out and hurt him the way I felt he was hurting his wife. Each time I kept my mouth shut, knowing my friend would pay the consequences-at least psychologically-for my transgressions.
Eventually, between a new baby, graduate school, a full time job, and my feelings about my friend's husband, I ended the friendship. I knew by removing myself from her life, her husband would back off her too. They are still together, and I'm pretty sure life is better without me in it.
However, especially now with my mom dead, I miss female friendship. It's hard for me to make friends, and obviously to keep them, and it's hard for me to trust women. Women can be cruel and competitive. Women are untrustworthy. That's what made my friendship with Shea so special; she wasn't anything of those things with me. I could trust her with my life.
I miss having someone to call and hang out with. I miss shopping with a woman; men don't always understand that it's about the experience rather than the money spent. I miss going to movies with a woman, crying and feeling better when the movie is over. I miss having lunch with another woman,complaining of our husbands and children, yet knowing how much we love them. I miss finding inappropriate cards for another woman, knowing she'll get the joke. I miss being myself with another woman. I'm always on guard with others, except my husband, and it would be nice to truly be myself with another woman without fearing she'll hate me.
As for my friend, the one for whom I mourn my loss, I know we'll never be friends again; too much has happened between us for this to happen. I wish I could find another friend, one with whom I can share my hopes, dreams, fears, and frustrations. Honestly, I miss friendship.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Christmas
So Christmas is now two days away. Presents are wrapped, tree decorated, anticipation building...but it's hard for me to understand the idea of the Christmas miracle.
Honestly, the "Christmas miracle" idea must be a Hollywood notion because I've yet to experience it. There's also supposed to be "magic" this time of year, but again, I've yet to experience that. All the different movies, television shows, and even "feel good" stories we hear about don't seemingly appear in real life. Instead, real life consists of eating more than we should, stress, anger, and disappointment.
Obligations surround so many of us during the Christmas season. For years, I've loved sending and receiving Christmas cards and letters, but for the past two years, I really haven't cared. I've loved shopping for the perfect gifts, preparing our house to host our families, and cooking Italian food for Christmas Eve. Now, it seems like more of a hassle rather than a pleasure to do any of these things.
As a child, the season was filled with magic as wonderful smells emanated from the kitchen where my mom was making cookies, fudge, and other delectable treats. One day during the season was devoted to watching my mom and my nana make traditional Italian cookies...tortidi and scalidi. While they were making the cookies, they were also baking homemade bread and rolls. Our jobs involved rolling dough and listening to them talk.
Christmas Eve was devoted to our family celebrating with lasagna, meatballs, sausage...all yummy dishes. My brother and I were relegated to the living room and parked in front of the TV while everything was prepared. After dinner, my dad had to do something with us until we were ready for games of gin, coffee, and cake. Finally, as we were about to burst, it was time to open gifts. Naturally, Santa came throughout the night, which was exciting. Plus we went to church, and then it was time to have everyone over again for turkey or ham, and a full feast of potatoes, veggies, and pie.
I keep remembering those magical Christmases rather than anticipating the current Christmas. I wish for all those who loved me then were around now. I want my son to have magical Christmases like I did, which is why we play with Elf on the Shelf, email Santa, and try to fulfill his desires. I want him to remember some of our traditions, like driving around, looking at lights at other people's homes or watching the Parade of Lights.
Christmas magic, while a fabrication of Hollywood, would be nice to have this year. I would love a miracle, like finding my Christmas spirit. I want to enjoy it rather than cry through it.
Honestly, the "Christmas miracle" idea must be a Hollywood notion because I've yet to experience it. There's also supposed to be "magic" this time of year, but again, I've yet to experience that. All the different movies, television shows, and even "feel good" stories we hear about don't seemingly appear in real life. Instead, real life consists of eating more than we should, stress, anger, and disappointment.
Obligations surround so many of us during the Christmas season. For years, I've loved sending and receiving Christmas cards and letters, but for the past two years, I really haven't cared. I've loved shopping for the perfect gifts, preparing our house to host our families, and cooking Italian food for Christmas Eve. Now, it seems like more of a hassle rather than a pleasure to do any of these things.
As a child, the season was filled with magic as wonderful smells emanated from the kitchen where my mom was making cookies, fudge, and other delectable treats. One day during the season was devoted to watching my mom and my nana make traditional Italian cookies...tortidi and scalidi. While they were making the cookies, they were also baking homemade bread and rolls. Our jobs involved rolling dough and listening to them talk.
Christmas Eve was devoted to our family celebrating with lasagna, meatballs, sausage...all yummy dishes. My brother and I were relegated to the living room and parked in front of the TV while everything was prepared. After dinner, my dad had to do something with us until we were ready for games of gin, coffee, and cake. Finally, as we were about to burst, it was time to open gifts. Naturally, Santa came throughout the night, which was exciting. Plus we went to church, and then it was time to have everyone over again for turkey or ham, and a full feast of potatoes, veggies, and pie.
I keep remembering those magical Christmases rather than anticipating the current Christmas. I wish for all those who loved me then were around now. I want my son to have magical Christmases like I did, which is why we play with Elf on the Shelf, email Santa, and try to fulfill his desires. I want him to remember some of our traditions, like driving around, looking at lights at other people's homes or watching the Parade of Lights.
Christmas magic, while a fabrication of Hollywood, would be nice to have this year. I would love a miracle, like finding my Christmas spirit. I want to enjoy it rather than cry through it.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
#Guns, #schools, and #mental illness
This past week's school shooting once again brings gun control and school safety to the forefront of Americans' minds. We shout for restrictive gun laws or banning guns as a whole. We demand teachers carry guns and we have metal detectors at the entrances of our schools. We pull our children from public schools and put them in private schools or choose to homeschool because they'll be "safe." After a few weeks, and until the next mass shooting occurs, our lives return to normal, and we no longer address this issue of violence. What is missing, however, from this argument is the root cause of mass shootings.
The reality of mass shootings has little to do with guns. Yes, easy accessibility to assault rifles and other rapid-fire weapons allows for more people to get injured or die in a shorter amount of time, but we are unwilling to examine the root cause of this problem. What makes these young men, more often than not white, upper middle class, highly intelligent young men, want to go into public space and murder as many innocents as possible before they take their own lives? What in their consciences says this behavior is okay?
No one seems willing to explore the root of the problem. Is is mental illness? It is true that mental healthcare is expensive and out of reach for a majority of people who need it. It is true that funding for mental health programs has decreased over the past few years. It is also true that those who most need institutions where they can be diagnosed and treated are few and far between, plus they cost more than most families can afford. And it is also true that mental illness is stigmatized; no one wants to admit to having depression or other forms of mental illness. We seem to suffer from a malaise that allows us to pretend everything is fine when it is not.
Nor does anyone want to explore and address the amount of violence children experience in their own lives from early ages. How many children watch rated R horror movies, listen to music with violent lyrics, and are allowed to play violent video games. Even cartoons rated for 7 year old children, like "Ben 10," are filled with violence. Violent TV shows outnumber nonviolent shows. It seems as though there are two or three violent dramas available on network TV each night, many beginning at 7 pm. As a parent, finding a nonviolent yet entertaining television show/cartoon is difficult. I don't want my son watching the type of violence that appears on shows like NCIS: LA or CSI. He doesn't need to know about blood spatter or how to kill with a semi-automatic weapon.
At what point will we, as a society, wake up regarding this issue of mass shootings? Guns are the devices these mentally ill people use to murder large numbers of people. I am not a member or a supporter of the NRA, but I agree that restricting guns doesn't help. Giving teachers guns won't help either. Neither will arming the individual citizen. When we are ready to discuss the issue of mental illness and our violent culture, maybe we will be able to halt these senseless killings.
The reality of mass shootings has little to do with guns. Yes, easy accessibility to assault rifles and other rapid-fire weapons allows for more people to get injured or die in a shorter amount of time, but we are unwilling to examine the root cause of this problem. What makes these young men, more often than not white, upper middle class, highly intelligent young men, want to go into public space and murder as many innocents as possible before they take their own lives? What in their consciences says this behavior is okay?
No one seems willing to explore the root of the problem. Is is mental illness? It is true that mental healthcare is expensive and out of reach for a majority of people who need it. It is true that funding for mental health programs has decreased over the past few years. It is also true that those who most need institutions where they can be diagnosed and treated are few and far between, plus they cost more than most families can afford. And it is also true that mental illness is stigmatized; no one wants to admit to having depression or other forms of mental illness. We seem to suffer from a malaise that allows us to pretend everything is fine when it is not.
Nor does anyone want to explore and address the amount of violence children experience in their own lives from early ages. How many children watch rated R horror movies, listen to music with violent lyrics, and are allowed to play violent video games. Even cartoons rated for 7 year old children, like "Ben 10," are filled with violence. Violent TV shows outnumber nonviolent shows. It seems as though there are two or three violent dramas available on network TV each night, many beginning at 7 pm. As a parent, finding a nonviolent yet entertaining television show/cartoon is difficult. I don't want my son watching the type of violence that appears on shows like NCIS: LA or CSI. He doesn't need to know about blood spatter or how to kill with a semi-automatic weapon.
At what point will we, as a society, wake up regarding this issue of mass shootings? Guns are the devices these mentally ill people use to murder large numbers of people. I am not a member or a supporter of the NRA, but I agree that restricting guns doesn't help. Giving teachers guns won't help either. Neither will arming the individual citizen. When we are ready to discuss the issue of mental illness and our violent culture, maybe we will be able to halt these senseless killings.
Friday, November 23, 2012
The lovely smile
In a few short weeks, my beautiful niece turns 18. I cannot believe it! I remember the day she was born; it was a cold day with weak sunlight. I wanted to leave school to get to the hospital, but the school wouldn't allow me to go. Instead, I stood at the door, waiting for the bell, in front of all the students. As soon as the bell rang, I ran to the car and hurried to the hospital, which thankfully was close.
My brother put this tiny burrito-wrapped bundle into my arms, and I fell in love. Her eyes were tightly squeezed shut, and she made a few little baby noises...sighs and squeaks. I made a vow to her on the spot: I would always love her, protect her, treasure her.
As a baby, my niece had a sunny disposition; I remember feeding her, receiving a beatific smile from her, and then she would throw up on me. I quickly realized that was our new "normal" with this adorable baby. Another time, babysitting, I put her on my futon (I was young!) and was talking to her. She smiled her lovely baby smiled, and then she peed on my futon. It took a few tries before I learned how to put a diaper on correctly.
Never a backseat person, I loved sitting in the back of the vehicle just so I could be near her. She'd kick her legs, chatter, and hold my hand. And always, she flashed her infectious baby smile. As she grew, we'd play "tackle" in my parents' den: she'd start at the fireplace and run toward me, sitting on the floor, and "tackle" me with all the force of her little body. I'd "fall"over, and we'd roll around like we were wrestling. She liked being outside, playing with the dog; sitting in the swing; helping me wash my car.
My mom loved her like crazy. I'd never seen my mom so happy as when my niece was over. They had fruit salad parties, played dress up, ran errands together. As the oldest grandchild, my niece was my mother's pride and joy. I'm not sure my niece will ever understand how much she was loved by her grandmother, but she was loved deeply and completely.
When my brother and his family moved an hour away, life changed. We rarely saw my niece and my nephew after that. My mom grew sad, mourning the loss of her two grandchildren, and while my son brought that sparkle back for a bit, she missed her two older grandchildren terribly.
As my niece grew, her lovely smile disappeared. A surly, quiet young woman took over. And while she has, as she's aged, regained parts of the smile that so entranced me, life has certainly dealt her some blows. And I have failed her miserably. I haven't been there to protect her; I haven't treasured her like I promised. The distance has negatively impacted our relationship, something I regret deeply.
I am proud of my niece; she has grown into a beautiful, intelligent, hardworking, athletic, and driven young woman. As she turns 18, I can't help but wonder how life would have been different if she and her brother had stayed closer to us. What makes me saddest is that she is preparing to leave home for college in a few short months. She will be more than seven hours and one ocean away. This leaves me with "I wish"...
I wish I had lived up to my promise to her.
I wish she knew how much she was loved and treasured.
I wish she would regain fully the lovely smile of her childhood.
I wish she knew how much we want her to see us.
I wish she would visit more often.
I wish her the best in her life.
I wish she won't forget us.
My brother put this tiny burrito-wrapped bundle into my arms, and I fell in love. Her eyes were tightly squeezed shut, and she made a few little baby noises...sighs and squeaks. I made a vow to her on the spot: I would always love her, protect her, treasure her.
As a baby, my niece had a sunny disposition; I remember feeding her, receiving a beatific smile from her, and then she would throw up on me. I quickly realized that was our new "normal" with this adorable baby. Another time, babysitting, I put her on my futon (I was young!) and was talking to her. She smiled her lovely baby smiled, and then she peed on my futon. It took a few tries before I learned how to put a diaper on correctly.
Never a backseat person, I loved sitting in the back of the vehicle just so I could be near her. She'd kick her legs, chatter, and hold my hand. And always, she flashed her infectious baby smile. As she grew, we'd play "tackle" in my parents' den: she'd start at the fireplace and run toward me, sitting on the floor, and "tackle" me with all the force of her little body. I'd "fall"over, and we'd roll around like we were wrestling. She liked being outside, playing with the dog; sitting in the swing; helping me wash my car.
My mom loved her like crazy. I'd never seen my mom so happy as when my niece was over. They had fruit salad parties, played dress up, ran errands together. As the oldest grandchild, my niece was my mother's pride and joy. I'm not sure my niece will ever understand how much she was loved by her grandmother, but she was loved deeply and completely.
When my brother and his family moved an hour away, life changed. We rarely saw my niece and my nephew after that. My mom grew sad, mourning the loss of her two grandchildren, and while my son brought that sparkle back for a bit, she missed her two older grandchildren terribly.
As my niece grew, her lovely smile disappeared. A surly, quiet young woman took over. And while she has, as she's aged, regained parts of the smile that so entranced me, life has certainly dealt her some blows. And I have failed her miserably. I haven't been there to protect her; I haven't treasured her like I promised. The distance has negatively impacted our relationship, something I regret deeply.
I am proud of my niece; she has grown into a beautiful, intelligent, hardworking, athletic, and driven young woman. As she turns 18, I can't help but wonder how life would have been different if she and her brother had stayed closer to us. What makes me saddest is that she is preparing to leave home for college in a few short months. She will be more than seven hours and one ocean away. This leaves me with "I wish"...
I wish I had lived up to my promise to her.
I wish she knew how much she was loved and treasured.
I wish she would regain fully the lovely smile of her childhood.
I wish she knew how much we want her to see us.
I wish she would visit more often.
I wish her the best in her life.
I wish she won't forget us.
Monday, November 19, 2012
So much sorrow
So much sorrow right now. I'm watching the news, and it's one tragic story after another. People killing one another, babies in ICU because of reckless drivers. Israel and Palestine bombing one another. Houses exploding.
The question lingers: why? Why are there so many innocent people harmed by those who are careless, thoughtless? Why is there a baby in ICU because someone drove too fast? Why can differing countries learn to get along? Why are they intent on killing one another, possibly dragging other countries into this fight as well?
I wish there were answers. I wish I knew why. Instead, I sit in my home, comfortably, watching the suffering take place around me.
While I don't wish to have my own suffering to intensify, my heart goes out to those who are less fortunate. I pray for their suffering to ease.
The question lingers: why? Why are there so many innocent people harmed by those who are careless, thoughtless? Why is there a baby in ICU because someone drove too fast? Why can differing countries learn to get along? Why are they intent on killing one another, possibly dragging other countries into this fight as well?
I wish there were answers. I wish I knew why. Instead, I sit in my home, comfortably, watching the suffering take place around me.
While I don't wish to have my own suffering to intensify, my heart goes out to those who are less fortunate. I pray for their suffering to ease.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Parent Guilt
I'm suffering from parent guilt tonight. My son is considered morbidly obese, and I willingly take blame. It's not as though I haven't noticed or have filled him with junk. I've mentioned my concerns to our doctor for the past several years, and each time I've been reassured that he's okay. I've tried reasoning with my husband to not each so many carbs or to not bring junk food into the house. I even have my husband hide his junk food so we won't eat it.
But reality stipulates that my son is morbidly obese. I've tried to do right by him...more home cooking, fewer meals out. I've limited TV and computer time. Insisted on exercise; enrolled him in karate. He rides to and from school. We take walks and go on hikes. None has been sufficient to fight genetics...fat genes on both sides of the family.
