I've been reading several books lately, at the same time. I know that probably sounds ridiculous, so let me explain a little more.
One I'm reading, called A Postcard from the Volcano, is historical fiction. It's a serious book, with heavy and thought-provoking themes. It's about Germany and all its historical and political angst between WWI and WWII. It could be required reading for a college history course. I love it. But, I can't read it in bed, because when I am reading in bed, I usually make it for about 15 minutes before I doze off. Reading something like this requires more brain power and it also requires me to not be asleep. So I'm moving through it more slowly, saving it for when I have time during the day (not often) so I can really concentrate and follow it.
These other two books I'm reading inspired the title for my post.
I'm re-reading Eclipse, because the movie is coming out this week, and I'm going to go see it with one of my Twi-Mom friends, and call me whatever you will, I love that dang Twilight series. It's overly angst-y (I like that word today) and dramatic and all high-school-girl-swoony-romantic, but I can't help myself. I love it. Yes, I know I'm a good 20, maybe 25 years older than the target audience. I get that I probably look silly waiting in line for tickets to Eclipse. Whatever. Even my single-digit-age boy children laugh at me for my not-so-secret obsession. Again, whatever. I'm Team Edward, all the way.
And I'm also reading a book called Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert. She is the author of Eat, Pray, Love, and Committed is the follow-up of sorts to that story. In a nutshell, the author, having been through a gut-wrenching divorce and having sworn off the institution of marriage, finds herself in a relationship with a man who is a citizen of another country. He has also been through a horrible, gut-wrenching divorce and they are perfectly matched in their desire to A) be with one another and B) not be joined in holy matrimony. They lead this multi-continental life together, staying in many places for a time, but never too long, until one day their jig is up and his American visa is revoked. So, they either have to live somewhere besides America or get married, making him a citizen. For this couple with their horror of marriage, it's quite a quandary.
Now, to be fair, I'm still in the early part of the book, and so I don't know yet how it turns out. Right now, I'm reading through the author's historical research on the institution of marriage, and what it actually means in other cultures. And it ain't all that romantic. Or holy. In fact, it sounds like a rather cynical view of marriage, where it's all about survival (safety in numbers) or power (arranged marriages to keep rich landowners rich). And there are lots of Biblical references to Jesus and His apostles instructing men not to get involved with women at all, to remain celibate and follow Him, and ONLY get married as a last resort if one simply could not follow the higher path.
So, on the one hand, there is a book written for teenage girls, idealizing and romanticizing the notion of being together for all eternity and how loving the right boy (and giving up your whole identity and free will to him) will complete you as a person. In this book in the series, Edward and Bella decide to seal their fates together and get married. Bella does have some reservations about getting married at 18, but the overall theme is still the same, that loving (marrying) the right boy makes everything ok.
And on the other hand is a book that starts out with the quote, "Plant an expectation, and reap a disappointment." With joined gold wedding bands as the cover art and a title like Committed. Cynical, I tell you!
A contradiction of sorts, yes?
I didn't choose to read these two together purposely, but I find it an amusing coincidence. In my admittedly limited experience of relationships and marriage, I have found the truth of the matter to be somewhere in the in-between of the two extremes illustrated in my summer reading. Sometimes I expect a whole lot of my spouse and my marriage...I expect him to just know when I'm having a bad day, and I expect him to somehow make it better. I expect fulfillment and happiness from being a wife and a mother (among other things). And it just flat pisses me off when things don't work out that way. Making me feel somewhat, dare I say it, cynical.
My husband is a good guy and a great dad, whom I would choose over and over again. But is he perfect? Can he magically make my bad day all better? Can he read my mind and soothe every anxiety and fear I harbor? No. To me, the more relevant question is, should he be expected to? I also have to answer that with no.
What do these books tell us about our society, our expectations, our relationships? Are they reflective of real truths, or are they just one woman's ideas?
And what are the odds that I'd pick up these two at the same time?!
29 June 2010
04 June 2010
Everybody's doing it
Apparently, it's "post your most embarrassing moment" week in blog-world.
Everybody's doing it.
