Back from the funeral trip, safe and sound.
I have this awful habit of thinking/saying/doing the wrong thing at funerals. It's a coping method. I don't act up or out or anything, it's just that my brain fires off these things that I know are going to get me sent straight to hell.
Thing one:
The pastor (reverend? minister? I'm not sure what he was or what to call those people. I think there is a difference, but I'm not too sure. I don't think he is a priest, because he is Methodist. But maybe Methodists have priests. I don't know.) opened his speech (eulogy? sermon?) by placing his hand on the casket (coffin?) and saying:
"Dyyyiiinng..."
Those dots represent a five second silence, which I filled up by whispering:
"is wot bwings us togedda, todaay."
I mean seriously, dude. Really? You start off by saying "dying"? Not "welcome"? Or "hello"? Or "Sara"? Or one thousand other things? I think he was going for drama.
Lame.
Then there is the part at the graveyard where we all do Psalms 23 and when we get to the part that says
"Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death"
I turn to the person next to me and raise my eyebrows and do some subtle jazz hands and say:
"YAY!, though I walk..."
It's funny. To me. And apparently my brother.
Funny makes me feel better when I'm not feeling so good.
Oh, and then the ashes to ashes poem. That's a poem, you know. Not a Bible verse.
When the pastor says the ashes to ashes, my brain sings "Funk to funky. We know Major Tom's a junkie", so there I am, looking at the box that holds my grandmother, thinking about drugs and androgyny and men wearing make up and then I started wondering if any of the men there had ever worn make up or shot heroin or maybe tried on their girlfriend's underpants just for kicks. You know, when he was drunk and just pretending it was a joke. Then I wondered if my grandma ever saw a man dressed up like a woman in real life or what she would think if she knew I logged some major minutes in front of Thai Tranny porn. It's not that I'm turned on by that sort of stuff, it's just that it's really super interesting to see a beautiful man with breasts or a halfdone woman with a penis or whatever it is that I'm looking at and I can't seem to look away no matter how hard I try.
Hell.
Then it's all over and my brother and I got back in the limo to go get the car at the funeral home and it's just me and him and the reverend (did I mention that the reverend got put in the kid's limo? I'm sure that was probably intentional) and I said, aloud, before thinking, "oh hey! this is just like a Southern prom! Me, my brother, the minister, and a limo!". And then I tried to back track by saying something about him marrying us after the dance and that was all wrong so then I just stopped talking.
And folded my hands so the minister/reverend/pastor would think that I was praying.
10.29.2010
10.22.2010
When I put the phone down
-metaphorically speaking. Actually-
When I pushed the red button, I thought to myself, "well, that's finally over and everything happened just as it should and when it should. First ones first is the way it should be. One less thing to keep me up at night."
The second thing I thought was, "it will be my turn next. My turn to bury my parents. And their brothers and sister. As long as everything continues to go as it should. Second ones second."
Then, "I'm part of the third. I hope the third ones go third. I can't bear to think about the fourth ones going third. Or, godforbid, second. But none of us went first."
None of us I remember. My aunt and uncle buried a daughter hours after she was born. She was alive and then she just, wasn't, anymore. But I was little and I don't remember so in my mind we are all falling right as we should.
It's not easy to hang up the phone on someone who just told you they lost their mother. Especially when it's your dad on the line. It makes you wonder who's going to call about these matters next time. One of the cousins, maybe? A brother? All of my grandparents are gone.
Life, as it does, will most likely chip away at their children next.
It doesn't seem real.
In my mind, my aunts and uncles and parents are my age. When I think of them, I think of the way they were when I was a kid. The way they were when they were thirty something. It shocks me to see them in real life. Funerals tend to show them to me in real life. All in one place. Aged. Timed. Laced. Fine.
That doesn't make sense. Don't try to figure it out, I stole it from a Rod Stewart song. "ageless, timeless, lace and fineness".
You're welcome for that.
So, now my four biological grandparents are dead. The people who made the people who made me. The people who never yelled at me or beat me or shamed me but somehow magically got me to behave and strive and try. Never again will I be in a compromising situation and be stricken with "if I die here I wonder what my grandparents will think?". I don't have anyone left in the world to hide my tattoos from. I don't have the world's oldest living grandma anymore for anyone to "holy crap/ohmygod/wow" over anymore. Practically the world's oldest. Like, top oldest 5% probably. My heart won't stop every time I get a phone call or email from my dad. I won't have to wonder when it will happen anymore. Won't have to wonder if my grandma will outlive her children.
Now I will sit and wait for the guilt to settle in. The voices that tell me I should have called, should have written, should have visited. Should have sent pictures, should have had Jake color something, should have called the social worker to make sure all was well. Should have, could have, would have. We all know this routine. Until the guilt settles in I will enjoy the release. The respite. The relief. The peace of knowing that she is no longer suffering. Take comfort in the fairy tale ending, the one where she is once again with her husband and her parents, her old friends and her brothers and sister. Her sister who died before she knew her. That it's her time to reap and heal and laugh and build up and dance and gather stones. To embrace and get and keep and speak and love. Her time to find her purpose (up in) heaven.