And now my son weighs almost as much as his 15 year old cousin. That should not be. He has high cholesterol and high triglycerides. Apparently, when one consumes too much sugar, not only does sugar go to the belly but also to the liver, where it hangs around. Who knew!? I knew I have a sugar addiction, but apparently my sweet son does as well. I've caused this in him.
We've seen a nutritionist, a wonderful woman who did not make me or my son feel badly about this situation. She gave us fabulous pointers, easy steps we can all take to make sure we are all healthy. In addition to his 20 minute bike rides each day, his 90 minutes of karate per week, we need to add another 30 minutes of exercise four times a week. This will challenge us to find fun ways to be active, to increase our heart rates, and to break sweat.
We will never be skinny. But skinny doesn't necessarily mean healthy. We ultimately want to be healthy and have good readings for our sugars, cholesterol, blood pressure, etc. I just feel terrible that I've allowed my son to gain so much weight. He deserves better.
But reality stipulates that my son is morbidly obese. I've tried to do right by him...more home cooking, fewer meals out. I've limited TV and computer time. Insisted on exercise; enrolled him in karate. He rides to and from school. We take walks and go on hikes. None has been sufficient to fight genetics...fat genes on both sides of the family.
And now my son weighs almost as much as his 15 year old cousin. That should not be. He has high cholesterol and high triglycerides. Apparently, when one consumes too much sugar, not only does sugar go to the belly but also to the liver, where it hangs around. Who knew!? I knew I have a sugar addiction, but apparently my sweet son does as well. I've caused this in him.
We've seen a nutritionist, a wonderful woman who did not make me or my son feel badly about this situation. She gave us fabulous pointers, easy steps we can all take to make sure we are all healthy. In addition to his 20 minute bike rides each day, his 90 minutes of karate per week, we need to add another 30 minutes of exercise four times a week. This will challenge us to find fun ways to be active, to increase our heart rates, and to break sweat.
We will never be skinny. But skinny doesn't necessarily mean healthy. We ultimately want to be healthy and have good readings for our sugars, cholesterol, blood pressure, etc. I just feel terrible that I've allowed my son to gain so much weight. He deserves better.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Daisy the Dog
On a warm January day, we drove to a colleague's house to check out the remaining puppies of a large litter. I remember the sounds of the puppies yapping as they playfully bounded into the room, followed immediately by their mama. One lagged behind and tried to hide behind her brothers and sisters. This was Daisy, and I knew when I saw her that she was our dog.
Daisy was a shy puppy, but one look in those limpid brown eyes, and I was hooked. I thought of all types of grandiose, literary names for her, but after kicking them around, we decided her given name, Daisy, was fitting. Her puppy smell filled my car as we brought her home. She whimpered, and I thought she'd grow out of it, especially since she was leaving her family and joining a new one. Sadly, she's never grown out of whimpering, but now it means something else.
We were entranced by Daisy as she figured out our little house. Our son toddled after her, trying to pet her. In fact, one of my favorite pictures of the two of them is him sitting cross-legged with his arm over Daisy, who cuddled next to him. He's smiling, and she looks bewildered.
Daisy quickly taught us her quirks. For one, she hated her kennel. I know this because she would go to the bathroom in it, and then she'd move away from her mess until we came home. It took me a few weeks to decide that she was much better staying outside when we weren't home. She also liked chewing on wood and plastic. She ate our trash cans, wooden swing, trees, shrubs, and most all of our son's plastic toys. Once, she ate his bike helmet. Any new foliage had to have a protective fence around it. Daisy helped us understand that she's a social dog with other dogs; we learned this because she would bark all day at the dogs next door. Finally, we learned that Daisy didn't like dog food because she wouldn't eat it. We have spent years at vet offices, with them asking us if we regularly feed her. She was so underweight that we could see her ribs.
Ten months after we got her, after sleepless nights and destroyed objects, we decided we might need another dog to help her learn to be a dog. We adopted Jesse from the Dumb Friends' League. He came with his own baggage. First, he was grossly overweight and had been in shelters for several months. He was also a runner; open the door and he was gone. He was so strong, he could push fences out of his way to go exploring. Lastly, he was an eater. We had to take food away from him or he would gobble all of it up. He got in the trash, ate anything that was in the sink, and destroyed our garden, eating vegetables. He did, however, provide companionship for Daisy.
Daisy began to act better, probably because Jesse was such a naughty boy, and we enjoyed having the two dogs. Three years after we adopted Jesse, he developed diabetes, and within eight months, he died. I feared that Daisy would return to her frustrating behavior...urinating in the tub, eating Dixie cups, licking dental floss, digging in the yard, but she didn't. Instead, she has matured. She also eats dog food instead of wood or plastic.
She is now "my" dog. It's like having a baby, albeit a hairy and slightly smelly baby, all over again. She follows me everywhere, including the bathroom. She sleeps on my feet at night, and regardless of where I am, Daisy must be there too. We walk regularly, an activity we both enjoy. When I sit on the couch, Daisy must sit next to me. She camps and hikes with us too, mostly staying with me while my husband and son fish or do other activities. When I'm sick, Daisy is by my side. When I'm sad, Daisy is there with her head on me.
Daisy is now nearly seven and has outlived several of her siblings. I can tell she's slowing down a little, and when we play rope, she doesn't jump quite as high. She's also put on weight, so much that the vet wants her to gain no more weight. I enjoy her companionship. She's funny, sweet, loving, and fun-loving. I knew Daisy was meant for us, nearly seven years ago, and we were meant for her.
Who can resist limpid brown puppy eyes?
Daisy was a shy puppy, but one look in those limpid brown eyes, and I was hooked. I thought of all types of grandiose, literary names for her, but after kicking them around, we decided her given name, Daisy, was fitting. Her puppy smell filled my car as we brought her home. She whimpered, and I thought she'd grow out of it, especially since she was leaving her family and joining a new one. Sadly, she's never grown out of whimpering, but now it means something else.
We were entranced by Daisy as she figured out our little house. Our son toddled after her, trying to pet her. In fact, one of my favorite pictures of the two of them is him sitting cross-legged with his arm over Daisy, who cuddled next to him. He's smiling, and she looks bewildered.
Daisy quickly taught us her quirks. For one, she hated her kennel. I know this because she would go to the bathroom in it, and then she'd move away from her mess until we came home. It took me a few weeks to decide that she was much better staying outside when we weren't home. She also liked chewing on wood and plastic. She ate our trash cans, wooden swing, trees, shrubs, and most all of our son's plastic toys. Once, she ate his bike helmet. Any new foliage had to have a protective fence around it. Daisy helped us understand that she's a social dog with other dogs; we learned this because she would bark all day at the dogs next door. Finally, we learned that Daisy didn't like dog food because she wouldn't eat it. We have spent years at vet offices, with them asking us if we regularly feed her. She was so underweight that we could see her ribs.
Ten months after we got her, after sleepless nights and destroyed objects, we decided we might need another dog to help her learn to be a dog. We adopted Jesse from the Dumb Friends' League. He came with his own baggage. First, he was grossly overweight and had been in shelters for several months. He was also a runner; open the door and he was gone. He was so strong, he could push fences out of his way to go exploring. Lastly, he was an eater. We had to take food away from him or he would gobble all of it up. He got in the trash, ate anything that was in the sink, and destroyed our garden, eating vegetables. He did, however, provide companionship for Daisy.
Daisy began to act better, probably because Jesse was such a naughty boy, and we enjoyed having the two dogs. Three years after we adopted Jesse, he developed diabetes, and within eight months, he died. I feared that Daisy would return to her frustrating behavior...urinating in the tub, eating Dixie cups, licking dental floss, digging in the yard, but she didn't. Instead, she has matured. She also eats dog food instead of wood or plastic.
She is now "my" dog. It's like having a baby, albeit a hairy and slightly smelly baby, all over again. She follows me everywhere, including the bathroom. She sleeps on my feet at night, and regardless of where I am, Daisy must be there too. We walk regularly, an activity we both enjoy. When I sit on the couch, Daisy must sit next to me. She camps and hikes with us too, mostly staying with me while my husband and son fish or do other activities. When I'm sick, Daisy is by my side. When I'm sad, Daisy is there with her head on me.
Daisy is now nearly seven and has outlived several of her siblings. I can tell she's slowing down a little, and when we play rope, she doesn't jump quite as high. She's also put on weight, so much that the vet wants her to gain no more weight. I enjoy her companionship. She's funny, sweet, loving, and fun-loving. I knew Daisy was meant for us, nearly seven years ago, and we were meant for her.
Who can resist limpid brown puppy eyes?
Monday, August 13, 2012
The amazing journey of parenthood
Each morning my son staggers downstairs, his sleep-filled eyes finding the one person he momentarily needs: me. He throws his nine year old body onto me for our good morning hug, and then he's reeling around the kitchen, talking in his everychanging nine year old voice about his dreams, his sleep, and his day ahead. Usually, he's starving, and we begin our breakfast dance of what he can and cannot have until he is able to settle on an acceptable breakfast. Cereal. Each morning begins the same.
My son vacillates between maturity and childhood; he wants me to leave him alone, but he throws himself at me, hugging me, begging me not to go to work. He's done this for seven years, and I suspect he continues this routine to make me feel better about leaving. He knows I'd rather be with him. He likes to choose his own clothes but will still, occasionally, ask me if something matches. And then there are those days when he's in costume: navy blue t-shirt (often a size or two too small), black athletic shorts, white socks, brown hiking boots, a belt with a scabbard and a sword. People stare, but really, he's a child in a body the size of an 11 year old. He puts temporary tattoos all over his body; he looks like he's a hoodlum sometimes. He draws on himself, eats pencils and erasers, and infrequently listens to what I tell him.
But he's amazing. He reads long books, allowing the characters to live in his head for days at a time. He giggles at funny faces. He plays serious computer games that involve parking cars or riding skateboards over hills, talking all the while to himself. He lives in filth, laughing each time he's forced to clean up his room. He took initiative and great pride in decorating a notebook for school. We play silly games, like predicting what vehicle is next to drive down the street, but he writes thoughtful, mature and complex sentences for his vocabulary homework.
The other day he brought home an advertisement for the highly gifted program in his school district, announcing to me that he'd already read the document and that he fit most of the criteria to join the program. He asked me to recommend him. This is the same child who cries over homework being 'too hard.' The next day he announced he wants to be in the band as a drummer. His father was elated; I wondered where my headphones are hiding.
The world is open to my son at 9 years old. I hate to squelch any interests he has, which is why I find myself saying yes to drums, yes to applying for highly gifted, yes to library runs, and yes to karate. I remember laying on the bed, watching his baby self discover hands, feet, and mouth, and now he's discovering girls, music, and himself.
The journey of my parenthood has been an amazing adventure so far. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find water on concrete fascinating, construction trucks mesmorizing, trash trucks exciting, or bugs interesting. Parenthood is another chance to live in magic, the world of pretend, to experience once again the joys of our world. My son, unknowingly, has changed me in unimaginable ways, and I'm so grateful to have the opportunity of this journey. Parenthood is the hardest, most enjoyable job I've ever had.
My son vacillates between maturity and childhood; he wants me to leave him alone, but he throws himself at me, hugging me, begging me not to go to work. He's done this for seven years, and I suspect he continues this routine to make me feel better about leaving. He knows I'd rather be with him. He likes to choose his own clothes but will still, occasionally, ask me if something matches. And then there are those days when he's in costume: navy blue t-shirt (often a size or two too small), black athletic shorts, white socks, brown hiking boots, a belt with a scabbard and a sword. People stare, but really, he's a child in a body the size of an 11 year old. He puts temporary tattoos all over his body; he looks like he's a hoodlum sometimes. He draws on himself, eats pencils and erasers, and infrequently listens to what I tell him.
But he's amazing. He reads long books, allowing the characters to live in his head for days at a time. He giggles at funny faces. He plays serious computer games that involve parking cars or riding skateboards over hills, talking all the while to himself. He lives in filth, laughing each time he's forced to clean up his room. He took initiative and great pride in decorating a notebook for school. We play silly games, like predicting what vehicle is next to drive down the street, but he writes thoughtful, mature and complex sentences for his vocabulary homework.
The other day he brought home an advertisement for the highly gifted program in his school district, announcing to me that he'd already read the document and that he fit most of the criteria to join the program. He asked me to recommend him. This is the same child who cries over homework being 'too hard.' The next day he announced he wants to be in the band as a drummer. His father was elated; I wondered where my headphones are hiding.
The world is open to my son at 9 years old. I hate to squelch any interests he has, which is why I find myself saying yes to drums, yes to applying for highly gifted, yes to library runs, and yes to karate. I remember laying on the bed, watching his baby self discover hands, feet, and mouth, and now he's discovering girls, music, and himself.
The journey of my parenthood has been an amazing adventure so far. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find water on concrete fascinating, construction trucks mesmorizing, trash trucks exciting, or bugs interesting. Parenthood is another chance to live in magic, the world of pretend, to experience once again the joys of our world. My son, unknowingly, has changed me in unimaginable ways, and I'm so grateful to have the opportunity of this journey. Parenthood is the hardest, most enjoyable job I've ever had.
Heavy heart
Tonight my heart is heavy, overflowing, toilet-like, with emotion. I think of my absent family....my nana, my mom, my Aunt Edie, and I find that I miss them terribly. As I mourn their passing, I mourn for myself, for what I've lost. Stories, family history, love. And while these memories live within my mind and my heart, I'd rather have my loved ones with me.
My heart is heavy as I think of former students whose names and faces rattle around in my memory. Snippets of our times together flash before me, making me smile or frown, feeding my soul, reminding me why I teach. I watched a former student perform with his rappapella group, tears welling in my eyes as I listened to the beauty of his words and voice, remembering his warm smile and way with words.
So many people have drifted in and out of my life over the years, and their spectres weigh on me. My heart is heavy, overflowing, emotional, wishing for what I can't have, remembering what has passed. I feel old tonight. Alone. Burdened by what has been. Struggling to look toward what might be. Realizing how many lives I've touched and how my life has been touched by the students I've taught. Knowing they don't remember me, but I remember them.
My losses feel great, overwhelming, and I feel adrift with pictures and voices rattling around in my head. Each of my students leave a fingerprint on my heart, and I'm sad and happy, knowing for a brief moment our lives crossed, we became different people because of this moment, this time together, and then they're gone. As they should.
My heart is heavy as I think of former students whose names and faces rattle around in my memory. Snippets of our times together flash before me, making me smile or frown, feeding my soul, reminding me why I teach. I watched a former student perform with his rappapella group, tears welling in my eyes as I listened to the beauty of his words and voice, remembering his warm smile and way with words.
So many people have drifted in and out of my life over the years, and their spectres weigh on me. My heart is heavy, overflowing, emotional, wishing for what I can't have, remembering what has passed. I feel old tonight. Alone. Burdened by what has been. Struggling to look toward what might be. Realizing how many lives I've touched and how my life has been touched by the students I've taught. Knowing they don't remember me, but I remember them.
My losses feel great, overwhelming, and I feel adrift with pictures and voices rattling around in my head. Each of my students leave a fingerprint on my heart, and I'm sad and happy, knowing for a brief moment our lives crossed, we became different people because of this moment, this time together, and then they're gone. As they should.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Finding a lump
Today is a do-nothing day, not because there isn't anything to do but because I'm anxiously awaiting a phone call, much like a teenaged girl, to schedule a mammogram.
Normally, I'd go about my day, not worrying about something like missing a scheduling phone call, but I've found a lump in my breast and my doctor felt it too. Could be nothing. But with my family history of breast cysts and breast cancer, I can't afford to blow this off.
I'm not panicked, at least not yet. Granted, it's been nearly 11 years since my mom found her own breast lump, and only she panicked then. My lump feels about the same size as hers, but it's in a different spot. Most breast cancer survivors describe their lumps as pea-sized and hard, but my mom's was large and squooshy, like a cyst. It wasn't until the diagnosis of breast cancer did we all panic a bit for my mom.
Today is a do-nothing day because I'm in limbo, awaiting an appointment that could change my life. I feel immobilized until I get the call, and I have no motivation to leave the house. I keep trying the idea of positive thought, as in, there's no way I can have breast cancer at 44. But really, anything is possible. For awhile, I wanted to bury my face in a tub of ice cream, but instead, I went and took a nap. Ice cream won't help me feel better in the long run.