Hmmmm, so many to choose from....there was the time I had gone into my office, shortly after the birth of my first child, to show him off. Now mind you, I worked in a flying squadron in the Air Force. Perhaps not the most baby-friendly environment one could think of. My boss was Lt. Col D, a tall, solid-built pilot with a booming voice that, with his Georgia accent, sounded remarkably like Foghorn Leghorn. Lt Col D was out of his office for a meeting (super top secret code for "at the golf course") and the baby needed to eat. I closed myself into his office after securing promises of privacy and interference-running for the following 20 minutes or so, from the folks who worked right outside his office. Not twenty seconds into nursing the baby, Lt Col P flings the door open, hollering, "Hey Bill!" scaring the crap out of me, the baby and then also himself. Thanks for running interference for me, guys. Just a couple of weeks before that, I had been just one of the guys in a flight suit in the squadron. I think we both came away from that incident scarred. I still have a hard time looking him in the eye.
Or perhaps the time I was with one of my darling offspring in a public restroom. Said offspring was in the process of potty training at the time of the incident. I sat down to, um, do my business, and as I finished, said offspring cheered me, saying, "Good job Mommy! I KNEW you could do it!" Hmm, wonder where he heard that before?
Maybe it's the time I had tried to take all three of my lovely children to Mass by myself, when Captain America was away on a trip. Ages of lovely children were 8, 6 and 3. The 8 and 6 year olds were ok, but the 3 year old was having none of it. He refused to take his winter coat off, which was fine. But then he needed to lay down on the kneelers, and as I tried to pick him up with that coat on, I ended up poking him with my thumb. Hard. During a quiet, reflective moment of the Mass, my child had a quiet and reflective screaming fit: "OWW!! MOMMY! You poked me! That really hurt! Why did you poke me?!" I didn't mean to poke him but after his outburst, during which every single person in church was staring at us, I would have gladly poked him on purpose. Hard.
There are many to choose from, and I don't know if I can definitively say which one was the most embarrassing.
Oh, you didn't think I was going to pull out the really good stuff, did you? I have so many ways in which I have embarrassed myself that I could talk for a couple of days without getting to the good stuff. How much time do you have? ;)
Everybody's doing it.
Hmmmm, so many to choose from....there was the time I had gone into my office, shortly after the birth of my first child, to show him off. Now mind you, I worked in a flying squadron in the Air Force. Perhaps not the most baby-friendly environment one could think of. My boss was Lt. Col D, a tall, solid-built pilot with a booming voice that, with his Georgia accent, sounded remarkably like Foghorn Leghorn. Lt Col D was out of his office for a meeting (super top secret code for "at the golf course") and the baby needed to eat. I closed myself into his office after securing promises of privacy and interference-running for the following 20 minutes or so, from the folks who worked right outside his office. Not twenty seconds into nursing the baby, Lt Col P flings the door open, hollering, "Hey Bill!" scaring the crap out of me, the baby and then also himself. Thanks for running interference for me, guys. Just a couple of weeks before that, I had been just one of the guys in a flight suit in the squadron. I think we both came away from that incident scarred. I still have a hard time looking him in the eye.
Or perhaps the time I was with one of my darling offspring in a public restroom. Said offspring was in the process of potty training at the time of the incident. I sat down to, um, do my business, and as I finished, said offspring cheered me, saying, "Good job Mommy! I KNEW you could do it!" Hmm, wonder where he heard that before?
Maybe it's the time I had tried to take all three of my lovely children to Mass by myself, when Captain America was away on a trip. Ages of lovely children were 8, 6 and 3. The 8 and 6 year olds were ok, but the 3 year old was having none of it. He refused to take his winter coat off, which was fine. But then he needed to lay down on the kneelers, and as I tried to pick him up with that coat on, I ended up poking him with my thumb. Hard. During a quiet, reflective moment of the Mass, my child had a quiet and reflective screaming fit: "OWW!! MOMMY! You poked me! That really hurt! Why did you poke me?!" I didn't mean to poke him but after his outburst, during which every single person in church was staring at us, I would have gladly poked him on purpose. Hard.
There are many to choose from, and I don't know if I can definitively say which one was the most embarrassing.
Oh, you didn't think I was going to pull out the really good stuff, did you? I have so many ways in which I have embarrassed myself that I could talk for a couple of days without getting to the good stuff. How much time do you have? ;)
A sign, perhaps?
I've been reading a few blogs lately, here and here and here, that have got me thinking. They've all recently had posts in the last few days about writing: finding time for writing, dreaming of writing, writing about writing.