As it goes.
I'm not sure if I believe that when we die we float up and get to spend forever with everyone we ever knew and loved and eat manna and understand all of life's mysteries, but I like to think that at the very least a tiny piece of ourselves- some of our essence or soul or spirit- leaves our body and races into the universe in search of a tiny piece of those we spent time with here and those tiny pieces travel into eternity together, positively charged and brightly lit and blissfully connected as they dance and sing and laugh and spiral into forever and ever. I like to think that the rest of what makes us, us- the energy that made our hearts beat and our hands touch and our feet carry us where we are needed most- goes into the trees and the flowers and the grass and the earth and into the breath of new babies and the chirps of the birds and the cold wet noses of puppies and the shine of the stars and makes everything grow and flourish and twinkle and carry on a bit of beauty and love and light in our memory.
-metaphorically speaking. Actually-
When I pushed the red button, I thought to myself, "well, that's finally over and everything happened just as it should and when it should. First ones first is the way it should be. One less thing to keep me up at night."
The second thing I thought was, "it will be my turn next. My turn to bury my parents. And their brothers and sister. As long as everything continues to go as it should. Second ones second."
Then, "I'm part of the third. I hope the third ones go third. I can't bear to think about the fourth ones going third. Or, godforbid, second. But none of us went first."
None of us I remember. My aunt and uncle buried a daughter hours after she was born. She was alive and then she just, wasn't, anymore. But I was little and I don't remember so in my mind we are all falling right as we should.
***
It's not easy to hang up the phone on someone who just told you they lost their mother. Especially when it's your dad on the line. It makes you wonder who's going to call about these matters next time. One of the cousins, maybe? A brother? All of my grandparents are gone.
Life, as it does, will most likely chip away at their children next.
It doesn't seem real.
In my mind, my aunts and uncles and parents are my age. When I think of them, I think of the way they were when I was a kid. The way they were when they were thirty something. It shocks me to see them in real life. Funerals tend to show them to me in real life. All in one place. Aged. Timed. Laced. Fine.
That doesn't make sense. Don't try to figure it out, I stole it from a Rod Stewart song. "ageless, timeless, lace and fineness".
You're welcome for that.
So, now my four biological grandparents are dead. The people who made the people who made me. The people who never yelled at me or beat me or shamed me but somehow magically got me to behave and strive and try. Never again will I be in a compromising situation and be stricken with "if I die here I wonder what my grandparents will think?". I don't have anyone left in the world to hide my tattoos from. I don't have the world's oldest living grandma anymore for anyone to "holy crap/ohmygod/wow" over anymore. Practically the world's oldest. Like, top oldest 5% probably. My heart won't stop every time I get a phone call or email from my dad. I won't have to wonder when it will happen anymore. Won't have to wonder if my grandma will outlive her children.
Now I will sit and wait for the guilt to settle in. The voices that tell me I should have called, should have written, should have visited. Should have sent pictures, should have had Jake color something, should have called the social worker to make sure all was well. Should have, could have, would have. We all know this routine. Until the guilt settles in I will enjoy the release. The respite. The relief. The peace of knowing that she is no longer suffering. Take comfort in the fairy tale ending, the one where she is once again with her husband and her parents, her old friends and her brothers and sister. Her sister who died before she knew her. That it's her time to reap and heal and laugh and build up and dance and gather stones. To embrace and get and keep and speak and love. Her time to find her purpose (up in) heaven.
As it goes.
***
I'm not sure if I believe that when we die we float up and get to spend forever with everyone we ever knew and loved and eat manna and understand all of life's mysteries, but I like to think that at the very least a tiny piece of ourselves- some of our essence or soul or spirit- leaves our body and races into the universe in search of a tiny piece of those we spent time with here and those tiny pieces travel into eternity together, positively charged and brightly lit and blissfully connected as they dance and sing and laugh and spiral into forever and ever. I like to think that the rest of what makes us, us- the energy that made our hearts beat and our hands touch and our feet carry us where we are needed most- goes into the trees and the flowers and the grass and the earth and into the breath of new babies and the chirps of the birds and the cold wet noses of puppies and the shine of the stars and makes everything grow and flourish and twinkle and carry on a bit of beauty and love and light in our memory.
10.15.2010
I wasn't going to post that last post. I've been doing some old fashioned journaling lately. Writing stuff down in my notebook while I'm on the subway, and dumping it in the recycling bin at the station of my destination.
What? You don't journal that way? The Purge Method? Slap a bunch of crap on paper and then throw it in the trash? Weird.
I'm not one to keep a diary type journal. What if I die and someone reads it? Oh, the horror.
Trashpickers finding my words I'm okay with. Someone I know finding them? Terrifying.
Luckily my manic handwriting is practically unintelligible.