The worst part is the fact I have no one to call and discuss this with. The person I would have called, my mom, is gone. There's no one else I want to talk to. I feel like I'm doing this alone.
Today, I miss my mom.
Normally, I'd go about my day, not worrying about something like missing a scheduling phone call, but I've found a lump in my breast and my doctor felt it too. Could be nothing. But with my family history of breast cysts and breast cancer, I can't afford to blow this off.
I'm not panicked, at least not yet. Granted, it's been nearly 11 years since my mom found her own breast lump, and only she panicked then. My lump feels about the same size as hers, but it's in a different spot. Most breast cancer survivors describe their lumps as pea-sized and hard, but my mom's was large and squooshy, like a cyst. It wasn't until the diagnosis of breast cancer did we all panic a bit for my mom.
Today is a do-nothing day because I'm in limbo, awaiting an appointment that could change my life. I feel immobilized until I get the call, and I have no motivation to leave the house. I keep trying the idea of positive thought, as in, there's no way I can have breast cancer at 44. But really, anything is possible. For awhile, I wanted to bury my face in a tub of ice cream, but instead, I went and took a nap. Ice cream won't help me feel better in the long run.
The worst part is the fact I have no one to call and discuss this with. The person I would have called, my mom, is gone. There's no one else I want to talk to. I feel like I'm doing this alone.
Today, I miss my mom.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Colorado shootings
April 7, 1982 is a day that has never left my memory. It was a cloudy spring day, a bit cool. I was in typing class, when several students burst into the classroom, yelling that a student, someone I considered a friend, had been shot. Our typing room overlooked the bike racks where all this reportedly happened, but our teacher, Mrs. Henderson, ordered us away from the window and then she pulled the shade. We began our lesson, wondering what had happened.
I had to leave for an orthodontics appointment that day, and when I went to sign out through the office as I was supposed to do, I saw another student, John, in the office crying and the secretaries were bent over him. When they noticed me, they yelled at me to get out. I quickly left the building and realized police and paramedics were next to the school. Soon, I heard the whoomp, whoomp of the Flight for Life helicopter as it made an emergency landing on Columbine Drive. At that moment, my mom showed up, and we talked about what was going on.
My friend, Scott, was shot and killed on school grounds by a boy named Jason. There was no reason for his death. He died because a kid had a gun. Who knows what Scott would have accomplished had he lived. I cannot imagine the pain his parents and brothers endured after his death. I wanted to go to his funeral but had a panic attack that day and had to stay home. It was the first of my experiences with shootings.
April 20, 1999 is another day I will never forget. I will never forget the sight of an administrator standing out front of my school, hurrying kids into the building from lunch. I will never forget how the day went from sunny to cloudy and the clouds lingered for days, it seemed, after the shootings at Columbine. I will not forget being on lockdown until nearly 3:00 or being threatened by a student who wanted to leave to head to Columbine. I will never forget the thwack thwack the Huey helicopters made as they flew over my school. To this day, the sound of those helicopters causes me a mild panic attack. Columbine was my alma mater; my high school. I had been in it a couple of months earlier and could picture the library and the cafeteria.
Last year, I went back to Columbine for an inservice, the first time I had been there since the shootings. I had a panic attack and couldn't stop crying the entire time I was there. In fact, anytime we are presented with Columbine footage or speakers at my school, I have panic attacks and have to leave.
I remember standing in my classroom the day Platte Canyon happened, shocked something so horrific could happen again and so close to home. September, 2006. I had to reassure my students that we were safe at my school, but I wondered how safe we really were. The Platte Canyon hostage situation and ultimately the shootings haunt me today, especially because we have had strangers wandering around our school, acting suspiciously. Strangers I've had to confront. It's frightening.
The day a gunman began shooting outside Deer Creek Middle School, in February of 2010, I had a panic attack. A counselor came to my classroom to check on me and make sure I could be in front of kids. I could not believe it...again! Again someone was committing a horrific act of violence at a school I once attended and one so close to where I work.
After hearing about the shootings at the Aurora theater, the oppressive feeling that nothing is sacred comes back to me. Shootings at schools, shootings in churches, restaurants, college classrooms, and now theaters. I simply want to fold my husband and son up, keeping us locked in our house for safety. Some claim that more guns, concealed with permit guns, is the answer. Others claim that banning guns from society is the answer.
I've come to the conclusion that guns really aren't the problem; people are the problem. I'm not in favor of guns, but I don't see how banning them works. I think we should spend our time and money providing better mental health care. Obviously, the shooters at Deer Creek, Columbine, Platte Canyon, and now Aurora were mentally ill. How do they slip through the cracks? Are we, as a society, doing enough to help those who turn to violence and suicide as their way of coping with whatever is going on in their heads?
All I know is this, my fear is real; shootings have happened around me for a number of years. I fear a shooting. But I can't live my life in fear, and I cannot allow my son to do so either. So I will continue to go to work, continue to visit restaurants, and continue to attend movies. I will not succumb to my fear.
I had to leave for an orthodontics appointment that day, and when I went to sign out through the office as I was supposed to do, I saw another student, John, in the office crying and the secretaries were bent over him. When they noticed me, they yelled at me to get out. I quickly left the building and realized police and paramedics were next to the school. Soon, I heard the whoomp, whoomp of the Flight for Life helicopter as it made an emergency landing on Columbine Drive. At that moment, my mom showed up, and we talked about what was going on.
My friend, Scott, was shot and killed on school grounds by a boy named Jason. There was no reason for his death. He died because a kid had a gun. Who knows what Scott would have accomplished had he lived. I cannot imagine the pain his parents and brothers endured after his death. I wanted to go to his funeral but had a panic attack that day and had to stay home. It was the first of my experiences with shootings.
April 20, 1999 is another day I will never forget. I will never forget the sight of an administrator standing out front of my school, hurrying kids into the building from lunch. I will never forget how the day went from sunny to cloudy and the clouds lingered for days, it seemed, after the shootings at Columbine. I will not forget being on lockdown until nearly 3:00 or being threatened by a student who wanted to leave to head to Columbine. I will never forget the thwack thwack the Huey helicopters made as they flew over my school. To this day, the sound of those helicopters causes me a mild panic attack. Columbine was my alma mater; my high school. I had been in it a couple of months earlier and could picture the library and the cafeteria.
Last year, I went back to Columbine for an inservice, the first time I had been there since the shootings. I had a panic attack and couldn't stop crying the entire time I was there. In fact, anytime we are presented with Columbine footage or speakers at my school, I have panic attacks and have to leave.
I remember standing in my classroom the day Platte Canyon happened, shocked something so horrific could happen again and so close to home. September, 2006. I had to reassure my students that we were safe at my school, but I wondered how safe we really were. The Platte Canyon hostage situation and ultimately the shootings haunt me today, especially because we have had strangers wandering around our school, acting suspiciously. Strangers I've had to confront. It's frightening.
The day a gunman began shooting outside Deer Creek Middle School, in February of 2010, I had a panic attack. A counselor came to my classroom to check on me and make sure I could be in front of kids. I could not believe it...again! Again someone was committing a horrific act of violence at a school I once attended and one so close to where I work.
After hearing about the shootings at the Aurora theater, the oppressive feeling that nothing is sacred comes back to me. Shootings at schools, shootings in churches, restaurants, college classrooms, and now theaters. I simply want to fold my husband and son up, keeping us locked in our house for safety. Some claim that more guns, concealed with permit guns, is the answer. Others claim that banning guns from society is the answer.
I've come to the conclusion that guns really aren't the problem; people are the problem. I'm not in favor of guns, but I don't see how banning them works. I think we should spend our time and money providing better mental health care. Obviously, the shooters at Deer Creek, Columbine, Platte Canyon, and now Aurora were mentally ill. How do they slip through the cracks? Are we, as a society, doing enough to help those who turn to violence and suicide as their way of coping with whatever is going on in their heads?
All I know is this, my fear is real; shootings have happened around me for a number of years. I fear a shooting. But I can't live my life in fear, and I cannot allow my son to do so either. So I will continue to go to work, continue to visit restaurants, and continue to attend movies. I will not succumb to my fear.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Anger and violence
Our culture is an angry and violent one. Why? What is wrong within our society that entitles others to commit acts of violence? Why is our culture so angry? It isn't as though anger and violence is new to our society; maybe it's the proliferation of media broadcasts that makes it 'in our faces' each time it happens.
In eighth grade, a friend of mine was shot and killed at Deer Creek Junior High. It was a senseless act; a boy with a gun pointing at another boy, and then pulling the trigger, shooting him. I didn't understand why my friend had to die or why the other boy shot him.
Over the past 30 years, mass shootings have occurred around the world. These particular shootings didn't occur during war; they have occurred in malls, restaurants, schools, camps, post offices, workplaces, and theatres. Innocent lives are senselessly taken by someone with an agenda. The most frequent targets, at least in my opinion, seem to be children. Again, why? Because they are innocent? I struggle to make sense of these random acts of violence.
It stems, I think, from some deeply rooted anger, and it seeps into our daily lives. How many drivers suffer from the indignity of the "bird"? Many seem to take their aggression with them into their vehicles and tailgate or commit acts of road rage: cutting off other drivers, driving too fast for road conditions, slamming on brakes. Why the anger? Yes, people make mistakes, but do those mistakes warrant the violence demonstrated on our roads?
We are angry at the grocery store when lines move too slowly; we grow angry quickly with clerks in stores who don't help us quickly enough or who don't know the answers to our questions. We are impatient and angry with people who aren't walking fast enough, so we have to huff and puff our way around them, letting them know they inconvenienced us.
Does it seem like we've lost the ability to deal with others positively? It seems so to me. We don't know how to handle conflict, so we escalate it to violent levels. Violence, it appears, is the answer to all our problems. Don't like how someone looks at you? Call them a name and flip them off. Someone cuts you off in traffic? Pull out a gun and point it at them.
We watch cartoons, movies, and television shows filled with violence. We play video games filled with violence. We read comics filled with violence. Some of the most popular authors are authors who use violence in their books. We are a violent culture.
Now, what are we doing to do about it?
In eighth grade, a friend of mine was shot and killed at Deer Creek Junior High. It was a senseless act; a boy with a gun pointing at another boy, and then pulling the trigger, shooting him. I didn't understand why my friend had to die or why the other boy shot him.
Over the past 30 years, mass shootings have occurred around the world. These particular shootings didn't occur during war; they have occurred in malls, restaurants, schools, camps, post offices, workplaces, and theatres. Innocent lives are senselessly taken by someone with an agenda. The most frequent targets, at least in my opinion, seem to be children. Again, why? Because they are innocent? I struggle to make sense of these random acts of violence.
It stems, I think, from some deeply rooted anger, and it seeps into our daily lives. How many drivers suffer from the indignity of the "bird"? Many seem to take their aggression with them into their vehicles and tailgate or commit acts of road rage: cutting off other drivers, driving too fast for road conditions, slamming on brakes. Why the anger? Yes, people make mistakes, but do those mistakes warrant the violence demonstrated on our roads?
We are angry at the grocery store when lines move too slowly; we grow angry quickly with clerks in stores who don't help us quickly enough or who don't know the answers to our questions. We are impatient and angry with people who aren't walking fast enough, so we have to huff and puff our way around them, letting them know they inconvenienced us.
Does it seem like we've lost the ability to deal with others positively? It seems so to me. We don't know how to handle conflict, so we escalate it to violent levels. Violence, it appears, is the answer to all our problems. Don't like how someone looks at you? Call them a name and flip them off. Someone cuts you off in traffic? Pull out a gun and point it at them.
We watch cartoons, movies, and television shows filled with violence. We play video games filled with violence. We read comics filled with violence. Some of the most popular authors are authors who use violence in their books. We are a violent culture.
Now, what are we doing to do about it?
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Gavyn
Three weeks ago, an unthinkable type of accident occurred. Gavyn and his mom were driving, when Gavyn undid his five-point harnass on his car seat. He was climbing out of his seat as his mom turned quickly around to see what he was doing. In that instant, she hit a bus.
Both were transported to two of our best hospitals and have received excellent care. Unfortunately, Gavyn's injuries are pretty severe. He has a gap between C6 and C7 on his spine. There's another injury to his medulla, which most likely means he won't be able to breathe on his own. His head is encased in an halo, preventing him from moving. He has undergone two surgeries so far, one to try to reduce the gap between C6 and C7, and one to fuse them together. His mom's external injuries were also bad. A broken collarbone, bruised ribs, liver, and lungs. Cuts. Internally, though, I'm sure her injuries are far more severe.
People immediately assumed carelessness, drugs, alcohol, and irresponsibility were the causes of this accident. Nothing can be further from the truth. Gavyn's mom is a good mom, loving, kind, attentive. In fact, how many moms have quickly taken their attention from their driving to attend to a child? I have personally done it numerous times.
This horrific accident reminds me to pay more attention to my son because life can change instantaneously. I hug him more, which is hard to do to a ten year old, and tell him frequently that I love him. Gavyn's story is a reminder to all parents about the fragility of human life. Our children are precious to us, as Gavyn is to his parents, and we only want what is best for them.
Gavyn-of the beautiful eyes and smile-lays in a hospital bed, his parents by his side, hooked to machines. He, and his parents, give us hope and remind us what our true purposes are as parents: to love our children and do what we think is best for them.
Both were transported to two of our best hospitals and have received excellent care. Unfortunately, Gavyn's injuries are pretty severe. He has a gap between C6 and C7 on his spine. There's another injury to his medulla, which most likely means he won't be able to breathe on his own. His head is encased in an halo, preventing him from moving. He has undergone two surgeries so far, one to try to reduce the gap between C6 and C7, and one to fuse them together. His mom's external injuries were also bad. A broken collarbone, bruised ribs, liver, and lungs. Cuts. Internally, though, I'm sure her injuries are far more severe.
People immediately assumed carelessness, drugs, alcohol, and irresponsibility were the causes of this accident. Nothing can be further from the truth. Gavyn's mom is a good mom, loving, kind, attentive. In fact, how many moms have quickly taken their attention from their driving to attend to a child? I have personally done it numerous times.
This horrific accident reminds me to pay more attention to my son because life can change instantaneously. I hug him more, which is hard to do to a ten year old, and tell him frequently that I love him. Gavyn's story is a reminder to all parents about the fragility of human life. Our children are precious to us, as Gavyn is to his parents, and we only want what is best for them.
Gavyn-of the beautiful eyes and smile-lays in a hospital bed, his parents by his side, hooked to machines. He, and his parents, give us hope and remind us what our true purposes are as parents: to love our children and do what we think is best for them.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Pssst! The president is responsible for the drought!
It's election year as everyone knows, and it's time once again for our favorite mud-slinging, reputation slashing television commercials. Most of the commercials we are currently viewing are sponsored by Political Action Corporations, groups I've never personally heard of. I guess I could take the time to find out more about them, but their fear-mongering reputations are off-putting for me. The best part about these PACs is their ability to distort the truth until no one really knows what to believe. And while the internet is a great resource, who wants to tear themselves away from the latest news of TomKat and Suri, the Kardashians, or even the Sly Stallone tragedy to do any type of research? Naturally, there are the YouTube videos to watch, especially the "People of Walmart" videos. Research takes time and it's boring! I'd rather watch Sasha the talking dog than find out more about what each candidate believes.
Of course, it's hard to know what each candidate believes. Each is trying to win an election, and each is prepared to say and do whatever it takes to "lead" this country. One candidate supposedly cost people jobs; the other is supposedly not really a US citizen. Repeal Obamacare! Support gay marriage! Attack! Attack! Attack! Since the current president is solely responsible for the state of the economy, nevermind a pointless and expensive war, the natural movement of a bull and bear market, the housing bubble, or problems in Europe, I'm waiting for more problems to be ascribed to him, like the drought across much of the United States. I'm sure he's at fault for that as well. I mean, really, the weather was much better under the previous president, and I'm certain had McCain been elected, it would have continued to improve!
The hate-mongering that occurs during this time is foul. It's hard to escape it as well as social media, like Facebook, the internet, and television are riddled with people expressing their opinions, trying to persuade others to vote for a particular candidate. Isn't it important to listen to a variety of channels to try to determine the most accurate information? If Americans only listen to a certain opinion, how can they make informed decisions?