I'm not always very consistent with writing, but I love to write. Some say I'm pretty good at it. I have, on occasion, gotten paid to do it. I've got stuff to say.
But the thing is, what I have to say, the stories I have to tell, I haven't written down. Yet.
Why? Heh.
It's this little thing I like to call, life. I'm a mom. I have kids who need, demand and deserve my attention. I'm a student. And it's important to me to dedicate myself to my studies. Thankfully they're almost over for the time being, but they're not over yet. I'm a USAF reservist, and my commander expects things from me, and rightly so. He expects me to fulfill my obligations, to show up and do my job (writing!) and all of the other things that come with the uniform. All kinds of extra requirements that would be a whole other post. Maybe someday. Oh, and I also have a house to keep somewhat cleaned up, clothes that need washed and put away, a refrigerator that I must fill with food now and then, and a husband who, heaven knows why, wants to spend time with me and also deserves my attention. Friends I'd like to see and talk to once in a while. You see where I'm going with this.
Hmm. Where did I fit writing in again?
But, I have stuff to say. A story to tell. If God has given me a gift, I'd like to think it is the written word. I have snippets of stories I've written, that are part of the whole. Some pieces are my own experiences and some belong to others. I have a couple of people I trust to read my unvarnished, un-proofread work, raw and emotional, sometimes funny and insightful, but all me, my heart and soul. They tell me what I have so far is good and it's compelling. Keep working at it, this is good, they say. I just need to find the time. But there's more.
I want desperately to tell my story, to see my words in print.
But I'm afraid too. I understand that publishing is a tough, tough business to break into. I am not sure my skin is thick enough yet. I'm afraid of telling this story that means so much to me, and nobody cares.
I'll get over those fears, I know. Even the best authors have been rejected a gazillion times. So, I'll be in good company, if I ever get the thing done and sent off to someone who might possibly want to consider putting my heart and soul between a front cover and a back cover.
I had to get up in the middle of this post to take the dog out, take a kid's temperature who seems to be coming down with something and on way to get the Tylenol, discovered the ice-maker hemorrhaging water onto the kitchen floor. And Captain America is somewhere between LA and Salt Lake City. Where he is of no use to me in this situation ;)
See what I mean about life?
I'm not always very consistent with writing, but I love to write. Some say I'm pretty good at it. I have, on occasion, gotten paid to do it. I've got stuff to say.
But the thing is, what I have to say, the stories I have to tell, I haven't written down. Yet.
Why? Heh.
It's this little thing I like to call, life. I'm a mom. I have kids who need, demand and deserve my attention. I'm a student. And it's important to me to dedicate myself to my studies. Thankfully they're almost over for the time being, but they're not over yet. I'm a USAF reservist, and my commander expects things from me, and rightly so. He expects me to fulfill my obligations, to show up and do my job (writing!) and all of the other things that come with the uniform. All kinds of extra requirements that would be a whole other post. Maybe someday. Oh, and I also have a house to keep somewhat cleaned up, clothes that need washed and put away, a refrigerator that I must fill with food now and then, and a husband who, heaven knows why, wants to spend time with me and also deserves my attention. Friends I'd like to see and talk to once in a while. You see where I'm going with this.
Hmm. Where did I fit writing in again?
But, I have stuff to say. A story to tell. If God has given me a gift, I'd like to think it is the written word. I have snippets of stories I've written, that are part of the whole. Some pieces are my own experiences and some belong to others. I have a couple of people I trust to read my unvarnished, un-proofread work, raw and emotional, sometimes funny and insightful, but all me, my heart and soul. They tell me what I have so far is good and it's compelling. Keep working at it, this is good, they say. I just need to find the time. But there's more.
I want desperately to tell my story, to see my words in print.
But I'm afraid too. I understand that publishing is a tough, tough business to break into. I am not sure my skin is thick enough yet. I'm afraid of telling this story that means so much to me, and nobody cares.
I'll get over those fears, I know. Even the best authors have been rejected a gazillion times. So, I'll be in good company, if I ever get the thing done and sent off to someone who might possibly want to consider putting my heart and soul between a front cover and a back cover.
I had to get up in the middle of this post to take the dog out, take a kid's temperature who seems to be coming down with something and on way to get the Tylenol, discovered the ice-maker hemorrhaging water onto the kitchen floor. And Captain America is somewhere between LA and Salt Lake City. Where he is of no use to me in this situation ;)
See what I mean about life?