I wasn't going to post that last post because I was afraid I'd strike a nerve with someone. Someone I know who has said something to me. Someone I don't know who has said something to someone else. I was afraid I'd hurt someone's feelings. Someone who really didn't mean to be mean, but was maybe a bit unsure of how to say something and it came out all wrong and they feel awful about it. Someone who I said something to and hurt them.
I'm in the business of teaching parents how to parent. I know how to do it gently, but sometimes I suck at my job. I've been known to effing freak the eff out when someone is doing something harmful to their child and will tell them in no uncertain terms that you can really hurt your kid by doing XYZ and if I've known a child to die while their caregiver did XYZ? Forget it. I'll tell a motha. Or a fatha. In no uncertain terms. (see: cereal in a bottle, misused carseats, crib bumpers/fluffy baby blankets or fluffy blankets in a co-sleeping bed, medicine overdoses, feeding a baby dangerous foods like grapes or hotdogs, feeding a child with food allergies any old thing out of the kitchen, leaving a child in a crib for so many years that he can climb out and fall and break his neck, and so on and so on). I can list all the ways how babies and children die or get seriously hurt all day. Ways how I've heard the moms and dads tell me how their babies died or their children get hurt.
I'm tired of hearing moms and dads tell me how their babies get hurt or die and I certainly don't want you to be one of those moms or dads.
A bully is someone who uses rank, coercion, or force to intimidate another person into behaving or feeling a certain way. That's not out of the dictionary, but I'm sure the dictionary definition is close.
We all know that bullies usually insecure or unsure of himself and have most likely been bullied themselves. They want to assert themselves as a strong or correct or influential individual. They do so by mandating behavior, belittling people. We all know that words hurt just as much if not more than sticks and stones.
So that's why I wrote that last post. Because I recognized what grownups do to other grownups sometimes stems from insecurity and being unsure about things and it's human nature to want others to do what we do because it makes us feel right and strong and smart. If someone does what you do, it makes you feel good about what you do. If someone does something different, it makes you wonder why. Makes you feel disrespected. Makes you feel like you may have done something wrong. Makes me feel. Makes her feel, him feel, us feel. Makes everyone feel that way.
If a mom spanked her child and yelled and fed him this and made him do that, she might expect that child to do the same to his child. And when he doesn't, she probably wonders why. And might have a really hard time with that. No one wants to feel like they did a bad job, and nothing says "you did a bad job" than when someone you taught to do something does something completely opposite.
Because that's where most of us learn parenting. We do what our parents did to us. That's how nature works. It comes naturally. And we are breaking nature when we break cycles.
Breaking nature is hard and nature has this crazy tendency to take over no matter what we do to stop it. But, with care and time and maintenance, nature can be kept at bay and we can begin to lay foundations and pathways and (insert another corny analogy here) and things can start shaping up and we can create a new nature that we pass on to our children and they pass on to theirs.
And we can do it together.
So, I wasn't going to post that last post, but I did. And someone somewhere musta liked it because it was featured today over at Five Star Friday.
So thank you, reader that nominated that last post. Thank you for validating my feelings and making me feel like I just may be doing something right in this crazy world. It's nice to feel that way every now and then. It's a nice balance to the general flogging and "I'm so stupid why did I do that what is wrong with me" head punches I manage to do to myself on a daily basis.
What? You don't journal that way? The Purge Method? Slap a bunch of crap on paper and then throw it in the trash? Weird.
I'm not one to keep a diary type journal. What if I die and someone reads it? Oh, the horror.
Trashpickers finding my words I'm okay with. Someone I know finding them? Terrifying.
Luckily my manic handwriting is practically unintelligible.
I wasn't going to post that last post because I was afraid I'd strike a nerve with someone. Someone I know who has said something to me. Someone I don't know who has said something to someone else. I was afraid I'd hurt someone's feelings. Someone who really didn't mean to be mean, but was maybe a bit unsure of how to say something and it came out all wrong and they feel awful about it. Someone who I said something to and hurt them.
I'm in the business of teaching parents how to parent. I know how to do it gently, but sometimes I suck at my job. I've been known to effing freak the eff out when someone is doing something harmful to their child and will tell them in no uncertain terms that you can really hurt your kid by doing XYZ and if I've known a child to die while their caregiver did XYZ? Forget it. I'll tell a motha. Or a fatha. In no uncertain terms. (see: cereal in a bottle, misused carseats, crib bumpers/fluffy baby blankets or fluffy blankets in a co-sleeping bed, medicine overdoses, feeding a baby dangerous foods like grapes or hotdogs, feeding a child with food allergies any old thing out of the kitchen, leaving a child in a crib for so many years that he can climb out and fall and break his neck, and so on and so on). I can list all the ways how babies and children die or get seriously hurt all day. Ways how I've heard the moms and dads tell me how their babies died or their children get hurt.
I'm tired of hearing moms and dads tell me how their babies get hurt or die and I certainly don't want you to be one of those moms or dads.
***
A bully is someone who uses rank, coercion, or force to intimidate another person into behaving or feeling a certain way. That's not out of the dictionary, but I'm sure the dictionary definition is close.