The media is incredibly powerful for politicians, and they definitely use it to their advantage. Isn't it up to us to determine our opinions? Shouldn't we do a little research instead of, like lemmings, follow a particular vein of thought?
I'm holding out hope for someone to determine that the current president is to blame for the drought across much of the United States. I'm sure there's a PAC somewhere that wants to make that connection!
Of course, it's hard to know what each candidate believes. Each is trying to win an election, and each is prepared to say and do whatever it takes to "lead" this country. One candidate supposedly cost people jobs; the other is supposedly not really a US citizen. Repeal Obamacare! Support gay marriage! Attack! Attack! Attack! Since the current president is solely responsible for the state of the economy, nevermind a pointless and expensive war, the natural movement of a bull and bear market, the housing bubble, or problems in Europe, I'm waiting for more problems to be ascribed to him, like the drought across much of the United States. I'm sure he's at fault for that as well. I mean, really, the weather was much better under the previous president, and I'm certain had McCain been elected, it would have continued to improve!
The hate-mongering that occurs during this time is foul. It's hard to escape it as well as social media, like Facebook, the internet, and television are riddled with people expressing their opinions, trying to persuade others to vote for a particular candidate. Isn't it important to listen to a variety of channels to try to determine the most accurate information? If Americans only listen to a certain opinion, how can they make informed decisions?
The media is incredibly powerful for politicians, and they definitely use it to their advantage. Isn't it up to us to determine our opinions? Shouldn't we do a little research instead of, like lemmings, follow a particular vein of thought?
I'm holding out hope for someone to determine that the current president is to blame for the drought across much of the United States. I'm sure there's a PAC somewhere that wants to make that connection!
Monday, July 16, 2012
Traveling with my son
Kansas. Usually when this state is mentioned, people roll their eyes and talk about how "flat" it is or how "boring" it is. I like Kansas, though. Yes, it's flat...in parts. Yes, some might find parts of it "boring," but I like it. Kansas is rich in American history, and the folks living there are friendly and kind. Moreover, those who farm managed, for the most part, to eke out a living from pretty unforgiving conditions. Bad soil, no water, heat, bugs, hail, tornadoes...all make life difficult in the western and southwestern part of the state.
My son and I just returned from southwestern Kansas after visiting a friend of mine and her family. I wanted my son to see a different part of the country and a lifestyle unfamiliar to ours. I also wanted some one-on-one time with him as we haven't seen much of one another over the past couple of weeks. What better way to spend time with one another than a seven hour car trip?
We decided to bypass downtown Denver and the I-70 exchange by driving through Castle Rock and heading east to I-70 that way. I hadn't been much past Castle Rock, so it was interesting to see the land change from pine trees to open spaces, dotted with small ranchettes. We passed through towns we've only hear about, and finally, I-70 loomed in front of us. Our adventure had begun!
With quick stops in Limon and Burlington, we saw truck stops and small communities. Towns like Burlington have history we don't often appreciate; they were towns early settlers founded as they moved west across the prairie. I cannot imagine the difficulty of their existence, and therefore I have great respect for towns that have existed for so long and under such tough conditions.
The land changed constantly as we moved from Colby, Kansas to Garden City, Kansas. Homes were sparce, trees much more so. Fields of green and gold filled our eyes. The contrast was stark and lovely at the same time. The sky opened up, and we saw variations of blue and white as puffy, cottony clouds floated through it. I enjoyed watching the topography change as we traveled further into southwestern Kansas. My son seemed equally impressed with the vastness of the land before us and around us.
My friend lives in a small town, founded over 100 years ago. It's surrounded my fields of wheat, milo, soybeans, and corn, and the trains still come through regularly. My son was able to see a thin slice of small-town life and learn about the values in a different part of the country. For example, it's hard to simply run to the grocery store when necessary. It's a 44 mile round trip excursion. Each time we drove up and down Main Street, people waved at us. One's church is important and central to one's social life.
We visited a local state park, a dairy, a couple of other towns and cities, and each time, the land was different. That's what fascinates me about Kansas. It can be flat in one area and a valley with amazing sandstone rocks over the hill. Certain areas, like the state park, sported a number of trees, while other areas, like the dairy, were completely barren of trees.
At the dairy, we were able to see how cows are milked and cared for, plus we had the amazing experience of watching a calf be born. We drove out to a field and picked potatoes, which we ate a couple of times during our visit. My son was able to ride a horse, an experience that left him glowing with happiness. We also visited a barn where some kittens lived. Our vehicle had a cropduster fly above us, and we could feel the vibrations from the airplane as it did so.
Traveling to Kansas was a lovely experience, both for my son and myself. We learned a bit of history in Dodge City, went to a farm show, saw where the Dalton gang's hideout was, and spent time learning more about a lifestyle completely alien to ours. Kansas isn't flat and boring; it's filled with hills, valleys, streams (though plenty, sadly, are dry), history, and lovely people. While I haven't traveled all over the state, I have been from the western side to the eastern side, and I enjoy it each time I'm there. My son had such a good time, he wants to go back again this summer. Kansas fueled his desire to farm, and our road trip fostered his interest in more road trips.
I couldn't have asked for a better experience.
My son and I just returned from southwestern Kansas after visiting a friend of mine and her family. I wanted my son to see a different part of the country and a lifestyle unfamiliar to ours. I also wanted some one-on-one time with him as we haven't seen much of one another over the past couple of weeks. What better way to spend time with one another than a seven hour car trip?
We decided to bypass downtown Denver and the I-70 exchange by driving through Castle Rock and heading east to I-70 that way. I hadn't been much past Castle Rock, so it was interesting to see the land change from pine trees to open spaces, dotted with small ranchettes. We passed through towns we've only hear about, and finally, I-70 loomed in front of us. Our adventure had begun!
With quick stops in Limon and Burlington, we saw truck stops and small communities. Towns like Burlington have history we don't often appreciate; they were towns early settlers founded as they moved west across the prairie. I cannot imagine the difficulty of their existence, and therefore I have great respect for towns that have existed for so long and under such tough conditions.
The land changed constantly as we moved from Colby, Kansas to Garden City, Kansas. Homes were sparce, trees much more so. Fields of green and gold filled our eyes. The contrast was stark and lovely at the same time. The sky opened up, and we saw variations of blue and white as puffy, cottony clouds floated through it. I enjoyed watching the topography change as we traveled further into southwestern Kansas. My son seemed equally impressed with the vastness of the land before us and around us.
My friend lives in a small town, founded over 100 years ago. It's surrounded my fields of wheat, milo, soybeans, and corn, and the trains still come through regularly. My son was able to see a thin slice of small-town life and learn about the values in a different part of the country. For example, it's hard to simply run to the grocery store when necessary. It's a 44 mile round trip excursion. Each time we drove up and down Main Street, people waved at us. One's church is important and central to one's social life.
We visited a local state park, a dairy, a couple of other towns and cities, and each time, the land was different. That's what fascinates me about Kansas. It can be flat in one area and a valley with amazing sandstone rocks over the hill. Certain areas, like the state park, sported a number of trees, while other areas, like the dairy, were completely barren of trees.
At the dairy, we were able to see how cows are milked and cared for, plus we had the amazing experience of watching a calf be born. We drove out to a field and picked potatoes, which we ate a couple of times during our visit. My son was able to ride a horse, an experience that left him glowing with happiness. We also visited a barn where some kittens lived. Our vehicle had a cropduster fly above us, and we could feel the vibrations from the airplane as it did so.
Traveling to Kansas was a lovely experience, both for my son and myself. We learned a bit of history in Dodge City, went to a farm show, saw where the Dalton gang's hideout was, and spent time learning more about a lifestyle completely alien to ours. Kansas isn't flat and boring; it's filled with hills, valleys, streams (though plenty, sadly, are dry), history, and lovely people. While I haven't traveled all over the state, I have been from the western side to the eastern side, and I enjoy it each time I'm there. My son had such a good time, he wants to go back again this summer. Kansas fueled his desire to farm, and our road trip fostered his interest in more road trips.
I couldn't have asked for a better experience.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Attitude is everything
Going to Montezuma, New Mexico is not a favorite trip of mine. It can turn into a six hour drive. They serve the same food on the same days each year. People go nuts and behave abominably. The bathrooms. Limited means of cooling off, and it's always hot.
It was with dread I began my journey on Monday to New Mexico. I knew I needed the class to have a better idea of what I'll be doing in the fall, but I really wanted to stay home, sleeping in my own bed, using my own shower, and hanging out with my family. I am shy, and as a shy person, I find situations where I know no one uncomfortable. However, as I arrived at the castle, I decided that I needed to change my attitude.
I'm so glad I did! Yes, the bathrooms were disgusting and people were noisy. But I met three wonderful women. My roommate, Barb, was from Chicago, and we had so much in common. I had a great time talking with her, staying up late laughing, and bonding over mutual interests and experiences. I hope we keep in touch beyond this week. I never feel comfortable with strangers and with sleeping in a strange person with someone I don't know, but that wasn't the case with Barb.
I also met LaTina from Tampa and Lacey from New Orleans. We had virtually every meal together, and I honestly have not laughed so much in a long time. Maybe because we were all in the same proverbial boat, fish out of water, or because of luck, or because of a greater purpose, we found one another and enjoyed one another's company. I never felt judged or criticized by these three amazing women. They simply accepted me for me, which made it easy for me to let my guard down and to let them in more than I usually do.
My class was fabulous too. The instructor presented the material in a way that made me feel comfortable and excited to teach a new class. She is a Deputy Chief Examiner, which helped because she speaks with authority. Yet, I felt comfortable asking questions of her, which hasn't happened all the years I've gone to IB school. I usually feel like a moron who has no business being there, but not this time. This time I felt excited to attend each session, to find out more about this enticing new class.
Believe it or not, I felt a bit sad when the week was over. I enjoyed the women, my partner and another colleague, and my class. I'm glad I adjusted my attitude. It made all the difference this week.
It was with dread I began my journey on Monday to New Mexico. I knew I needed the class to have a better idea of what I'll be doing in the fall, but I really wanted to stay home, sleeping in my own bed, using my own shower, and hanging out with my family. I am shy, and as a shy person, I find situations where I know no one uncomfortable. However, as I arrived at the castle, I decided that I needed to change my attitude.
I'm so glad I did! Yes, the bathrooms were disgusting and people were noisy. But I met three wonderful women. My roommate, Barb, was from Chicago, and we had so much in common. I had a great time talking with her, staying up late laughing, and bonding over mutual interests and experiences. I hope we keep in touch beyond this week. I never feel comfortable with strangers and with sleeping in a strange person with someone I don't know, but that wasn't the case with Barb.
I also met LaTina from Tampa and Lacey from New Orleans. We had virtually every meal together, and I honestly have not laughed so much in a long time. Maybe because we were all in the same proverbial boat, fish out of water, or because of luck, or because of a greater purpose, we found one another and enjoyed one another's company. I never felt judged or criticized by these three amazing women. They simply accepted me for me, which made it easy for me to let my guard down and to let them in more than I usually do.
My class was fabulous too. The instructor presented the material in a way that made me feel comfortable and excited to teach a new class. She is a Deputy Chief Examiner, which helped because she speaks with authority. Yet, I felt comfortable asking questions of her, which hasn't happened all the years I've gone to IB school. I usually feel like a moron who has no business being there, but not this time. This time I felt excited to attend each session, to find out more about this enticing new class.
Believe it or not, I felt a bit sad when the week was over. I enjoyed the women, my partner and another colleague, and my class. I'm glad I adjusted my attitude. It made all the difference this week.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Manners and hygiene
So here I am, at a conference, staying in a dormitory. I'm in the mountains, where conditions can be a bit primitive. I've never lived with anyone other than my husband and family, and I've never had to share bathrooms with strangers for an extended period of time. However, after a third time at this conference and staying in a dorm, I've learned a few things.
People are disgusting, women especially. Our bathroom is foul, abosolutely foul. Hair all over, especially in the showers, filthy shower curtains, poor drainage system (especially with all the hair), soap left in the showers. It's nasty. Filthy sinks, filthy counters, filthy floors. Someone threw up the other day, and the entire bathroom reeked of it for hours. And here's an image: standing in the shower, with another's person's dirty water running over your feet. Uh huh. That happens. Nasty!
I went to use a shower the other day, and someone left a large clump of long black hair in the shower; she also left long black hairs on the wall, the soap she left on the floor, and even on the small shelf we have for our personal things. I was disgusted. I couldn't even go in there.
I don't understand what's wrong with people. Who considers it acceptable to shed a small animal in the shower and leave for someone else? Seriously?! How hard is it to pick up your soap remnants and throw them away? Wipe a counter? Clean up your hair or toothpaste dribbles in the sink? We are not staying in 5 star accomodations.
Another perplexing issue is the lack of consideration for others. The first night here, the two women next door talked loudly until one a.m. Did they not realize the rest of us were trying to sleep? I mean, the sun was down, the moon was up, what did they think the rest of us were doing? They also like to slam their door. They go to the bathroom, slam. They come back, slam. It's driving me nuts.
Then there is the party group. These folks have stayed up until 1 or 2 in the morning each night we've been here, drinking, whooping, and hollering. Their drunken voices echo across the quad and to the dorms. I'm glad I didn't go away to college to listen to drunk people scream at night. These are professionals; they have college degrees, they have important jobs, but they act like drunken college students. I guess being so far away from home gives them license to behave in unseemly ways.
The party group concludes around 2; the noisy women are up at 6. Most of us are averaging about four hours of sleep a night, which is not enough for what we need to accomplish over the course of the day. There is such a lack of manners and good hygiene surrounding me, and I hope this is the last conference of this sort I have to attend. Should I have to come back again, I will get a room elsewhere to have privacy, quiet, and my own bathroom.
People are nasty, regardless of professional accomplishments.
People are disgusting, women especially. Our bathroom is foul, abosolutely foul. Hair all over, especially in the showers, filthy shower curtains, poor drainage system (especially with all the hair), soap left in the showers. It's nasty. Filthy sinks, filthy counters, filthy floors. Someone threw up the other day, and the entire bathroom reeked of it for hours. And here's an image: standing in the shower, with another's person's dirty water running over your feet. Uh huh. That happens. Nasty!
I went to use a shower the other day, and someone left a large clump of long black hair in the shower; she also left long black hairs on the wall, the soap she left on the floor, and even on the small shelf we have for our personal things. I was disgusted. I couldn't even go in there.
I don't understand what's wrong with people. Who considers it acceptable to shed a small animal in the shower and leave for someone else? Seriously?! How hard is it to pick up your soap remnants and throw them away? Wipe a counter? Clean up your hair or toothpaste dribbles in the sink? We are not staying in 5 star accomodations.
Another perplexing issue is the lack of consideration for others. The first night here, the two women next door talked loudly until one a.m. Did they not realize the rest of us were trying to sleep? I mean, the sun was down, the moon was up, what did they think the rest of us were doing? They also like to slam their door. They go to the bathroom, slam. They come back, slam. It's driving me nuts.
Then there is the party group. These folks have stayed up until 1 or 2 in the morning each night we've been here, drinking, whooping, and hollering. Their drunken voices echo across the quad and to the dorms. I'm glad I didn't go away to college to listen to drunk people scream at night. These are professionals; they have college degrees, they have important jobs, but they act like drunken college students. I guess being so far away from home gives them license to behave in unseemly ways.
The party group concludes around 2; the noisy women are up at 6. Most of us are averaging about four hours of sleep a night, which is not enough for what we need to accomplish over the course of the day. There is such a lack of manners and good hygiene surrounding me, and I hope this is the last conference of this sort I have to attend. Should I have to come back again, I will get a room elsewhere to have privacy, quiet, and my own bathroom.
People are nasty, regardless of professional accomplishments.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
My Nana
My grandmother, also known as Nana to us, was a first generation American. Her father was from Italy, and although her mother was born in Italy, she grew up in the US. While Nana wasn't a rocket scientist or an ardent feminist making significant contributions to society, she had a strength and perseverance I draw upon today.
My nana was one of eight children, and she was never one to back down from a fight. In fact, I suspect she liked nothing better than arguing for the sake of arguing. In many respects, she had a difficult child; her oldest brother died when she was a baby; her father was a rancher; she was a child of the Depression. She left school twice; the first time, eighth grade, she had whooping cough, from which she recovered. The second time, though, was tenth grade; she left to help support her family by working in a canning factory in their small town. She never went back.