26 May 2010
Psyching myself up and psyching myself out
I went running again today, still not having fully committed to the idea of a full marathon, not out loud anyway. I ran about 3.5 miles, which is not a "long" run for me. It's a good distance, enough to be challenging but not enough to be a long run. But I had a hard time today. It was hot at noon, I hadn't really fueled up very well before I went out and I was a little dehydrated.
All valid reasons why one might struggle a little bit during a run, and all excuses that are covering up the real reasons I'm having a hard time running lately.
I have run half marathons and 10ks before, and I've trained both well and poorly for them. I know how hard it is to keep picking 'em up and putting 'em down after 13 miles. I've finished 13.1 miles feeling great and I've also crawled across the finish line gasping and wheezing, praying for, well, not death, but at least unconsciousness.
But I haven't done it for 26.2 miles. I'm not sure if it's the actual number that is freaking me out, or if it is the knowledge of how tough running half that distance is to start with. But I am a little freaked out, in any case.
There is a race in October in a nearby city, that coincides with a milestone birthday for me (40th!)that I've been contemplating running. I've even said it out loud once or twice in a very tentative hesitant voice, that I might do it, that I'm sitting on the fence about it. How cool would it be to run my first full marathon 4 days before I turn 40? That would totally underscore the fact that I am in much better shape than I was when I was 20, I am way happier than I was when I was 20, I'm wiser, better educated, more comfortable in my own skin, have more money and I look better too. That 40 isn't the beginning of the end, it's just a beginning.
There is a big part of me that knows I can do it. I can train and I can fuel my body properly, I have an iPod with 4 days worth of music and I have a loud cheering section, and I can totally do it.
But I'm scared. I'm scared of 26.2.
So as I was mentally working through some aches and pains today on my measly 3.5 run, I was also thinking in the back of my head, if it's this hard to get through 3.5 today, how in the name of Zeus am I going to be able to talk myself through 26.2? I wasn't sure if I should listen to my body (which was a little achy and stiff today) or power through the pain (a la Jillian Michaels screaming and cursing at myself). Was my achiness and the accompanying desire to stop running an indication of hesitation and lack of commitment (mental psych-out) or was it real physical discomfort that I should back away from before I push myself to a real injury?
This is why I listen to an iPod when I run....it's scary and far too unnecessarily complicated in my head.
All valid reasons why one might struggle a little bit during a run, and all excuses that are covering up the real reasons I'm having a hard time running lately.
I have run half marathons and 10ks before, and I've trained both well and poorly for them. I know how hard it is to keep picking 'em up and putting 'em down after 13 miles. I've finished 13.1 miles feeling great and I've also crawled across the finish line gasping and wheezing, praying for, well, not death, but at least unconsciousness.
But I haven't done it for 26.2 miles. I'm not sure if it's the actual number that is freaking me out, or if it is the knowledge of how tough running half that distance is to start with. But I am a little freaked out, in any case.
There is a race in October in a nearby city, that coincides with a milestone birthday for me (40th!)that I've been contemplating running. I've even said it out loud once or twice in a very tentative hesitant voice, that I might do it, that I'm sitting on the fence about it. How cool would it be to run my first full marathon 4 days before I turn 40? That would totally underscore the fact that I am in much better shape than I was when I was 20, I am way happier than I was when I was 20, I'm wiser, better educated, more comfortable in my own skin, have more money and I look better too. That 40 isn't the beginning of the end, it's just a beginning.
There is a big part of me that knows I can do it. I can train and I can fuel my body properly, I have an iPod with 4 days worth of music and I have a loud cheering section, and I can totally do it.
But I'm scared. I'm scared of 26.2.
So as I was mentally working through some aches and pains today on my measly 3.5 run, I was also thinking in the back of my head, if it's this hard to get through 3.5 today, how in the name of Zeus am I going to be able to talk myself through 26.2? I wasn't sure if I should listen to my body (which was a little achy and stiff today) or power through the pain (a la Jillian Michaels screaming and cursing at myself). Was my achiness and the accompanying desire to stop running an indication of hesitation and lack of commitment (mental psych-out) or was it real physical discomfort that I should back away from before I push myself to a real injury?
This is why I listen to an iPod when I run....it's scary and far too unnecessarily complicated in my head.
13 May 2010
Didn't I Feed You Yesterday?
is absolutely hilarious.