We all know that bullies usually insecure or unsure of himself and have most likely been bullied themselves. They want to assert themselves as a strong or correct or influential individual. They do so by mandating behavior, belittling people. We all know that words hurt just as much if not more than sticks and stones.
So that's why I wrote that last post. Because I recognized what grownups do to other grownups sometimes stems from insecurity and being unsure about things and it's human nature to want others to do what we do because it makes us feel right and strong and smart. If someone does what you do, it makes you feel good about what you do. If someone does something different, it makes you wonder why. Makes you feel disrespected. Makes you feel like you may have done something wrong. Makes me feel. Makes her feel, him feel, us feel. Makes everyone feel that way.
If a mom spanked her child and yelled and fed him this and made him do that, she might expect that child to do the same to his child. And when he doesn't, she probably wonders why. And might have a really hard time with that. No one wants to feel like they did a bad job, and nothing says "you did a bad job" than when someone you taught to do something does something completely opposite.
Because that's where most of us learn parenting. We do what our parents did to us. That's how nature works. It comes naturally. And we are breaking nature when we break cycles.
Breaking nature is hard and nature has this crazy tendency to take over no matter what we do to stop it. But, with care and time and maintenance, nature can be kept at bay and we can begin to lay foundations and pathways and (insert another corny analogy here) and things can start shaping up and we can create a new nature that we pass on to our children and they pass on to theirs.
And we can do it together.
So, I wasn't going to post that last post, but I did. And someone somewhere musta liked it because it was featured today over at Five Star Friday.
So thank you, reader that nominated that last post. Thank you for validating my feelings and making me feel like I just may be doing something right in this crazy world. It's nice to feel that way every now and then. It's a nice balance to the general flogging and "I'm so stupid why did I do that what is wrong with me" head punches I manage to do to myself on a daily basis.
10.14.2010
Just in case you are bumming around the city on Saturday and need something to do, hows abouts yous stop by the Shubin Theatre at 8pm to see me and my improv team, Asteroid!, live and on stage. Tickets are $10 and it's BYOB. We are opening for the Amie and Kristen Show, which is always a treat to see. Seriously. They're amazing. And so are we.
For those of you who have asked about videos, we are working on it. Hopefully soon. As soon as they are ready I'll post them here.
For those of you who have asked about videos, we are working on it. Hopefully soon. As soon as they are ready I'll post them here.
10.10.2010
I was bullied a little bit in middle school. Not terribly, but enough to make me tell a teacher. And it stopped. For awhile. Then it started again so I fought back. And the kids who were doing the bullying told the same teacher and I got in trouble.
But it passed. The kids were older and I ended up at a different school the next year anyway because I moved and by the time we all hit high school they were a bunch of burned out losers and our paths never crossed again.
Nothing awful. Or abnormal. Or life altering.
I got through high school just fine. College. My twenties.
And then I got pregnant.
I'll be the first to admit that a girl can get a little berzerker while she's knocked up, and take things differently than they were meant to be taken. I don't think anyone who has ever been or crossed paths with a pregnant lady will challenge that fact. And after you have the baby you are a total mess for a little while and everything makes you cry and wrenches your heart and makes you feel two apples tall and as smart as a wooden nickle.
...And then I got pregnant and people began taking liberties with their words. Telling me anything they thought I should know. Anything they felt. About anything. I think because we are inherently wired as pack animals, we do some primal things with one another. That strange I-yawn-we-all-yawn thing, for one. For another, pregnant women become public property. It's disgusting the way some people treat public property.
Fact: I didn't "show" until I was about 7 months.
Fact: I went to the gym five days a week until the day I delivered.
Fact: I read a lot of books and asked a lot of questions because I wanted to know what was going on and what was normal or not so normal and what the best things to do at every stage are. I'm high strung and anal retentive and a perfectionist. It's what people like me do.
Fact: I only ate fruits and vegetables and whole grain breads and beans and nuts and dairy. No junk. No ice cream, cookies, candies, pickles, meats.
Fact: I gained 22 pounds.
Fact: I delivered early, at 37.5 weeks.
Fact: Jake was 20 inches long, 5lbs 12 oz.
Fact: Jake was jaundiced. Lots of babies born early are.
Fact: Jake was skinny, but so were Dave and I when we were born. Plus he was early.
Fact: Jake was breastfed. Mostly. At first. He did get some formula and I'm totally okay with that.
Fact: I'm totally okay with the fact that Jake got some formula.
Fact: I'm not okay with the fact that Jake got some formula.
Fact: I'm okay with the fact that your baby got some formula.
Fact: I labored naturally for thirty some hours before I had an emergency C section.
Fact: It took me about ten minutes to lose the baby weight.
Fact: A few months to lose (most of) the flab.
Fact: Jake was marked a "failure to thrive" baby.
Fact: Jake was marked "perfectly healthy and normal" well before his first birthday.
Fact: Jake wasn't allowed any junk food until he was two.
Fact: Jake was allowed television before two.