She loved and respected her papa, my great-grandfather, so when he found a husband for her, she agreed to marry William. She was 20. William, or Bill as he was commonly known, was also a first generation American, and he married to please his parents. Nana and Bill settled in Cokedale, a small coalmining town west of Trinidad, Colorado, where Bill went to work in the mines. Nana's brother, Ralph, also worked in the mines, as well as a brother-in-law. My mother was born in this village, in a shack on a hillside that had no running water or electricity. Life was hard for Nana and Bill in the camp.
Although Bill wanted to join the military when WW2 started, he couldn't. What he could do, however, was move to Seattle and become a longshoreman. It was a well-paying job, and it helped the war effort. Nana and Mom followed once he was settled. From what I know of my grandparents, Nana was the extrovert, Bill was the introvert. She liked going out and partying with friends, while Bill preferred staying home. They fought frequently and loudly, Nana out-yelling Bill. By the end of the war, Nana and Bill divorced, a shocking act in the 1940s. Mom and Nana came back to Colorado, while Bill stayed in Washington for several more years.
Divorce 'stained' Nana, but she kept moving forward. Not even an hysterectomy at age 36 stopped her. However, her temper grew worse, and she began to take her frustrations out on my mom. Nana was a city girl who was born and raised in the country, and the life in a small town took a toll on her. By 1950, after being humiliated by a priest in church for being divorced, Nana decided to marry Pete, and ended up staying married to him for the next 54 years. Pete was a pervert and a horrible man, but my mom and I always thought that after causing her father disappointment over her first divorce, she didn't want to cause him any further pain or embarrassment with a second divorce. We never could figure out what she saw in him.
Nana and Pete moved to California in search of a better life in 1952, leaving my mom in Colorado with her grandparents. Nana wanted my mom to have a good education, so she kept her in Catholic school for 12 years, scrimping and saving to pay the tuition. She visited when she could, and she sent money when she could. However, by 1955, she wanted my mom in California with her, and so my mom moved to North Hollywood, where they were living, to complete her senior year.
Nana lived in poverty nearly all her life. She and Pete bought their first home in 1974; prior to that, she had always been a renter. Yet, as poor as they were, Nana delighted in grandchildren, bringing us kid treasures: slinkys, toys, bubble gum. I still have my first Pooh bear that Nana gave me when I was four. I slept with him for years. We never lacked for affection, love, or stuff where Nana was concerned.
What I most remember about her was her sense of fun. One night she decided she was going to teach me to blow bubbles with bubblegum. She brought home a large bag filled with gumballs, and our evening was spent chewing, flattening, molding, and blowing until I mastered bubbles. Nana favored bright red nail polish, so each time I spent the night, she painted my nails for me. When we stayed over, my brother could be pretty naughty, so Nana would go and "call my dad" to tell him what my brother was doing. We really believed she did that, until the night the phone rang while she was "talking to my dad." Actually, she'd go over, lift the receiver, pretend to dial, and then hold the buttons down so it just seemed like she was talking. Once it rang on her, she could never use that trick again.
Another night, Nana gave us flashlights, and we laid on her bed, flashing our lights on the ceiling and walls, learning how to make shadow puppets while she told us stories of her childhood. One story I will never forget involved a bear and her papa. Because their ranch was so far out of town, they had a hard time getting to school in the winter, so they had to go and stay with their grandmother Nucci. Nana and Grandma Nucci did not get along, so it sounded like time was pretty tough. One day, Nana saw her papa on horseback, coming to visit them, and he had a bear strapped to the horse. He knew his children needed meat, so he killed the bear and brought it for them to eat. Nana remembered the meat being gristly, greasy, and completely unpleasant to eat, but Grandma Nucci made her eat it.
My childhood was richer because of Nana. I have much more to say, especially this: I miss her every day.
My nana was one of eight children, and she was never one to back down from a fight. In fact, I suspect she liked nothing better than arguing for the sake of arguing. In many respects, she had a difficult child; her oldest brother died when she was a baby; her father was a rancher; she was a child of the Depression. She left school twice; the first time, eighth grade, she had whooping cough, from which she recovered. The second time, though, was tenth grade; she left to help support her family by working in a canning factory in their small town. She never went back.
She loved and respected her papa, my great-grandfather, so when he found a husband for her, she agreed to marry William. She was 20. William, or Bill as he was commonly known, was also a first generation American, and he married to please his parents. Nana and Bill settled in Cokedale, a small coalmining town west of Trinidad, Colorado, where Bill went to work in the mines. Nana's brother, Ralph, also worked in the mines, as well as a brother-in-law. My mother was born in this village, in a shack on a hillside that had no running water or electricity. Life was hard for Nana and Bill in the camp.
Although Bill wanted to join the military when WW2 started, he couldn't. What he could do, however, was move to Seattle and become a longshoreman. It was a well-paying job, and it helped the war effort. Nana and Mom followed once he was settled. From what I know of my grandparents, Nana was the extrovert, Bill was the introvert. She liked going out and partying with friends, while Bill preferred staying home. They fought frequently and loudly, Nana out-yelling Bill. By the end of the war, Nana and Bill divorced, a shocking act in the 1940s. Mom and Nana came back to Colorado, while Bill stayed in Washington for several more years.
Divorce 'stained' Nana, but she kept moving forward. Not even an hysterectomy at age 36 stopped her. However, her temper grew worse, and she began to take her frustrations out on my mom. Nana was a city girl who was born and raised in the country, and the life in a small town took a toll on her. By 1950, after being humiliated by a priest in church for being divorced, Nana decided to marry Pete, and ended up staying married to him for the next 54 years. Pete was a pervert and a horrible man, but my mom and I always thought that after causing her father disappointment over her first divorce, she didn't want to cause him any further pain or embarrassment with a second divorce. We never could figure out what she saw in him.
Nana and Pete moved to California in search of a better life in 1952, leaving my mom in Colorado with her grandparents. Nana wanted my mom to have a good education, so she kept her in Catholic school for 12 years, scrimping and saving to pay the tuition. She visited when she could, and she sent money when she could. However, by 1955, she wanted my mom in California with her, and so my mom moved to North Hollywood, where they were living, to complete her senior year.
Nana lived in poverty nearly all her life. She and Pete bought their first home in 1974; prior to that, she had always been a renter. Yet, as poor as they were, Nana delighted in grandchildren, bringing us kid treasures: slinkys, toys, bubble gum. I still have my first Pooh bear that Nana gave me when I was four. I slept with him for years. We never lacked for affection, love, or stuff where Nana was concerned.
What I most remember about her was her sense of fun. One night she decided she was going to teach me to blow bubbles with bubblegum. She brought home a large bag filled with gumballs, and our evening was spent chewing, flattening, molding, and blowing until I mastered bubbles. Nana favored bright red nail polish, so each time I spent the night, she painted my nails for me. When we stayed over, my brother could be pretty naughty, so Nana would go and "call my dad" to tell him what my brother was doing. We really believed she did that, until the night the phone rang while she was "talking to my dad." Actually, she'd go over, lift the receiver, pretend to dial, and then hold the buttons down so it just seemed like she was talking. Once it rang on her, she could never use that trick again.
Another night, Nana gave us flashlights, and we laid on her bed, flashing our lights on the ceiling and walls, learning how to make shadow puppets while she told us stories of her childhood. One story I will never forget involved a bear and her papa. Because their ranch was so far out of town, they had a hard time getting to school in the winter, so they had to go and stay with their grandmother Nucci. Nana and Grandma Nucci did not get along, so it sounded like time was pretty tough. One day, Nana saw her papa on horseback, coming to visit them, and he had a bear strapped to the horse. He knew his children needed meat, so he killed the bear and brought it for them to eat. Nana remembered the meat being gristly, greasy, and completely unpleasant to eat, but Grandma Nucci made her eat it.
My childhood was richer because of Nana. I have much more to say, especially this: I miss her every day.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Re-do
One constant in life is the fact that mistakes will be made; it's only a matter of time. Regardless of best intentions, something might go wrong.
In fact, something went wrong this week; a mistake was made. As I wrote in my last post, I went to New Mexico on Monday, intent on learning more about assessment in IB. However, after a couple of hours in my class, I showed my teacher what I will teach, and I found out I was in the wrong class.
Asking around confirmed my suspicions; I was enrolled in the wrong class. Now, I could have gotten mad. I could have been nasty to people; I could have even insulted the gal who registered me for the class. But I chose not to do so. Why? Because it was a mistake, an honest mistake. Mistakes happen, and we can choose our response.
I came home last night, an exhausting six hours on the road. But it's nice to be home, and it's nice to know we are all fallible. We all make mistakes. None of us is perfect. What fun would it be to be perfect?
So next Monday I head back to New Mexico to attend the correct conference. I learned this week that I need to choose my attitude about everything, including being separated from my family for a week. I dreaded this conference because I'm not a social butterfly and because I don't like sharing rooms and bathrooms with strangers. However, by choosing my attitude, I can have a good time and enjoy the experience.
There are times when mistakes come with "re-dos," and this is definitely one of those times. I don't feel horrible about what happened, but I know to be more careful in the future; I know that I can drive 630 miles in 24 hours and survive, and I know that second chances can be blessings.
In fact, something went wrong this week; a mistake was made. As I wrote in my last post, I went to New Mexico on Monday, intent on learning more about assessment in IB. However, after a couple of hours in my class, I showed my teacher what I will teach, and I found out I was in the wrong class.
Asking around confirmed my suspicions; I was enrolled in the wrong class. Now, I could have gotten mad. I could have been nasty to people; I could have even insulted the gal who registered me for the class. But I chose not to do so. Why? Because it was a mistake, an honest mistake. Mistakes happen, and we can choose our response.
I came home last night, an exhausting six hours on the road. But it's nice to be home, and it's nice to know we are all fallible. We all make mistakes. None of us is perfect. What fun would it be to be perfect?
So next Monday I head back to New Mexico to attend the correct conference. I learned this week that I need to choose my attitude about everything, including being separated from my family for a week. I dreaded this conference because I'm not a social butterfly and because I don't like sharing rooms and bathrooms with strangers. However, by choosing my attitude, I can have a good time and enjoy the experience.
There are times when mistakes come with "re-dos," and this is definitely one of those times. I don't feel horrible about what happened, but I know to be more careful in the future; I know that I can drive 630 miles in 24 hours and survive, and I know that second chances can be blessings.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Flying free
Putting gas in my car today, I watched two majestic birds flying above the parking lot. Their wings widespread as they glided on air currents, occasionally flapping their wings, rising high into the air, circling, circling. I gazed at them until I could no longer see them, and then my thoughts turned to the trip I was about to take.
I'm in New Mexico, at a conference I initially wanted to attend with my teaching partner. He backed out, however, two weeks ago, and I'm solo. I've been pretty mad at him and about having to drive down here by myself. I missed the beauty of the situation.
At each stop, I saw different birds, wings outstretched, soaring, gliding, dipping, and climbing on air currents. I was enthralled with their grace, their beauty, their independence.
Because so many birds along my trip were engaging in the same behaviors, I starting thinking about independence and freedom. Much like the birds I watched, I too spread my wings, glided on air currents, and soared as I drove to New Mexico. Twenty years ago, I thought nothing of hopping in my car and driving somewhere for the weekend. I would push myself to see how far I could drive without stopping or how fast I could go. I didn't worry about speed traps or tickets, I enjoyed the freedom of the drive.
I drive long distances so rarely anymore, I have forgotten what it's like to be by myself in a vehicle. I sang to my favorite songs, talked to myself, and thought...thought...thought. I was flying free.
While my social awkwardness will prohibit me from making a companion this week, I'm okay. I will enjoy my freedom from domesticity and my independence. I have my own vehicle; I can go where I wish. I can do what I want. And while I will miss my family terribly, I will continue to fly free, to recapture a part of the me from 20 years ago.
I'm in New Mexico, at a conference I initially wanted to attend with my teaching partner. He backed out, however, two weeks ago, and I'm solo. I've been pretty mad at him and about having to drive down here by myself. I missed the beauty of the situation.
At each stop, I saw different birds, wings outstretched, soaring, gliding, dipping, and climbing on air currents. I was enthralled with their grace, their beauty, their independence.
Because so many birds along my trip were engaging in the same behaviors, I starting thinking about independence and freedom. Much like the birds I watched, I too spread my wings, glided on air currents, and soared as I drove to New Mexico. Twenty years ago, I thought nothing of hopping in my car and driving somewhere for the weekend. I would push myself to see how far I could drive without stopping or how fast I could go. I didn't worry about speed traps or tickets, I enjoyed the freedom of the drive.
I drive long distances so rarely anymore, I have forgotten what it's like to be by myself in a vehicle. I sang to my favorite songs, talked to myself, and thought...thought...thought. I was flying free.
While my social awkwardness will prohibit me from making a companion this week, I'm okay. I will enjoy my freedom from domesticity and my independence. I have my own vehicle; I can go where I wish. I can do what I want. And while I will miss my family terribly, I will continue to fly free, to recapture a part of the me from 20 years ago.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Camping at the Reservoir
Camping at a reservoir can be a great deal of fun. The water is near for swimming or fishing; the park is generally well-maintained; and the campsites can hold us, our pop up camper, and our pickup. One problem I see with camping, however, has to do with other campers.
To wit: we went camping this weekend at the reservoir, and while there were some problems with our reservations, we ended up with a nice spot. It was near the bathrooms and had some shade. We also had a nice view of the lake, which was in walking distance. Perfect, right?
No, somehow we usually end up near those campers who can't define consideration nor who have ever heard of it. In fact, this has happened so frequently over the last several years, we can usually identify what types of problems we might have with our neighbors. The first clue is how much Bud Light they have with them. For example, a case or a suitcase indicates at least one night of rowdiness. When they loudly announce they're running into to town for more beer, we could have at least two night of noise.
Another way we can tell is how quickly we learn the names of the children they have with them. If we know "Lance" and "Bubba" by the time the pop up is set up and we're sitting in our camping chairs, we know we'll be listening to the folks yell, cuss, and scold those kids. Additionally, the sheer number of vehicles attached to a site helps us. One to two vehicles, we'll probably have some peace. Four to five vehicles, we're going to cut our camping trip short.
The last way we can identify problem neighbors is, of course, music. When they bring out the radio, we know we'll be listening to their music until 11 pm or later. Usually it's country music or rock 'n'roll, but it's still going to be loud. Depending on how much Bud they drink, they'll most likely think they're singers and serenade us as well.
We've had camping neighbors with barking dogs that seldom stop barking. Kids who scream until 11 pm or later. Neighbors drinking beer, smoking dope, and playing their music loudly while their kids sleep in their camper. Folks who cut through our campsite while we're sitting there. Those who set off their car alarms at 1 am. We even had some campers once who were partying hearty and shooting off guns.
We have been known to ask neighbors to quiet down, but now it seems like we never know how they'll react so we have begun to take other measures. I, for example, am stocked with earplugs, which really help. We've also started allowing our son to stay up late so he'll be too tired to hear the neighbors, falling quickly asleep. My husband doesn't have a problem falling asleep, regardless of noise, so I don't worry about him.
I guess what I don't understand is the "why" of this issue. Why do folks go camping in a campground, thinking it's okay to yell, get drunk, play music loudly, smoke dope, and shoot guns?? Although state parks have rangers on patrol, other campgrounds have campground hosts, and while a small part of their job is to help maintain the peace, they often don't want any trouble and will avoid dealing with these campers. We work hard to afford our camping trips and pay our fees; we have taught our son to be respectful while in campgrounds, not to cut through other occupied spots or shine his flashlight on others' tents or campers. When we play music, it's softly. We go are quiet during 'quiet hours.'
I guess this rudeness on the parts of other campers is simply a continuation of the rudeness people exhibit when they aren't camping. We thought by going during off-times like weeks rather than weekends, we'd avoid these types of folks. But we haven't. While this abominable behavior puts a damper on our fun, we are also learning to cope. I think it's good for my son to understand how to take a bad situation and make it good.
But I wish those people would stay home.
To wit: we went camping this weekend at the reservoir, and while there were some problems with our reservations, we ended up with a nice spot. It was near the bathrooms and had some shade. We also had a nice view of the lake, which was in walking distance. Perfect, right?
No, somehow we usually end up near those campers who can't define consideration nor who have ever heard of it. In fact, this has happened so frequently over the last several years, we can usually identify what types of problems we might have with our neighbors. The first clue is how much Bud Light they have with them. For example, a case or a suitcase indicates at least one night of rowdiness. When they loudly announce they're running into to town for more beer, we could have at least two night of noise.