It's a new book by a mom named Laura Bennett, who lives in NYC and has six children. She was on America's Next Top Designer, a reality show that is a competition revolving around designing clothes. I'm slightly lacking in the fashion sense department (ok, more than slightly, Mrs always-wearing-a-tshirt-jeans-or-capris-and-flipflops) and I've never seen the show, but now I want to, just to listen to Laura's life wisdom. I got to borrow the book from my cool blogger-mom friend Marianne.
The book tells it like it is, honest and real and hysterically funny. Those moms who go on Oprah to proclaim how glorious every moment of every day is with three kids under the age of six would probably not find much in it to relate to, but the rest of us do. Moms who need a glass of wine with dinner everynight, moms whose kids learn how to operate the remote and the DVD player well before the age of 5, moms who are lucky to find clean socks for the little people by Friday morning. Notice I didn't say clean matchingsocks. Just clean. Mostly.
I adore my children, I truly do. I love them more than my next breath, and more than my new Barnes & Noble nook (totally awesome, I have to say). But there are some days I would gladly sell them to the first band of traveling gypsies I meet. They challenge me every day and they test my patience (God did not bless me abundantly with the stuff) and they make me grow. Growing hurts sometimes.
But anyway, back to the book. It made me laugh so hard I cried, and it made me nod my head in sympathy. While Laura and her family live a life I can't really comprehend from Smalltown, USA, I can totally understand the balancing act she has to perform. I don't have such gorgeous shoes or an aptly named weekend getaway home ("Dairy Air"...still makes me laugh!), but I do have kids as well as my own life. Moms do not cease to be independent people with interests and desires of their own, once they birth another human being. I may not have a thriving high powered career, but I am a college student, a sometime writer (mostly a blog, papers for school and the occasional freelance article) who wishes she was an actual author of actual books, and a military reservist. I have lots of interests that have little or nothing to do with my kids, or the care and feeding of said kids. And, I'm still a good mom.
I can relate to Laura in another way, being the only woman in a house full of men. I'm not uncomfortable with it, but I do feel sort of outnumbered and outgunned. It's only me and the dog.
I'm digressing again. Marianne, thanks a million for lending me your copy!
Go get your own copy. Seriously. Laughter is the best medicine and we all take ourselves a little too seriously sometimes. If you don't love it, I'll buy your copy.
It's a new book by a mom named Laura Bennett, who lives in NYC and has six children. She was on America's Next Top Designer, a reality show that is a competition revolving around designing clothes. I'm slightly lacking in the fashion sense department (ok, more than slightly, Mrs always-wearing-a-tshirt-jeans-or-capris-and-flipflops) and I've never seen the show, but now I want to, just to listen to Laura's life wisdom. I got to borrow the book from my cool blogger-mom friend Marianne.
The book tells it like it is, honest and real and hysterically funny. Those moms who go on Oprah to proclaim how glorious every moment of every day is with three kids under the age of six would probably not find much in it to relate to, but the rest of us do. Moms who need a glass of wine with dinner everynight, moms whose kids learn how to operate the remote and the DVD player well before the age of 5, moms who are lucky to find clean socks for the little people by Friday morning. Notice I didn't say clean matchingsocks. Just clean. Mostly.
I adore my children, I truly do. I love them more than my next breath, and more than my new Barnes & Noble nook (totally awesome, I have to say). But there are some days I would gladly sell them to the first band of traveling gypsies I meet. They challenge me every day and they test my patience (God did not bless me abundantly with the stuff) and they make me grow. Growing hurts sometimes.
But anyway, back to the book. It made me laugh so hard I cried, and it made me nod my head in sympathy. While Laura and her family live a life I can't really comprehend from Smalltown, USA, I can totally understand the balancing act she has to perform. I don't have such gorgeous shoes or an aptly named weekend getaway home ("Dairy Air"...still makes me laugh!), but I do have kids as well as my own life. Moms do not cease to be independent people with interests and desires of their own, once they birth another human being. I may not have a thriving high powered career, but I am a college student, a sometime writer (mostly a blog, papers for school and the occasional freelance article) who wishes she was an actual author of actual books, and a military reservist. I have lots of interests that have little or nothing to do with my kids, or the care and feeding of said kids. And, I'm still a good mom.