Fact: There are lots more facts.
I tried to do everything in my power to assure that I would give birth to the healthiest baby my body could produce. I wanted to do everything I could to stay in shape so I could have an all natural, drug free labor. Also, I didn't want to struggle with weight after I wasn't pregnant anymore because I had a few close friends who were devistated with their new bodies. I watched their self worth plummet and their femininity cloaked by emotion and baggy clothing. I watched them be called fat, and call themselves fat and I saw what it did to their spirit and their marriage and their lives. I don't think I could handle that. So I ate well and exercised and got as much sleep as possible .
After Jake was born I fed him on demand for months and months. I continued to eat only healthy foods because I didn't want unhealthy stuff passed through my body into his. I let him sleep when he was tired, and I stayed awake with him when he wasn't. Mostly. When I couldn't take it anymore, I put him in his swing and put myself in time out. When he got a little older, I let him cry himself to sleep sometimes. Sometimes I held him until he fell asleep. I let him skip feedings, and later, meals. I let him eat in the middle of the night if he was hungry. I still do.
And on and on and on. Me doing things to the best of my knowledge and ability and according to the most current up to date medical and social research. I got a job in parenting so I could know more and do better. I did everything I could to be better.
Better than my mom and Dave's mom and their moms and all the moms before that. And the friends and the sisters and the cousins and the cousins' sisters' mothers' friends and and and.
Isn't that what it's all about, in the end?
No, not a competition.
Doing the best you can, every generation getting better than the last. Isn't that what we strive for?
So those are some of the facts.
As I see them.
The opinions?
You can imagine. If you are a parent-especially a mom, you've probably gotten them. Whether you are a parent or not, you've probably given them. They came hard and fast from places I never expected. People I never expected. Friends, relatives, strangers. Coworkers. Clients. Grocery clerks. Nurses. Bus drivers. Weirdos on the street.
Opinions like:
"You must be starving yourself.
Your belly is too tiny, your ass too big. Where's the all over fat? Start eating fat. Indulging.
Going to the gym is bad for the baby. For your body. The things you think are healthy aren't, what you feel is unhealthy would be good for the baby
There must be something wrong if you look like that at eight months. I looked like that at three months, and my doctor said I was perfect.
Is there something wrong? With you? With the baby?
Are you eating?
Why aren't you having a drink? Just one drink. One champagne toast. It's New Years.
Is that coffee you're drinking? I hope it's decaf.
Why aren't you eating organic yogurt? Organic tomatoes? Organic everything?
Why aren't you doing yoga?
Why are you staying at home so often?
Why are you going out?
You aren't planning to stay in the city are you?
You won't go back to work will you?
You are getting on a plane? That's risky. I wouldn't do that.
Why don't you have a midwife?
Why don't you have a better team of doctors?
Why do you struggle to see the doctor you chose? You should go somewhere that's not in such high-demand.
Why do you have to go to the hospital? My babies were born at XYZ center. They airlift you to your hospital if there's a problem, and you could have a tub birth at XYZ.
I wouldn't go to that hospital. My mother died of a staph infection in her foot there.
Why don't you just get the epidural? This is no time to be a hero.
Why did you have to have a C-section? There is rarely a real emergency. Doctors just do them so they can go play golf.
Why are you breastfeeding such a tiny child? He's not going to gain weight fast enough.
Why are you so skinny? You should stop nursing.
You look awful.
You look tired.
Why are you giving that baby a bottle?
I'd kill to be that skinny. Maybe I should have a baby and only eat carrots.
Give him cereal. In the bottle. It will help him sleep.
Wake him up all day so he'll sleep at night.
Let him cry. You'll spoil him.
Put him down. He'll get used to being held.
Pick him up. That's a shame that you let him fuss.
Give him Tylenol/Benedryl/a little brandy. It will knock him out.
Where's his pacifier? You don't let your baby have a pacifier?
Don't worry about the car seat. We didn't have them when we were little.
Don't wear your baby. That's obnoxious.
Why did you stop wearing your baby? Lots of people have arthritis but they still wear their babies. Make the sacrifice. It can't be that bad.
Get a babysitter. Go out.
Why did you go out? I could never trust my baby with a sitter. Not until they can speak clear English.
Just give him a taste of table food. Mash it up good.
I fed it to him because he likes it. You should see how happy he was when he tasted pudding/ice cream/candy.
Don't give him cow's milk before he's one. He could die.
Why are you giving him eggs? Peanut butter? Fish? He could die.
It's only McDonalds. Let him have a treat.
You let him chose his ____? If you let him start making choices you'll lose control.
You should spank him.
What that boy needs is to be afraid of adults. I don't like the way he stands up to people. Fear = respect.
He isn't baptized? What if there's an accident? You are damning your own child. (see also: You told him Santa is real? Why would you lie to him like that? and: I don't think children should trick or treat. You are teaching him that the devil is all about fun and candy.)
He watches television?
He eats ____ but not ___? What kind of kid is that?