Another way we can tell is how quickly we learn the names of the children they have with them. If we know "Lance" and "Bubba" by the time the pop up is set up and we're sitting in our camping chairs, we know we'll be listening to the folks yell, cuss, and scold those kids. Additionally, the sheer number of vehicles attached to a site helps us. One to two vehicles, we'll probably have some peace. Four to five vehicles, we're going to cut our camping trip short.
The last way we can identify problem neighbors is, of course, music. When they bring out the radio, we know we'll be listening to their music until 11 pm or later. Usually it's country music or rock 'n'roll, but it's still going to be loud. Depending on how much Bud they drink, they'll most likely think they're singers and serenade us as well.
We've had camping neighbors with barking dogs that seldom stop barking. Kids who scream until 11 pm or later. Neighbors drinking beer, smoking dope, and playing their music loudly while their kids sleep in their camper. Folks who cut through our campsite while we're sitting there. Those who set off their car alarms at 1 am. We even had some campers once who were partying hearty and shooting off guns.
We have been known to ask neighbors to quiet down, but now it seems like we never know how they'll react so we have begun to take other measures. I, for example, am stocked with earplugs, which really help. We've also started allowing our son to stay up late so he'll be too tired to hear the neighbors, falling quickly asleep. My husband doesn't have a problem falling asleep, regardless of noise, so I don't worry about him.
I guess what I don't understand is the "why" of this issue. Why do folks go camping in a campground, thinking it's okay to yell, get drunk, play music loudly, smoke dope, and shoot guns?? Although state parks have rangers on patrol, other campgrounds have campground hosts, and while a small part of their job is to help maintain the peace, they often don't want any trouble and will avoid dealing with these campers. We work hard to afford our camping trips and pay our fees; we have taught our son to be respectful while in campgrounds, not to cut through other occupied spots or shine his flashlight on others' tents or campers. When we play music, it's softly. We go are quiet during 'quiet hours.'
I guess this rudeness on the parts of other campers is simply a continuation of the rudeness people exhibit when they aren't camping. We thought by going during off-times like weeks rather than weekends, we'd avoid these types of folks. But we haven't. While this abominable behavior puts a damper on our fun, we are also learning to cope. I think it's good for my son to understand how to take a bad situation and make it good.
But I wish those people would stay home.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
When I was newly pregnant, I did everything I could to take care of myself, but I ultimately ended up on bedrest. Those hours, days, and weeks were hard, and what made everything harder was that my mother was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Her oncologist suggested that she participate in a study, and her treatment was aggressive.
I struggled with anxiety and depression over my situation; each appointment, my doctors would say, "You're doing great! If you can make it to 24 weeks (or 28 or 32) baby might have a chance." While I was glad to do well, I was also anxious about whether or not I would be able to hold onto my baby. My mother's illness compounded my stress; she would call me, wailing about the shots she was about to get or just had, talking about how she wanted to die, and wondering why God was keeping her alive. To add more stress to an already stressful time, my best friend would call me each day, complaining about everyting. I eventually dreaded the ringing of the phone because it was either my mother or my friend. My husband was seldom around because of work, and my inlaws were less than supportive during this time.
My son was born healthy and normal. I was proud of myself for carrying him to term, and I was proud of him because he was so beautiful. But over the past few years, he's begun to develop some personality traits that make me think I didn't do as good of a job as I thought I did.
I think my son is depressed; he makes comments about how no one likes him and he has no friends. He's been doing this since he was about five. He considers himself fat, and he dislikes his body. What really worries me is that I might have passed my depression and anxiety during pregnancy onto him. My mother kept warning me to have a good attitude or else he would be affected in utero by my mental state. I tried hard to enjoy as much of my pregnancy as possible and to be happy, but now I wonder about him. His school counselor asked if my pregnancy had been traumatic, which it had, and now I fear I may have negatively impacted his mental development.
While depression runs in my family and in my husband's family, I know I have to watch for signs in my son. I'm growing increasingly concerned about his mental state, and I am considering taking him to a counselor to help him.
I feel that I have failed my son, and yet my intentions were good. Something feels off to me about him, and I can't decide if it's my own paranoia or if it's real.
I struggled with anxiety and depression over my situation; each appointment, my doctors would say, "You're doing great! If you can make it to 24 weeks (or 28 or 32) baby might have a chance." While I was glad to do well, I was also anxious about whether or not I would be able to hold onto my baby. My mother's illness compounded my stress; she would call me, wailing about the shots she was about to get or just had, talking about how she wanted to die, and wondering why God was keeping her alive. To add more stress to an already stressful time, my best friend would call me each day, complaining about everyting. I eventually dreaded the ringing of the phone because it was either my mother or my friend. My husband was seldom around because of work, and my inlaws were less than supportive during this time.
My son was born healthy and normal. I was proud of myself for carrying him to term, and I was proud of him because he was so beautiful. But over the past few years, he's begun to develop some personality traits that make me think I didn't do as good of a job as I thought I did.
I think my son is depressed; he makes comments about how no one likes him and he has no friends. He's been doing this since he was about five. He considers himself fat, and he dislikes his body. What really worries me is that I might have passed my depression and anxiety during pregnancy onto him. My mother kept warning me to have a good attitude or else he would be affected in utero by my mental state. I tried hard to enjoy as much of my pregnancy as possible and to be happy, but now I wonder about him. His school counselor asked if my pregnancy had been traumatic, which it had, and now I fear I may have negatively impacted his mental development.
While depression runs in my family and in my husband's family, I know I have to watch for signs in my son. I'm growing increasingly concerned about his mental state, and I am considering taking him to a counselor to help him.
I feel that I have failed my son, and yet my intentions were good. Something feels off to me about him, and I can't decide if it's my own paranoia or if it's real.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
To my first teacher of womanhood
Vacuum in hand I attack
all
examples of humananimal habitation
as I suck up hair-skin-dirt
the detritus
of life. I think of you, my first teacher
of cleanliness of womanhood
my introduction
Some thirty-odd years ago as I took hold
of that mechanical symbol of womanhood
the vacuum.
I like(d) its noise, drowning out the world
I like(d) its perfunctory-back and forth-motion
its orderliness
As it makes self-created symmetrical lines.
I stand here vacuuming, thinking on you
missing you wishing for one lucid moment
where
I could pour out my heart to you
to say what was left unsaid
I
want you to know I love(d) you.
Only through your death I think I understand
you
and the complicated mother/daughter relationship
we had. You, my first teacher of cleanliness
of womanhood
I remember
Vacuum in hand, straight lines in the carpet,
Cleanliness and womanhood symbiotically joines
by a plug.
copyright 2011
all
examples of humananimal habitation
as I suck up hair-skin-dirt
the detritus
of life. I think of you, my first teacher
of cleanliness of womanhood
my introduction
Some thirty-odd years ago as I took hold
of that mechanical symbol of womanhood
the vacuum.
I like(d) its noise, drowning out the world
I like(d) its perfunctory-back and forth-motion
its orderliness
As it makes self-created symmetrical lines.
I stand here vacuuming, thinking on you
missing you wishing for one lucid moment
where
I could pour out my heart to you
to say what was left unsaid
I
want you to know I love(d) you.
Only through your death I think I understand
you
and the complicated mother/daughter relationship
we had. You, my first teacher of cleanliness
of womanhood
I remember
Vacuum in hand, straight lines in the carpet,
Cleanliness and womanhood symbiotically joines
by a plug.
copyright 2011
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Sands through the hourglass
It's warm today, the nice kind of warm where we can sit outside in comfort. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves on the trees, providing us greater comfort. Summer has begun.
In the distnace I can hear birds tweeting and trilling, dogs barking and howling, airplanes overhead. All of these sounds pale in comparison to the sound of pages turning quickly beside me. My son has decided to reread his Hardy Boy books, and he's devouring them like they're dessert.
While we can hear the burbling of the hot tub as it waits for us to get in, we can/t. My son with his fractured arm, me with my lasik-enhanced eyes. Neither of us can go near the water.
We've played the "what do you want to do game," but neither can agree. He wants to ride his bike, I want to go shopping. He wants to play Monopoly, but I want to side outside. Really, the time to relax is nice.
I love how he scoots his chair next to me; he's crawled in bed the last couple of mornings to cuddle. I treasure each of these small gestures, storing them to recall when he's no longer interested in hanging out with me. Until his broke his arm, he wasn't interested in spening much time with me, and we had already begun to plan what he'd do. But now, he's my little prisoner, at least for a few days.
I never thought, when he was a baby and I was too tired from working and earniing another degree, that our time together would run out. It's like watching the sand in an hourglass run out; I'm watching his childhood run out, and it seems to run faster and faster as he grows older.
So whle our summer hasn't been exceptionally thrilling to this point, it's been good. We're together, and that's all that matters.
In the distnace I can hear birds tweeting and trilling, dogs barking and howling, airplanes overhead. All of these sounds pale in comparison to the sound of pages turning quickly beside me. My son has decided to reread his Hardy Boy books, and he's devouring them like they're dessert.
While we can hear the burbling of the hot tub as it waits for us to get in, we can/t. My son with his fractured arm, me with my lasik-enhanced eyes. Neither of us can go near the water.
We've played the "what do you want to do game," but neither can agree. He wants to ride his bike, I want to go shopping. He wants to play Monopoly, but I want to side outside. Really, the time to relax is nice.
I love how he scoots his chair next to me; he's crawled in bed the last couple of mornings to cuddle. I treasure each of these small gestures, storing them to recall when he's no longer interested in hanging out with me. Until his broke his arm, he wasn't interested in spening much time with me, and we had already begun to plan what he'd do. But now, he's my little prisoner, at least for a few days.
I never thought, when he was a baby and I was too tired from working and earniing another degree, that our time together would run out. It's like watching the sand in an hourglass run out; I'm watching his childhood run out, and it seems to run faster and faster as he grows older.
So whle our summer hasn't been exceptionally thrilling to this point, it's been good. We're together, and that's all that matters.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
The Pink Bowl
When I was a child, my mother constantly used a pink Pyrex bowl she had received as a wedding present. We used it as a mixing bowl, a salad bowl, and a pasta bowl. As we grew older and found "newer and better" bowls for her, we give them to her and she'd use them a few times. And then they would be relegated to the bowl cabinet and out would come the pink bowl again.
After 44 years, the paint is faded and scratched in places, but it is still in amazing shape. I've been thinking about the bowl a lot lately, and I know that someday I would like it.
Naturally, my desire for this bowl has little to do with its usefulness, although its multi-purposefulness would come in handy. Instead, I have the memories associated with it, those same memories that wash over me frequently. Happy times, sad times, angry times. The bowl seemed to be the center of our dinnertime, although I didn't realize it as a child.
I find myself missing those happier times. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's my situation. I know that there were some wonderful times we had as a family, prior to moving from California.
Summers were spent at the pool. My mother was afraid of water, so she'd sit on the other side of the pool fence with her chair, her book, and her cool drink, watching us cavort in the pool with our friends. I'm sure today her behavior would be considered neglect, but in the 1970s, she wasn't the only mom sitting outside the fence. We ate salads galore during those hot summer months, often out of the pink bowl. I find myself making different salads as the days grow hot, replicating my childhood, just with fancier salads.
Winters in California were spent in the yard, playing soccer, riding bikes, tossing a baseball, and suppers, when my father was home, often consisted of pastas, stews, roasts, mostly served in the pink bowl. My mother liked to bake, and the pink bowl became a mixing bowl for chocolate chip cookies or, our favorite, peanut butter cookies. We'd stick our filthy hands into the bowl when she wasn't looking and scoop out some dough, popping it into our mouths, trying to look innocent.
Now, in my forties, the pink bowl symbolizes my mother and my youth. I don't want to seem greedy and ask my father for it, but I know one day it'll have a special spot in my own cabinet.
After 44 years, the paint is faded and scratched in places, but it is still in amazing shape. I've been thinking about the bowl a lot lately, and I know that someday I would like it.
Naturally, my desire for this bowl has little to do with its usefulness, although its multi-purposefulness would come in handy. Instead, I have the memories associated with it, those same memories that wash over me frequently. Happy times, sad times, angry times. The bowl seemed to be the center of our dinnertime, although I didn't realize it as a child.
I find myself missing those happier times. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's my situation. I know that there were some wonderful times we had as a family, prior to moving from California.
Summers were spent at the pool. My mother was afraid of water, so she'd sit on the other side of the pool fence with her chair, her book, and her cool drink, watching us cavort in the pool with our friends. I'm sure today her behavior would be considered neglect, but in the 1970s, she wasn't the only mom sitting outside the fence. We ate salads galore during those hot summer months, often out of the pink bowl. I find myself making different salads as the days grow hot, replicating my childhood, just with fancier salads.
Winters in California were spent in the yard, playing soccer, riding bikes, tossing a baseball, and suppers, when my father was home, often consisted of pastas, stews, roasts, mostly served in the pink bowl. My mother liked to bake, and the pink bowl became a mixing bowl for chocolate chip cookies or, our favorite, peanut butter cookies. We'd stick our filthy hands into the bowl when she wasn't looking and scoop out some dough, popping it into our mouths, trying to look innocent.
Now, in my forties, the pink bowl symbolizes my mother and my youth. I don't want to seem greedy and ask my father for it, but I know one day it'll have a special spot in my own cabinet.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Summer vacation, so far
It has arrived! Summer! Lazy days at the parks or at the pools. Evening walks with my husband and the dog. Bike rides. Laying on chaise lounges, watching clouds pass by. Sounds delightful! But...and there's always a but...
Summer has, so far, consisted of doctor's appointments for my son and me. Lasik for me, a broken arm for my son. Dreams of the pool...dashed! Bikes rides...dashed! Guitar lessons...dashed! Granted, I know I don't sound sympathetic, which is only partially true. I do feel for him, on one level. I know the discomfort of a cast. However, a broken arm is a hard lesson for him to learn, especially when it's an "I told you so" lesson.
My classroom does not have traditional desks. Instead, we have tables that seat two people. Each time my son is in my room, he asks to walk on the tables. This last time, regardless of how often I told him no, he was determined to walk on the desks. All went well until he tipped one over and landed on his wrist. And now it's broken.
While I'm writing this, he's inside having a pity party. What is it with boys? Why don't they listen to their mothers? Why do they have to find out things the hard (and usually expensive)way? I have this fantasy that he'll learn from this experience, but I know he won't. Instead, he'll remain my lovable, stubborn, and argumentative son, the one who must learn the hard way .
Summer has, so far, consisted of doctor's appointments for my son and me. Lasik for me, a broken arm for my son. Dreams of the pool...dashed! Bikes rides...dashed! Guitar lessons...dashed! Granted, I know I don't sound sympathetic, which is only partially true. I do feel for him, on one level. I know the discomfort of a cast. However, a broken arm is a hard lesson for him to learn, especially when it's an "I told you so" lesson.
My classroom does not have traditional desks. Instead, we have tables that seat two people. Each time my son is in my room, he asks to walk on the tables. This last time, regardless of how often I told him no, he was determined to walk on the desks. All went well until he tipped one over and landed on his wrist. And now it's broken.
While I'm writing this, he's inside having a pity party. What is it with boys? Why don't they listen to their mothers? Why do they have to find out things the hard (and usually expensive)way? I have this fantasy that he'll learn from this experience, but I know he won't. Instead, he'll remain my lovable, stubborn, and argumentative son, the one who must learn the hard way .
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Leaving the nest
It's May, which means students are graduating from high school and college, moving forward with the next phase of their lives. I find May a difficult month; granted, seniors in high school are terribly difficult and annoying this last month of school, but it's hard to say goodbye, especially to those students I've nurtured and loved for the past four years. It's hard because IF they come and visit they are no longer the same person they once were--and they shouldn't be! But our meetings are slightly more awkward, and sometimes I don't like who they've become.
As the seniors' last day arrived, I found myself weepy. I can usually say goodbye, granted roughly and without much grace, but I don't cry. This year I had to say goodbye to my advisement class, students I have had every other day for the past four years. And that was far tougher than I imagined.
I clearly remember the day the freshmen arrived and met with their Link Crew Leaders, older students who volunteer to help freshmen navigate through their first year of high school. One student, on her way out, wished me luck with the group, and I walked in to find a few student wreaking havoc on the room. These same students, Cal and Dan, made life miserable for all of us for the remainder of freshmen year. I would bring food, and they would make a mess. They threw candy and gum in corners of the room. Dan even would leave freshly chewed gum under his desk, including when he was a junior.