I can relate to Laura in another way, being the only woman in a house full of men. I'm not uncomfortable with it, but I do feel sort of outnumbered and outgunned. It's only me and the dog.
I'm digressing again. Marianne, thanks a million for lending me your copy!
Go get your own copy. Seriously. Laughter is the best medicine and we all take ourselves a little too seriously sometimes. If you don't love it, I'll buy your copy.
07 May 2010
Judgment, I mean, Mother's Day
I had this whole long post written out and it was all about politics. Then I decided to deep-six it, because it raised my blood pressure. And I don't want to raise my blood pressure, on Friday, especially the Friday before Mother's Day.
Ahh, Mother's Day.
This day, all by itself, manages to stir some debate, by its very existence.
The first thing I want to say is, I'm giving a big shout-out to all my favorite moms. Grandmas, aunts who act like moms, adoptive moms, sisters who act like moms, stepmoms, mothers-in-law, grandmas raising their grandchildren, step-mothers-in-law...all of us who love and care for the children in our lives, big or small, deserve a great big high five. You also deserve a weekend trip to Vegas but I'm working with what I've got here.
I've read some blog postings and online debates this week about Mother's Day, and it surprises me the things people will argue over and judge others on. One blog posed the seemingly harmless question, "What is the worst Mother's Day gift you ever got?," which led to moms judging each other for "making it all about the gifts." And the implicit judgment in "the only thing that is important to me on Mother's Day is spending time with my family," as if someone who admitted having gotten a gift they didn't like was a bad person. And my personal favorite, "Moms, don't be sucked into the commercial consumerism! Mother's Day isn't about the presents!" All these moms wanted to do was gripe and kvetch a little bit, and they got verbally smacked. If we can't gripe to our people, ie, other moms who've been there, I ask you, who can we gripe to?
Of course Mother's Day isn't about the gifts. No one ever said it was.
But come on. Moms work hard, all the time. Day and night. Whether your work takes you outside of your home or not, whether you have one child or ten, we all work hard to take care of our families. It's nice when someone says, "Thanks Mom," or "Thanks for all you do, honey." And because husbands, ie, men, are not generally known (sorry guys! I know some of you are good at this!) for their ability to articulate their appreciation with pretty words, they do it in the form of gifts, or flowers, or chocolate.
My husband is good at gifts; I'll give credit where it's due. He's also teaching the dudes about the value of a thoughtful gift. Not a crazy expensive gift, not a shiny, wrapped-up-in-a-blue-Tiffany-box kind of gift, not even something that necessarily comes from a store or a salon, but something that the recipient would truly like. For example, Larry, my middle-born man-cub, is not overly affectionate or given to vocal expressions of love. He'd rather just give me a noogie and call it a day. So it really means something when he says "I love you Mom," without me saying it first. It means something that he takes time out of his busy day of Pokemon cards and football to make a card. My oldest (who is not technically mine since I didn't give birth to him but I claim him just the same) is an adult, a married man and an Army officer stationed half the world away. But he still sends a card and calls to say "I love you." And that means the world to me too. Captain America has taught them that.
Sometimes, dads don't choose so wisely. Or they buy something they themselves would like to have, but then pass it off as a gift for their wives. (and you know who you are!) And heaven forbid that a mom actually looks forward to a little appreciation or acknowledgment! Don't we all want to be appreciated? Is that so awful? Can we not see past the actual object to see the gesture, and the feeling behind it?
You don't see dads picking on each other because they look forward to getting some new grill tools, or a new lens for their camera, or some shiny new chrome for their motorcycles when Father's Day rolls around. Let's go easy on each other, moms, aren't we supposed to be on the same side? Aren't we supposed to have each others' backs? I don't know about you, but I depend on my girlfriends, who are moms and sometimes the moms of my kids' friends. I NEED them! All of their views and opinions and feelings and choices are not the same as mine. That's WHY I love them and need them!
And one more thing....a divine shout-out to my own mom, who is no longer with us, but who I love and miss every day. You may not have been here in my life for very long physically, but who you are is who I am. And they say I look like you too. Love you Mama.
Ahh, Mother's Day.
This day, all by itself, manages to stir some debate, by its very existence.
The first thing I want to say is, I'm giving a big shout-out to all my favorite moms. Grandmas, aunts who act like moms, adoptive moms, sisters who act like moms, stepmoms, mothers-in-law, grandmas raising their grandchildren, step-mothers-in-law...all of us who love and care for the children in our lives, big or small, deserve a great big high five. You also deserve a weekend trip to Vegas but I'm working with what I've got here.