He asks questions like ___? I'd slap my boy if he dared questioned ___!
I could go on, but my battery is running low.
Batteries.
My computer is dying and I'm starting to feel run down.
Every single one of these things were said to me, and they made me feel like shit and I'll never forget the words. They bite and sting and hurt and tear apart the mothering instinct and the desire to do what is best for a mother and her child just to appease those around her..
There is this huge power struggle about who is right and who is wrong and when a mother does something that she feels in her heart to be the right thing to do for her babies (which is very very different from doing what is easy or what our frustration or anger can drive us to do or will quiet the child for a moment or will make us feel better at the expense of the child), it seems that there are three mothers behind her telling her that they wouldn't do it that way or they did X with their kid and that kid turned out fine.
Let me tell you something. Your kid didn't turn out fine. Your kid sucks. It's a total asshole who has no idea how the world and the people on it works.
(Not you. Your kid is great. I'm talking to her over there.)
There were things that my mom did to me that made me not fine. There were things her mom did to her that made her not fine. I'm guessing the same holds true in your family.
There are things that I will do to my child that will make him not fine. I aim to raise him in such a way that he will be strong enough to not make my mistakes with his children. To work with his partner to be sure that he or she will not make his or her mother's mistakes with their children.
The things people say to mothers may be veiled in good intentions and "I'm just trying to help", but so often at the root it is a power struggle. The old: I'm right, you're wrong. I'm better, you're worse. I've been there, you're ignorant.
The old ways are better, doctors/therapists/social workers/book authors don't know what they're talking about. I'm smarter than your doctor/therapist/social worker/book author because I've raised children and know how it really is. I'm smarter than you because you're dumb enough to believe what's in books, what's on the internet, what's in your heart.
Do this because this is the way I raised you and this is what we do in our family. In our circle of friends. In our town. In our faith. In our culture. It's the way we've always done them and always should. To do things differently is to dishonor me/our family/our friends/our town/our faith/our culture/our ___."
It's bullying.
And if we give into some of this bull(ying) shit, our children will be the ones to pay.
It's high time that mothers band together, help each other and ourselves become educated, and become supportive of one another. To stop telling each other what we are doing wrong and start sharing with each other how to do it right.
We all do things that are wrong, and we all should feel comfortable asking for help. The right kind of help.
We should all have an obligation to help one another change things around to find what's right for us and our families right now. Not twenty years ago, three generations ago. Times have changed and so should we.
We need to empower ourselves to take a stand against people who are doing things to our children against our wishes. We can tell our friends and aunts and cousins and mothers (and uncles and husbands and partners and fathers) that we are doing things different and until she (or he) respects our ways, there will be no unsupervised contact with our child.
We can.
And we can start now.
But it passed. The kids were older and I ended up at a different school the next year anyway because I moved and by the time we all hit high school they were a bunch of burned out losers and our paths never crossed again.
Nothing awful. Or abnormal. Or life altering.
I got through high school just fine. College. My twenties.
And then I got pregnant.
I'll be the first to admit that a girl can get a little berzerker while she's knocked up, and take things differently than they were meant to be taken. I don't think anyone who has ever been or crossed paths with a pregnant lady will challenge that fact. And after you have the baby you are a total mess for a little while and everything makes you cry and wrenches your heart and makes you feel two apples tall and as smart as a wooden nickle.
...And then I got pregnant and people began taking liberties with their words. Telling me anything they thought I should know. Anything they felt. About anything. I think because we are inherently wired as pack animals, we do some primal things with one another. That strange I-yawn-we-all-yawn thing, for one. For another, pregnant women become public property. It's disgusting the way some people treat public property.
***
Fact: I didn't "show" until I was about 7 months.
Fact: I went to the gym five days a week until the day I delivered.
Fact: I read a lot of books and asked a lot of questions because I wanted to know what was going on and what was normal or not so normal and what the best things to do at every stage are. I'm high strung and anal retentive and a perfectionist. It's what people like me do.
Fact: I only ate fruits and vegetables and whole grain breads and beans and nuts and dairy. No junk. No ice cream, cookies, candies, pickles, meats.
Fact: I gained 22 pounds.
Fact: I delivered early, at 37.5 weeks.
Fact: Jake was 20 inches long, 5lbs 12 oz.
Fact: Jake was jaundiced. Lots of babies born early are.
Fact: Jake was skinny, but so were Dave and I when we were born. Plus he was early.
Fact: Jake was breastfed. Mostly. At first. He did get some formula and I'm totally okay with that.
Fact: I'm totally okay with the fact that Jake got some formula.
Fact: I'm not okay with the fact that Jake got some formula.
Fact: I'm okay with the fact that your baby got some formula.
Fact: I labored naturally for thirty some hours before I had an emergency C section.
Fact: It took me about ten minutes to lose the baby weight.
Fact: A few months to lose (most of) the flab.
Fact: Jake was marked a "failure to thrive" baby.
Fact: Jake was marked "perfectly healthy and normal" well before his first birthday.