At the same time, I had bright spots. Shelly, a geeky young girl with a passion for flourescent colors and singing, was someone who wanted to keep to herself, so I talked and talked to her, coaxing her out of her shell. James and Camden were also geeky young me, but they smiled and greeted me each morning cheerfully. Leslie concerned me; she dressed provocatively at 14 and I knew she would have a baby before her senior year, which happened. But she was nice and treated me with respect. Madison was sweet, but she sadly grew obnoxious under the influence of students like Cal and Dan, and we ended four years later, not speaking to one another.
Sophomore year was no better. While Cal transferred out of my advisement class, he often would pop in and disrupt the group. Ultimately, he decided to attend another school, which didn't necessarily improve our class. Dan and Stacy began to act up, disrupting and disrespecting me and the other students. I had to stop one young man from hitting Dan, which was hard because Dan deserved to get smacked. Students were put into the class, and then they would leave the class, changing our numbers and dynamics. Through it all, I had my core group of students who treated me well: Shelly, James, Camden, Carla, Leslie, and Harry.
By junior year, I had had it with Dan. He was hateful, and while his parents, Dan, and I all tried to remove him from my class, our administration thought the problem was with me and refused to transfer him elsewhere. He was horrible, hateful, and if we didn't play a sport to his specifications, he would throw the game and cause us to lose. We came to blows in March of their junior year. I told him he wasn't playing a game, and he told me to get out of his face, he had more important people to talk to. I took him to the office, where he continued to mouth off and disrespect me in front of administrators, who still thought this situation was my fault. It wasn't until Dan mouthed off to a female administrator that I was exonerated and he was moved elsewhere. Stacy, too, wanted out of the class, and she was moved as well. Finally, we had a good group.
Our senior year was our best year. We began with 28 or 29 kids as freshmen, but we ended up with 17. A couple of kids had joined our class over the past two years, adding humor and intelligence to the group. We actually could play as a team and have fun, and we even won a few games! We enjoyed hanging out with one another, talking about problems, families, and school. So it was no surprise when, on the last day, I cried. After four years and several problem students, we bonded together, we were a little family.
And now our little family has left the nest. I wish them well and will certainly miss them.
As the seniors' last day arrived, I found myself weepy. I can usually say goodbye, granted roughly and without much grace, but I don't cry. This year I had to say goodbye to my advisement class, students I have had every other day for the past four years. And that was far tougher than I imagined.
I clearly remember the day the freshmen arrived and met with their Link Crew Leaders, older students who volunteer to help freshmen navigate through their first year of high school. One student, on her way out, wished me luck with the group, and I walked in to find a few student wreaking havoc on the room. These same students, Cal and Dan, made life miserable for all of us for the remainder of freshmen year. I would bring food, and they would make a mess. They threw candy and gum in corners of the room. Dan even would leave freshly chewed gum under his desk, including when he was a junior.
At the same time, I had bright spots. Shelly, a geeky young girl with a passion for flourescent colors and singing, was someone who wanted to keep to herself, so I talked and talked to her, coaxing her out of her shell. James and Camden were also geeky young me, but they smiled and greeted me each morning cheerfully. Leslie concerned me; she dressed provocatively at 14 and I knew she would have a baby before her senior year, which happened. But she was nice and treated me with respect. Madison was sweet, but she sadly grew obnoxious under the influence of students like Cal and Dan, and we ended four years later, not speaking to one another.
Sophomore year was no better. While Cal transferred out of my advisement class, he often would pop in and disrupt the group. Ultimately, he decided to attend another school, which didn't necessarily improve our class. Dan and Stacy began to act up, disrupting and disrespecting me and the other students. I had to stop one young man from hitting Dan, which was hard because Dan deserved to get smacked. Students were put into the class, and then they would leave the class, changing our numbers and dynamics. Through it all, I had my core group of students who treated me well: Shelly, James, Camden, Carla, Leslie, and Harry.
By junior year, I had had it with Dan. He was hateful, and while his parents, Dan, and I all tried to remove him from my class, our administration thought the problem was with me and refused to transfer him elsewhere. He was horrible, hateful, and if we didn't play a sport to his specifications, he would throw the game and cause us to lose. We came to blows in March of their junior year. I told him he wasn't playing a game, and he told me to get out of his face, he had more important people to talk to. I took him to the office, where he continued to mouth off and disrespect me in front of administrators, who still thought this situation was my fault. It wasn't until Dan mouthed off to a female administrator that I was exonerated and he was moved elsewhere. Stacy, too, wanted out of the class, and she was moved as well. Finally, we had a good group.
Our senior year was our best year. We began with 28 or 29 kids as freshmen, but we ended up with 17. A couple of kids had joined our class over the past two years, adding humor and intelligence to the group. We actually could play as a team and have fun, and we even won a few games! We enjoyed hanging out with one another, talking about problems, families, and school. So it was no surprise when, on the last day, I cried. After four years and several problem students, we bonded together, we were a little family.
And now our little family has left the nest. I wish them well and will certainly miss them.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Loathing the end of the semester
It is that time of year again; temperatures vary, flowers bloom, lovely breezes, and...the end of the semester. I've come to hate the end of the semester/year. Teachers are cranky and tired, students are frisky and ready to be finished with their school year. The combination causes stupidity to rise and grades to fall.
I am currently teaching one of the lowest performing groups I've taught over the course of my career, and I am really blue about it. They ditch classes, they are frequently absent (excused, of course) or tardy, and then they are surprised when they begin to fail a class. Regardless of how easy it is to communicate with teachers, students play the "fool," surprised to know anything happened while they were gone, shocked that a teacher expects an absent student to contact them. I'm most frustrated with how many students regularly have "migraines." Come to find out, it's an excuse they're using now to miss class.
What has happened to this generation of students? Why do they not care about their education? Even my own son doesn't care nearly as much about school as his father and I did when we were in fourth grade. I understand that high school, developmentally, is a social time for teenagers, and I understand that academics isn't as high a priority for them. What I don't understand is where their parents are; why are their parents allowing their lackadaisical attitude to persist?
Pundits happily blame teachers for a lack of student achievement, but what about considering students and parents as well? I have emailed more parents this year than in previous years, and I've had fewer responses from parents than I expected. It's almost as though they seem to feel it's not their job to parent or enforce rules. More parents enable their children in terms of absenteeism, not completing work, and not making up work. They too are surprised when they find out their child cannot make up work from several months prior. I don't quite grasp that logic. It seems to me that the professional world has deadlines that aren't usually extended and expectations for employees that are upheld.
I'm told that I'm preparing students for the 21st century, for careers that haven't been invented yet. I feel the pressure to make sure all my students are proficient in English and have a sense of responsibility. I feel like I'm doing my part. When will parents and students do their parts?
I am currently teaching one of the lowest performing groups I've taught over the course of my career, and I am really blue about it. They ditch classes, they are frequently absent (excused, of course) or tardy, and then they are surprised when they begin to fail a class. Regardless of how easy it is to communicate with teachers, students play the "fool," surprised to know anything happened while they were gone, shocked that a teacher expects an absent student to contact them. I'm most frustrated with how many students regularly have "migraines." Come to find out, it's an excuse they're using now to miss class.
What has happened to this generation of students? Why do they not care about their education? Even my own son doesn't care nearly as much about school as his father and I did when we were in fourth grade. I understand that high school, developmentally, is a social time for teenagers, and I understand that academics isn't as high a priority for them. What I don't understand is where their parents are; why are their parents allowing their lackadaisical attitude to persist?
Pundits happily blame teachers for a lack of student achievement, but what about considering students and parents as well? I have emailed more parents this year than in previous years, and I've had fewer responses from parents than I expected. It's almost as though they seem to feel it's not their job to parent or enforce rules. More parents enable their children in terms of absenteeism, not completing work, and not making up work. They too are surprised when they find out their child cannot make up work from several months prior. I don't quite grasp that logic. It seems to me that the professional world has deadlines that aren't usually extended and expectations for employees that are upheld.
I'm told that I'm preparing students for the 21st century, for careers that haven't been invented yet. I feel the pressure to make sure all my students are proficient in English and have a sense of responsibility. I feel like I'm doing my part. When will parents and students do their parts?
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Disappointing my mom
I've spent my entire life in fear of disappointing my mother. As a child, I tried to be really good, beyond expectation, because I wanted my mom's approval. When she said, "Don't...", I didn't. When she said, "Do...", I did. I knew her household expectations of me and fulfilled them to the best--or close to the best--of my abilities. I hated her disapproval. With one look, she could wither me, and I would spend the next several days, or more, trying to win back her good graces.
Recently, I've had dreams in which my mom appears, but she is deeply disappointed and frustrated with me. She gives me "the look," uses "the sigh," and martyrs herself for whatever it is I haven't done. I wake up, filled with angst, bewildered, and sad that at my ripe old age, I can't please my deceased mother.
I know many women who feel as I do; it is important to please our mothers. Guys don't seem to have that same stress on them. Maybe they do; maybe they strive their entire lives to please their fathers. I don't know. Why is it innate for us women to work so hard to please the woman who birthed us?
I've been trying to sort out my feelings. Do I have guilt over my mom's death? I don't know why I should. Is this desire to please my mom so deeply rooted that it's leaking into my dream, reminding me of my deficiencies? I'm sure there is some deep psychological reason for my disturbing dreams and my anxiety around not pleasing my mother.
The hardest part is that most of my anxiety dreams center on her displeasure with my treatment of my father. He's always getting ready to go somewhere with her, and she's angry with me for not taking better care of him. I think that's my own guilt bubbling to the surface of my conscience. I don't think I am taking good care of my father, even though he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. I have a husband, child, and dog to care for as well. And I work full time as does my father. Really, it almost seems as though my father is working until he dies. I've made suggestions of what he can do and where he can go, but he wants to stay home. We have coffee once a week, and I try to have him for dinner once a week as well.
Inevitably, though, the guilt from which I have suffered my entire life hangs over me. I am not doing enough that is right, or so it seems. I can't seemingly organize myself to do all I feel that I need to do. My mom died with me knowing I was a huge disappointment to her, and I think that belief of mine affects me deeply, more deeply than I thought.
How does one recover from perpetual guilt?
Recently, I've had dreams in which my mom appears, but she is deeply disappointed and frustrated with me. She gives me "the look," uses "the sigh," and martyrs herself for whatever it is I haven't done. I wake up, filled with angst, bewildered, and sad that at my ripe old age, I can't please my deceased mother.
I know many women who feel as I do; it is important to please our mothers. Guys don't seem to have that same stress on them. Maybe they do; maybe they strive their entire lives to please their fathers. I don't know. Why is it innate for us women to work so hard to please the woman who birthed us?
I've been trying to sort out my feelings. Do I have guilt over my mom's death? I don't know why I should. Is this desire to please my mom so deeply rooted that it's leaking into my dream, reminding me of my deficiencies? I'm sure there is some deep psychological reason for my disturbing dreams and my anxiety around not pleasing my mother.
The hardest part is that most of my anxiety dreams center on her displeasure with my treatment of my father. He's always getting ready to go somewhere with her, and she's angry with me for not taking better care of him. I think that's my own guilt bubbling to the surface of my conscience. I don't think I am taking good care of my father, even though he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. I have a husband, child, and dog to care for as well. And I work full time as does my father. Really, it almost seems as though my father is working until he dies. I've made suggestions of what he can do and where he can go, but he wants to stay home. We have coffee once a week, and I try to have him for dinner once a week as well.
Inevitably, though, the guilt from which I have suffered my entire life hangs over me. I am not doing enough that is right, or so it seems. I can't seemingly organize myself to do all I feel that I need to do. My mom died with me knowing I was a huge disappointment to her, and I think that belief of mine affects me deeply, more deeply than I thought.
How does one recover from perpetual guilt?
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Bullies
People pay great lip service to overcoming bullies and bullying; schools have "bullying prevention programs," but the reality is that bullying occurs each day, in schools and in varing professions. My own son is currently being bullied, which reminds me of the bullying I experienced in school. I'm having difficulty in remaining an objective guide throughout this experience. Eventually, this is what I want him to know:
Dear Son,
I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about the names you're being called. I have been called those names for years. Each one is like a knife, puncturing my skin, leaving another scar. In addition to "fatty," "fatso," and "fat ass," I have also been called, "fucking bitch," names you have also experienced. While I'm listing names, let's remember "hungry, hungry hippo," a name so scarring, I have never wanted to go near the game.
As each name penetrated me, I found myself identifying with it. I realized I was fat, I was a bitch. I adopted an "I don't care" attitude and began eating myself to death. I walled up my pain, hid behind a facade so seeingly normal, no one would know the pain I've felt and continue to feel today. I knew I was ugly; I was sure no one would ever love me. I saw myself through the eyes of others rather than my own. I overlooked my talents and abilities because others never saw them. They saw a fat, homely girl. So did I when I looked in the mirror.
I stopped looking, really looking, at myself. I let others control my thoughts and emotions. I knew I was never good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough. My self didn't exist unless others validated it. Without validation, I simply didn't seem to exist. I faded into classrooms, hid behind books, wore frumpy, lumpy clothes thinking they disguised me. I wore a "leave me alone" expression, forbidding any hope of closeness. I shut myself down, immune--or so I thought--to the opinions of others.
What I've come to realize, however, is that I have to define and acknowledge myself; no one should or has the right to do it for me. I'm intelligent, attractive, healthy. I have a nice smile and pretty eyes. I am a hard worker, seeking to challenge and improve myself. I don't need others to define me, to give me form and shape. I can do that myself.
Letting down some barriers has helped me tremendously with self-acceptance. I will never be perfect in the eyes of others. I can be myself. I validate myself. And I encourage you, my sweet, funny son, to do the same. Never will you be 'right' or 'perfect' in everyone's eyes. But you can embrace who are are and love yourself with all your imperfections.
Those who feel the need to criticize you, to bully you, are lacking their own sense of self; they often feel insignificant. They look for those whom they can hurt, just as they are hurting inside. They want others to feel that pain. Their pain is not your pain nor mine. You have much to offer the world as well as other people. Too bad for those who can't see you for you.
I love you, my handsome young man.
Dear Son,
I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about the names you're being called. I have been called those names for years. Each one is like a knife, puncturing my skin, leaving another scar. In addition to "fatty," "fatso," and "fat ass," I have also been called, "fucking bitch," names you have also experienced. While I'm listing names, let's remember "hungry, hungry hippo," a name so scarring, I have never wanted to go near the game.
As each name penetrated me, I found myself identifying with it. I realized I was fat, I was a bitch. I adopted an "I don't care" attitude and began eating myself to death. I walled up my pain, hid behind a facade so seeingly normal, no one would know the pain I've felt and continue to feel today. I knew I was ugly; I was sure no one would ever love me. I saw myself through the eyes of others rather than my own. I overlooked my talents and abilities because others never saw them. They saw a fat, homely girl. So did I when I looked in the mirror.
I stopped looking, really looking, at myself. I let others control my thoughts and emotions. I knew I was never good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough. My self didn't exist unless others validated it. Without validation, I simply didn't seem to exist. I faded into classrooms, hid behind books, wore frumpy, lumpy clothes thinking they disguised me. I wore a "leave me alone" expression, forbidding any hope of closeness. I shut myself down, immune--or so I thought--to the opinions of others.
What I've come to realize, however, is that I have to define and acknowledge myself; no one should or has the right to do it for me. I'm intelligent, attractive, healthy. I have a nice smile and pretty eyes. I am a hard worker, seeking to challenge and improve myself. I don't need others to define me, to give me form and shape. I can do that myself.
Letting down some barriers has helped me tremendously with self-acceptance. I will never be perfect in the eyes of others. I can be myself. I validate myself. And I encourage you, my sweet, funny son, to do the same. Never will you be 'right' or 'perfect' in everyone's eyes. But you can embrace who are are and love yourself with all your imperfections.
Those who feel the need to criticize you, to bully you, are lacking their own sense of self; they often feel insignificant. They look for those whom they can hurt, just as they are hurting inside. They want others to feel that pain. Their pain is not your pain nor mine. You have much to offer the world as well as other people. Too bad for those who can't see you for you.