I've read some blog postings and online debates this week about Mother's Day, and it surprises me the things people will argue over and judge others on. One blog posed the seemingly harmless question, "What is the worst Mother's Day gift you ever got?," which led to moms judging each other for "making it all about the gifts." And the implicit judgment in "the only thing that is important to me on Mother's Day is spending time with my family," as if someone who admitted having gotten a gift they didn't like was a bad person. And my personal favorite, "Moms, don't be sucked into the commercial consumerism! Mother's Day isn't about the presents!" All these moms wanted to do was gripe and kvetch a little bit, and they got verbally smacked. If we can't gripe to our people, ie, other moms who've been there, I ask you, who can we gripe to?
Of course Mother's Day isn't about the gifts. No one ever said it was.
But come on. Moms work hard, all the time. Day and night. Whether your work takes you outside of your home or not, whether you have one child or ten, we all work hard to take care of our families. It's nice when someone says, "Thanks Mom," or "Thanks for all you do, honey." And because husbands, ie, men, are not generally known (sorry guys! I know some of you are good at this!) for their ability to articulate their appreciation with pretty words, they do it in the form of gifts, or flowers, or chocolate.
My husband is good at gifts; I'll give credit where it's due. He's also teaching the dudes about the value of a thoughtful gift. Not a crazy expensive gift, not a shiny, wrapped-up-in-a-blue-Tiffany-box kind of gift, not even something that necessarily comes from a store or a salon, but something that the recipient would truly like. For example, Larry, my middle-born man-cub, is not overly affectionate or given to vocal expressions of love. He'd rather just give me a noogie and call it a day. So it really means something when he says "I love you Mom," without me saying it first. It means something that he takes time out of his busy day of Pokemon cards and football to make a card. My oldest (who is not technically mine since I didn't give birth to him but I claim him just the same) is an adult, a married man and an Army officer stationed half the world away. But he still sends a card and calls to say "I love you." And that means the world to me too. Captain America has taught them that.
Sometimes, dads don't choose so wisely. Or they buy something they themselves would like to have, but then pass it off as a gift for their wives. (and you know who you are!) And heaven forbid that a mom actually looks forward to a little appreciation or acknowledgment! Don't we all want to be appreciated? Is that so awful? Can we not see past the actual object to see the gesture, and the feeling behind it?
You don't see dads picking on each other because they look forward to getting some new grill tools, or a new lens for their camera, or some shiny new chrome for their motorcycles when Father's Day rolls around. Let's go easy on each other, moms, aren't we supposed to be on the same side? Aren't we supposed to have each others' backs? I don't know about you, but I depend on my girlfriends, who are moms and sometimes the moms of my kids' friends. I NEED them! All of their views and opinions and feelings and choices are not the same as mine. That's WHY I love them and need them!
And one more thing....a divine shout-out to my own mom, who is no longer with us, but who I love and miss every day. You may not have been here in my life for very long physically, but who you are is who I am. And they say I look like you too. Love you Mama.
30 April 2010
Maybe not ready after all
Last week, I took Curly to what will be his school in the fall. He's my baby, my little mini-me. He is the funniest kid, who says the funniest things. I love getting to spend my afternoons and Fridays with him, while his older brothers, Moe and Larry, are at school. I thought I was looking forward to Curly heading off to the big K, and moving into the next phase of motherhood completely. Stepping into the school years with both feet.
But as I watched him run excitedly down the hall toward the K classroom, with Mrs. K (appropriately enough) while I sat in the meeting room with the other K parents and the principal, it hit me that maybe I'm not quite as ready as I thought I was. Oh, sure, it sounds lovely to have the WHOLE DAY to myself to finally sort out whatever is in those boxes in the back of the basement, to go running whenever I feel like it instead of when I can fit it in, to actually keep up with laundry and grocery shopping, to spend a whole afternoon on the deck reading a book.
But....Curly is my buddy. We hang out. We talk. We watch Veggie Tales and we build Lego space ships and race cars. We go to the mall sometimes for Auntie Anne's pretzels and lunch in the food court, or to Barnes and Noble to share a chocolate chip cookie and play with the trains in the kids' section.