Fact: Jake wasn't allowed any junk food until he was two.
Fact: Jake was allowed television before two.
Fact: There are lots more facts.
I tried to do everything in my power to assure that I would give birth to the healthiest baby my body could produce. I wanted to do everything I could to stay in shape so I could have an all natural, drug free labor. Also, I didn't want to struggle with weight after I wasn't pregnant anymore because I had a few close friends who were devistated with their new bodies. I watched their self worth plummet and their femininity cloaked by emotion and baggy clothing. I watched them be called fat, and call themselves fat and I saw what it did to their spirit and their marriage and their lives. I don't think I could handle that. So I ate well and exercised and got as much sleep as possible .
After Jake was born I fed him on demand for months and months. I continued to eat only healthy foods because I didn't want unhealthy stuff passed through my body into his. I let him sleep when he was tired, and I stayed awake with him when he wasn't. Mostly. When I couldn't take it anymore, I put him in his swing and put myself in time out. When he got a little older, I let him cry himself to sleep sometimes. Sometimes I held him until he fell asleep. I let him skip feedings, and later, meals. I let him eat in the middle of the night if he was hungry. I still do.
And on and on and on. Me doing things to the best of my knowledge and ability and according to the most current up to date medical and social research. I got a job in parenting so I could know more and do better. I did everything I could to be better.
Better than my mom and Dave's mom and their moms and all the moms before that. And the friends and the sisters and the cousins and the cousins' sisters' mothers' friends and and and.
Isn't that what it's all about, in the end?
No, not a competition.
Doing the best you can, every generation getting better than the last. Isn't that what we strive for?
So those are some of the facts.
As I see them.
The opinions?
You can imagine. If you are a parent-especially a mom, you've probably gotten them. Whether you are a parent or not, you've probably given them. They came hard and fast from places I never expected. People I never expected. Friends, relatives, strangers. Coworkers. Clients. Grocery clerks. Nurses. Bus drivers. Weirdos on the street.
Opinions like:
"You must be starving yourself.
Your belly is too tiny, your ass too big. Where's the all over fat? Start eating fat. Indulging.
Going to the gym is bad for the baby. For your body. The things you think are healthy aren't, what you feel is unhealthy would be good for the baby
There must be something wrong if you look like that at eight months. I looked like that at three months, and my doctor said I was perfect.
Is there something wrong? With you? With the baby?
Are you eating?
Why aren't you having a drink? Just one drink. One champagne toast. It's New Years.
Is that coffee you're drinking? I hope it's decaf.
Why aren't you eating organic yogurt? Organic tomatoes? Organic everything?
Why aren't you doing yoga?
Why are you staying at home so often?
Why are you going out?
You aren't planning to stay in the city are you?
You won't go back to work will you?
You are getting on a plane? That's risky. I wouldn't do that.
Why don't you have a midwife?
Why don't you have a better team of doctors?
Why do you struggle to see the doctor you chose? You should go somewhere that's not in such high-demand.
Why do you have to go to the hospital? My babies were born at XYZ center. They airlift you to your hospital if there's a problem, and you could have a tub birth at XYZ.
I wouldn't go to that hospital. My mother died of a staph infection in her foot there.
Why don't you just get the epidural? This is no time to be a hero.
Why did you have to have a C-section? There is rarely a real emergency. Doctors just do them so they can go play golf.
Why are you breastfeeding such a tiny child? He's not going to gain weight fast enough.
Why are you so skinny? You should stop nursing.
You look awful.
You look tired.
Why are you giving that baby a bottle?
I'd kill to be that skinny. Maybe I should have a baby and only eat carrots.
Give him cereal. In the bottle. It will help him sleep.
Wake him up all day so he'll sleep at night.
Let him cry. You'll spoil him.
Put him down. He'll get used to being held.
Pick him up. That's a shame that you let him fuss.
Give him Tylenol/Benedryl/a little brandy. It will knock him out.
Where's his pacifier? You don't let your baby have a pacifier?
Don't worry about the car seat. We didn't have them when we were little.
Don't wear your baby. That's obnoxious.
Why did you stop wearing your baby? Lots of people have arthritis but they still wear their babies. Make the sacrifice. It can't be that bad.
Get a babysitter. Go out.
Why did you go out? I could never trust my baby with a sitter. Not until they can speak clear English.
Just give him a taste of table food. Mash it up good.
I fed it to him because he likes it. You should see how happy he was when he tasted pudding/ice cream/candy.
Don't give him cow's milk before he's one. He could die.
Why are you giving him eggs? Peanut butter? Fish? He could die.
It's only McDonalds. Let him have a treat.
You let him chose his ____? If you let him start making choices you'll lose control.
You should spank him.
What that boy needs is to be afraid of adults. I don't like the way he stands up to people. Fear = respect.
He isn't baptized? What if there's an accident? You are damning your own child. (see also: You told him Santa is real? Why would you lie to him like that? and: I don't think children should trick or treat. You are teaching him that the devil is all about fun and candy.)
He watches television?