I love you, my handsome young man.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Semester slump
It's the latter part of the second semester of school, and I'm tired. I'm tired of whining students, demanding parents, teachers, and administrators. I'm tired of grading papers. I'm tired of not being able to see my desk. I'm especially tired of going to bed early and hearing the alarm at 5:20. I could barely function today.
My students are thinking of summer rather than focusing on class work. If education were up to them we'd watch movies and take field trips rather than do any type of work that requires thinking, reading, and writing. It's discouraging. In trying to ready them for their ACT test, I prepared different practices. Instead of thanks or even compliance, I've heard nothing but complaints: "Again? We have to do another practice?" The ACT is about them and for them, but listening to them bemoan practice really bugged me.
It isn't any rosier with my Advanced Placement students. Reading their essays causes my blood pressure to rise as they continue to make mistakes. It would be different if their mistakes were different but they still don't write complete thesis statements; they still use past AND present tense; they still make unsupported and irrelevent comments. Sigh. I am in a slump.
What bothers me most is watching others allow students to slack at this point in the year. Standardized testing is over for all subjects but AP, which apparently means it's field trip season, playing outside season, and movie season. My colleagues frustrate me nearly as much as our students frustrate me.
I'm astounded by students who miss class and then are shocked when they find out they missed work; usually two or three weeks after an absence. I'm shocked by students who have missed more than 10 blocks this semester, a semester that wasn't too horrible with cold and flu season. I have students who have missed 40 or 50 or more blocks!! And then their parents wonder why the kids are failing.
It's obvious that I'm in a slump. I'm not having fun, and I'm certainly not enjoying the kids. At this point, all I can do is pray for May!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Difficulties of forgiveness
I believe greatly in the power of forgiveness. We are human, and we make mistakes through our own selfishness or through our own carelessness. Because we easily make mistakes, we often humble ourself and ask forgiveness of those we hurt. There are times we are hurt, and while those who hurt us may not or cannot realize what they've done, we find peace through forgiving them and moving forward.
However, as much as I try to forgive one person in particular, I find I cannot. Just as I think I have forgiven all she has done to me, I am reminded of another action she has done, and I'm angry again. I often think I've moved past the hurtfulness, but then I know I haven't. I'm still angry, still resentful about being hurt. I can barely stand to be in her presence because I cannot believe one person can be so unaware, so careless, and so selfish about the hurt she has caused me.
Forgiveness is important, but I cannot find it in my heart to forgive her. My anger eats at me and slips out when I least expect it. I know it is unhealthy to hold onto my anger, but never has there been a single apology for the hurt she has caused and continues to cause.
The hardest part is that I cannot distance myself enough to work through my anger, to find forgiveness within me. Instead, I continue to keep score; I hoard past hurts as some sort of vile treasure to be brought forth whenever another hurt is delivered. And there's bound to be more. We see one another too often for me to have some respite, to recover my equilibrium, and to find forgiveness in my heart.
I am bombarded with messages about forgiveness everywhere I go. Billboards, meditations, homilies in church speak to the need to forgive one another. But so often, forgiveness is meted out when someone recognizes the hurt they have caused and ask forgiveness of another. In my case, there has been no recognition of hurt, no apologies for being hurtful.
So the questions remain: how do I forgive someone who blatantly and regularly hurts me? How do I move past this anger and resentment? How do I continue to interact with her, when really, all I want to do is cause pain to her? How do I move forward?
However, as much as I try to forgive one person in particular, I find I cannot. Just as I think I have forgiven all she has done to me, I am reminded of another action she has done, and I'm angry again. I often think I've moved past the hurtfulness, but then I know I haven't. I'm still angry, still resentful about being hurt. I can barely stand to be in her presence because I cannot believe one person can be so unaware, so careless, and so selfish about the hurt she has caused me.
Forgiveness is important, but I cannot find it in my heart to forgive her. My anger eats at me and slips out when I least expect it. I know it is unhealthy to hold onto my anger, but never has there been a single apology for the hurt she has caused and continues to cause.
The hardest part is that I cannot distance myself enough to work through my anger, to find forgiveness within me. Instead, I continue to keep score; I hoard past hurts as some sort of vile treasure to be brought forth whenever another hurt is delivered. And there's bound to be more. We see one another too often for me to have some respite, to recover my equilibrium, and to find forgiveness in my heart.
I am bombarded with messages about forgiveness everywhere I go. Billboards, meditations, homilies in church speak to the need to forgive one another. But so often, forgiveness is meted out when someone recognizes the hurt they have caused and ask forgiveness of another. In my case, there has been no recognition of hurt, no apologies for being hurtful.
So the questions remain: how do I forgive someone who blatantly and regularly hurts me? How do I move past this anger and resentment? How do I continue to interact with her, when really, all I want to do is cause pain to her? How do I move forward?
Monday, April 9, 2012
Bike helmets and life's meaning
Lately I've been wondering about my life's purpose. I haven't been having much luck at school, especially since I've had nine students drop out this year, all juniors. I have nine students who rarely if ever show to class, and all are failing. My AP students don't seem to put effort into the work required, and their work is frustrating to grade. It just seems like I'm spinning my wheels, and my time and effort would do better elsewhere.
I headed into the weekend with these thoughts. I was mopey and weepy Friday and Saturday, not much company at all. As my pity party grew, I began wondering about other aspects of my life. Am I a good mother and wife? A good daughter? A good godmother? Do I make a difference to anyone?
And then we went to church. I seldom remember homilies, but yesterday, the priest said something that made all the difference to me. He said that our life has meaning and we will live forever. I felt as though God was speaking directly to me. My life does have meaning! I do have eternal life.
I walked out of church renewed, spiritually and emotionally. My life has meaning and purpose. My heart lifted, and I felt as though I could face anything with equanimity. Good thing too, because my son hit a parked car and fell off his new bike. Thankfully, he was wearing a helmet, something we've always lectured him to do. The new bike and the car were okay as well. My son, however, was another story.
He kept moaning in pain (and yes, I know he's a bit of a dramatic), and I began to truly worry. Within 40 minutes of the accident, I decided to take him to the ER to make sure all his parts were okay. Quickly, my life had meaning and purpose because he needed me. It always amazes me how quickly life can change.
The bike helmet saved him from a concussion. His parts are sore and bruised but okay. My child needed me, and I was there. My life has meaning and purpose. I have eternal life.
I headed into the weekend with these thoughts. I was mopey and weepy Friday and Saturday, not much company at all. As my pity party grew, I began wondering about other aspects of my life. Am I a good mother and wife? A good daughter? A good godmother? Do I make a difference to anyone?
And then we went to church. I seldom remember homilies, but yesterday, the priest said something that made all the difference to me. He said that our life has meaning and we will live forever. I felt as though God was speaking directly to me. My life does have meaning! I do have eternal life.
I walked out of church renewed, spiritually and emotionally. My life has meaning and purpose. My heart lifted, and I felt as though I could face anything with equanimity. Good thing too, because my son hit a parked car and fell off his new bike. Thankfully, he was wearing a helmet, something we've always lectured him to do. The new bike and the car were okay as well. My son, however, was another story.
He kept moaning in pain (and yes, I know he's a bit of a dramatic), and I began to truly worry. Within 40 minutes of the accident, I decided to take him to the ER to make sure all his parts were okay. Quickly, my life had meaning and purpose because he needed me. It always amazes me how quickly life can change.
The bike helmet saved him from a concussion. His parts are sore and bruised but okay. My child needed me, and I was there. My life has meaning and purpose. I have eternal life.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
My son went to health class, and this is what he learned
Yes, it's true. My son went to health class. Remember health class? All I remember is an embarrassing conversation about menstruation, which came in handy when I 'became a woman,' according to my mother, a few months later. Thankfully, health class provided me with sanitary napkins the size of bricks as I was initiated into 'womanhood.'
However, health class in 2012 is a bit different. After my son's first day, during dinner, he broached the subject of heath class, explaining to us that the teacher showed numerous pictures of flowers and mammals. He remembered that everything reproduces, and I'm thinking, "Awesome! This makes sense to him!" He then told us that an egg is the size of a period (dot). Inwardly I snickered because period-egg, simply too funny for words. I told him that women have about a million of those eggs for their lifetime. My son, the grating debator, informed me that I was "wrong!" Men and women, he continued, have eggs. For a moment, I tried to convince him that he was wrong, but then I concluded that Wednesday's class was going to be eye-opening for him. Never one to back down from an opportunity to make a smart-aleck response, he said, "I have a feeling after Wednesday's class, I'm going to really regret you signing me up for this class." Naturally, he used his snottiest tone for that comment.
He also reminded us that on Wednesday, the fourth graders were going to be divided into boys and girls, and then separated from one another. In fact, he added, they were going to learn about 'reprocessing.' He had to say that just as I was drinking some water, which I promptly choked on. I corrected him, telling him it was reproduction, but then he was curious about the definition of reprocessing.
His dad, the man raised with brothers in a Catholic household, assured our son that he could ask any questions of his father and they would be answered. I snickered at that too. This is the man who was embarrassed to show our little guy how to pee standing up; I had to argue with him to do so since I don't have the appropriate peeing-while-standing-up equipment. The guy who, on our first camping trip together, dug a 'pee pit' for us to use, which was really sweet except there were rocks on both sides. He didn't realize I didn't 'go' quite the same way. I can't imagine he will answer our son's questions in a matter of fact way.
Wednesday's class was even more enlightening than Monday's. Without looking at me, my son told me they saw pictures of naked women and their body parts. When I asked which body parts, he cried, "ALL of THEM, Mom, all of them..." He even saw the body parts where the eggs are stored. Finally, in an anguished tone, he told me that he will soon have sperm. I wanted to talk about the subject more, but he was still astounded about the sperm revelation. That night, while cooking corn, one of the ears wasn't fully developed. Noticing this, our son informed us that, "Sperm mustn't have done its job on the corn." His father mumbled a reply, correcting him, sort of, about that piece of information.
He's also asked for definitions of words he has heard at school but doesn't know what they mean. After the great "shit" fiasco of 2011--he used the word after hearing someone else say it, and he got in trouble at school for saying it--we have an agreement that he can ask me any word he doesn't know before he decides to use it. We talked about 'retard,' 'gay,' and 'sexy.'When he asked his father what 'gay' meant, his father gave a truly biased answer, one I felt was unfair. I tried my best to give an unbiased answer to that question. I want my son to make up his mind on his own. But today's question was the biggest one yet: how does a man's sperm fertilize a woman's egg? We ran out of time to discuss it, but I'm sure it's going to come up soon.
Health class has been eye-opening for my son, fostered great conversation between us, and has been a chance for me to talk with my son, not at him. Well, in all honesty, to laugh a bit as watch his mind at work, "reprocessing" his new information.
However, health class in 2012 is a bit different. After my son's first day, during dinner, he broached the subject of heath class, explaining to us that the teacher showed numerous pictures of flowers and mammals. He remembered that everything reproduces, and I'm thinking, "Awesome! This makes sense to him!" He then told us that an egg is the size of a period (dot). Inwardly I snickered because period-egg, simply too funny for words. I told him that women have about a million of those eggs for their lifetime. My son, the grating debator, informed me that I was "wrong!" Men and women, he continued, have eggs. For a moment, I tried to convince him that he was wrong, but then I concluded that Wednesday's class was going to be eye-opening for him. Never one to back down from an opportunity to make a smart-aleck response, he said, "I have a feeling after Wednesday's class, I'm going to really regret you signing me up for this class." Naturally, he used his snottiest tone for that comment.
He also reminded us that on Wednesday, the fourth graders were going to be divided into boys and girls, and then separated from one another. In fact, he added, they were going to learn about 'reprocessing.' He had to say that just as I was drinking some water, which I promptly choked on. I corrected him, telling him it was reproduction, but then he was curious about the definition of reprocessing.
His dad, the man raised with brothers in a Catholic household, assured our son that he could ask any questions of his father and they would be answered. I snickered at that too. This is the man who was embarrassed to show our little guy how to pee standing up; I had to argue with him to do so since I don't have the appropriate peeing-while-standing-up equipment. The guy who, on our first camping trip together, dug a 'pee pit' for us to use, which was really sweet except there were rocks on both sides. He didn't realize I didn't 'go' quite the same way. I can't imagine he will answer our son's questions in a matter of fact way.
Wednesday's class was even more enlightening than Monday's. Without looking at me, my son told me they saw pictures of naked women and their body parts. When I asked which body parts, he cried, "ALL of THEM, Mom, all of them..." He even saw the body parts where the eggs are stored. Finally, in an anguished tone, he told me that he will soon have sperm. I wanted to talk about the subject more, but he was still astounded about the sperm revelation. That night, while cooking corn, one of the ears wasn't fully developed. Noticing this, our son informed us that, "Sperm mustn't have done its job on the corn." His father mumbled a reply, correcting him, sort of, about that piece of information.
He's also asked for definitions of words he has heard at school but doesn't know what they mean. After the great "shit" fiasco of 2011--he used the word after hearing someone else say it, and he got in trouble at school for saying it--we have an agreement that he can ask me any word he doesn't know before he decides to use it. We talked about 'retard,' 'gay,' and 'sexy.'When he asked his father what 'gay' meant, his father gave a truly biased answer, one I felt was unfair. I tried my best to give an unbiased answer to that question. I want my son to make up his mind on his own. But today's question was the biggest one yet: how does a man's sperm fertilize a woman's egg? We ran out of time to discuss it, but I'm sure it's going to come up soon.
Health class has been eye-opening for my son, fostered great conversation between us, and has been a chance for me to talk with my son, not at him. Well, in all honesty, to laugh a bit as watch his mind at work, "reprocessing" his new information.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Lizards, snakes, and tornados
Spring break has arrived, and I usually spend the first day or two cleaning up house detritus, tackling the housework I've procrastinated. Not today! Instead, we went to the Natural History Museum to see a new exhibit with lizards and snakes.
Although I'm not a fan of lizards, they don't creep me out as much as snakes. I swear the python was looking at me, wishing I'd creep in his cage. Watching him move gave me the chills. A skink is by far the creepiest looking creature I've ever seen: head of a snake, body of a lizard. And the one I saw today has a blue tongue, which it kept flicking at the teengagers gawking on it. Even now, I have goosebumps thinking about it. There were others as well, but I tried not to linger too much. I'm glad some people have affinity for our creepy-crawly friends; that's not me.
Why go see something I don't particularly like? I knew my son would love it, and he did. He rattled off all sorts of information to his father about what we saw. He added that he was hoping to see sea snakes and was disappointed the exhibit didn't include them. He had a wonderful time, which meant I (mostly) enjoyed myself. Honestly, I was relieved when we werer finished.
The best part of our day, besides the time we spent with one another, was the 3D Imax experience watching a movie about tornados. I've never been involved in a tornado, and I hope I never am involved. I don't think I breathed much during the movie, and a couple of times, I held onto my son because I was so scared. He loved the movie as well, which was good.
Our first day of spring break was fun, and more importantly, it was a time for the two of us to connect. I don't know how much time we have together in terms of hanging out and doing fun things with one another, so I'm trying to relish each adventure.
But I know our time is limited...he gave his phone number to a girl he likes.
Although I'm not a fan of lizards, they don't creep me out as much as snakes. I swear the python was looking at me, wishing I'd creep in his cage. Watching him move gave me the chills. A skink is by far the creepiest looking creature I've ever seen: head of a snake, body of a lizard. And the one I saw today has a blue tongue, which it kept flicking at the teengagers gawking on it. Even now, I have goosebumps thinking about it. There were others as well, but I tried not to linger too much. I'm glad some people have affinity for our creepy-crawly friends; that's not me.
Why go see something I don't particularly like? I knew my son would love it, and he did. He rattled off all sorts of information to his father about what we saw. He added that he was hoping to see sea snakes and was disappointed the exhibit didn't include them. He had a wonderful time, which meant I (mostly) enjoyed myself. Honestly, I was relieved when we werer finished.
The best part of our day, besides the time we spent with one another, was the 3D Imax experience watching a movie about tornados. I've never been involved in a tornado, and I hope I never am involved. I don't think I breathed much during the movie, and a couple of times, I held onto my son because I was so scared. He loved the movie as well, which was good.
Our first day of spring break was fun, and more importantly, it was a time for the two of us to connect. I don't know how much time we have together in terms of hanging out and doing fun things with one another, so I'm trying to relish each adventure.
But I know our time is limited...he gave his phone number to a girl he likes.
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