He went in for the assessment that measures his readiness to begin kindergarten. Does he know his phone number and his address? Can he write his name? Does he know the difference between upper case and lower case? Can he hop on one foot and play catch? Does he interact with other kids easily?
He's way ready, Mrs. K assures me. A bright and funny boy. His preschool teachers assure me he's well ready and will have no problem transitioning to all-day school.
I've never been the type of mom to bemoan and mourn the passing of stages. I know some moms who are sad at their children's birthday parties because it all went too fast. I know some moms who, at every milestone, have said something like, "Stop growing up so fast!" And let me be clear, I'm not knocking them or being critical at all. That's just not my style.
I loved the baby years, as hard as they were sometimes, and there is nothing that can ever beat the smell of a newborn fresh out of the bath. I stayed awake to watch them breathe. I marveled watching their eyelashes grow in, and treasured every single gummy grin. I counted every tooth and cheered the first steps. But I didn't cry because they were growing up too fast. I didn't cry putting Moe and Larry onto the bus for the first time. I loved watching them be nervous about it, and do it anyway, that sense of accomplishment they got from just doing it anyway.
I have really been enjoying watching them change from babies who I adored cuddling and feeding and carrying, to boys who can run with me, who I can kick a soccer ball with or throw a football with, and who can reason and have a conversation about why the leaves change color or why our flag is important and why we should show respect. I am so digging watching them turn into the people they are growing up to be. It's pretty amazing.
But still. Curly is my baby.
And while he's raring to go, ready to spread his little wings and fly off to kindergarten with circle time and snack time and weekly Mass and rest time in the afternoons, it's a little harder for me this time.
It's not quite time yet. He hasn't finished preschool and we still have the whole summer to play. But I also have the sense of something coming to an end, of days being numbered.
His readiness is no longer in question.
But, I think mine might be.
But as I watched him run excitedly down the hall toward the K classroom, with Mrs. K (appropriately enough) while I sat in the meeting room with the other K parents and the principal, it hit me that maybe I'm not quite as ready as I thought I was. Oh, sure, it sounds lovely to have the WHOLE DAY to myself to finally sort out whatever is in those boxes in the back of the basement, to go running whenever I feel like it instead of when I can fit it in, to actually keep up with laundry and grocery shopping, to spend a whole afternoon on the deck reading a book.
But....Curly is my buddy. We hang out. We talk. We watch Veggie Tales and we build Lego space ships and race cars. We go to the mall sometimes for Auntie Anne's pretzels and lunch in the food court, or to Barnes and Noble to share a chocolate chip cookie and play with the trains in the kids' section.
He went in for the assessment that measures his readiness to begin kindergarten. Does he know his phone number and his address? Can he write his name? Does he know the difference between upper case and lower case? Can he hop on one foot and play catch? Does he interact with other kids easily?
He's way ready, Mrs. K assures me. A bright and funny boy. His preschool teachers assure me he's well ready and will have no problem transitioning to all-day school.
I've never been the type of mom to bemoan and mourn the passing of stages. I know some moms who are sad at their children's birthday parties because it all went too fast. I know some moms who, at every milestone, have said something like, "Stop growing up so fast!" And let me be clear, I'm not knocking them or being critical at all. That's just not my style.
I loved the baby years, as hard as they were sometimes, and there is nothing that can ever beat the smell of a newborn fresh out of the bath. I stayed awake to watch them breathe. I marveled watching their eyelashes grow in, and treasured every single gummy grin. I counted every tooth and cheered the first steps. But I didn't cry because they were growing up too fast. I didn't cry putting Moe and Larry onto the bus for the first time. I loved watching them be nervous about it, and do it anyway, that sense of accomplishment they got from just doing it anyway.
I have really been enjoying watching them change from babies who I adored cuddling and feeding and carrying, to boys who can run with me, who I can kick a soccer ball with or throw a football with, and who can reason and have a conversation about why the leaves change color or why our flag is important and why we should show respect. I am so digging watching them turn into the people they are growing up to be. It's pretty amazing.
But still. Curly is my baby.
And while he's raring to go, ready to spread his little wings and fly off to kindergarten with circle time and snack time and weekly Mass and rest time in the afternoons, it's a little harder for me this time.
It's not quite time yet. He hasn't finished preschool and we still have the whole summer to play. But I also have the sense of something coming to an end, of days being numbered.
His readiness is no longer in question.
But, I think mine might be.
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