He eats ____ but not ___? What kind of kid is that?
He asks questions like ___? I'd slap my boy if he dared questioned ___!
I could go on, but my battery is running low.
Batteries.
My computer is dying and I'm starting to feel run down.
Every single one of these things were said to me, and they made me feel like shit and I'll never forget the words. They bite and sting and hurt and tear apart the mothering instinct and the desire to do what is best for a mother and her child just to appease those around her..
There is this huge power struggle about who is right and who is wrong and when a mother does something that she feels in her heart to be the right thing to do for her babies (which is very very different from doing what is easy or what our frustration or anger can drive us to do or will quiet the child for a moment or will make us feel better at the expense of the child), it seems that there are three mothers behind her telling her that they wouldn't do it that way or they did X with their kid and that kid turned out fine.
Let me tell you something. Your kid didn't turn out fine. Your kid sucks. It's a total asshole who has no idea how the world and the people on it works.
(Not you. Your kid is great. I'm talking to her over there.)
There were things that my mom did to me that made me not fine. There were things her mom did to her that made her not fine. I'm guessing the same holds true in your family.
There are things that I will do to my child that will make him not fine. I aim to raise him in such a way that he will be strong enough to not make my mistakes with his children. To work with his partner to be sure that he or she will not make his or her mother's mistakes with their children.
The things people say to mothers may be veiled in good intentions and "I'm just trying to help", but so often at the root it is a power struggle. The old: I'm right, you're wrong. I'm better, you're worse. I've been there, you're ignorant.
The old ways are better, doctors/therapists/social workers/book authors don't know what they're talking about. I'm smarter than your doctor/therapist/social worker/book author because I've raised children and know how it really is. I'm smarter than you because you're dumb enough to believe what's in books, what's on the internet, what's in your heart.
Do this because this is the way I raised you and this is what we do in our family. In our circle of friends. In our town. In our faith. In our culture. It's the way we've always done them and always should. To do things differently is to dishonor me/our family/our friends/our town/our faith/our culture/our ___."
It's bullying.
And if we give into some of this bull(ying) shit, our children will be the ones to pay.
It's high time that mothers band together, help each other and ourselves become educated, and become supportive of one another. To stop telling each other what we are doing wrong and start sharing with each other how to do it right.
We all do things that are wrong, and we all should feel comfortable asking for help. The right kind of help.
We should all have an obligation to help one another change things around to find what's right for us and our families right now. Not twenty years ago, three generations ago. Times have changed and so should we.
We need to empower ourselves to take a stand against people who are doing things to our children against our wishes. We can tell our friends and aunts and cousins and mothers (and uncles and husbands and partners and fathers) that we are doing things different and until she (or he) respects our ways, there will be no unsupervised contact with our child.
We can.
And we can start now.
10.05.2010
I love all the Halloween spirit running around the internet these days. Halloween is my favorite day of the year, second only to my birthday. But since that fell flat this year, Halloween has a lot riding on it.
I was aiming to do a ghost post a day. Something spooky or icky. Something fun or awful. But now it's the 5th and I've failed miserably so I'll just promise myself to get one up every five days.
Or so.
Today I'll start small.
I think if I put you all in a room and asked for a show of hands from anyone who thinks they might be haunted by Ghost Babies I'd get a pretty good number of you reaching upwards.
I think.
Maybe.
I'm willing to bet that of those of us haunted like this, all of our Ghost Babies are different.
Babies we've lost. By choice or by chance. Babies we want. Babies we don't. Babies we will. Babies we won't. Babies we aren't quite sure about. Ghost Baby Spirits hanging out in your house, waiting for a body to fill. Looking for the body they used to own..
Babies in waiting. Waiting to be wanted. Waiting to live. Waiting to be loved. To be made. To be born.
Tiny half babies swimming in our bellies. In your balls. In a tube somewhere between Point In and Point Out.
Babies who used to live in our house but aren't babies anymore. We still pick coins off the floor so no one eats them and buy food that goes down easy so no one chokes. Make sure there is milk. Peanut butter. Cookies.
Lots of Ghost Babies lying around. Toddling around.
In our chairs. Up our stairs.
Very late at night you might hear them. Smell them. See them. Feel them. Taste them.
You've never tasted a baby?
They are delicious.
I was aiming to do a ghost post a day. Something spooky or icky. Something fun or awful. But now it's the 5th and I've failed miserably so I'll just promise myself to get one up every five days.
Or so.
Today I'll start small.
***
I think if I put you all in a room and asked for a show of hands from anyone who thinks they might be haunted by Ghost Babies I'd get a pretty good number of you reaching upwards.
I think.
Maybe.
I'm willing to bet that of those of us haunted like this, all of our Ghost Babies are different.
Babies we've lost. By choice or by chance. Babies we want. Babies we don't. Babies we will. Babies we won't. Babies we aren't quite sure about. Ghost Baby Spirits hanging out in your house, waiting for a body to fill. Looking for the body they used to own..
Babies in waiting. Waiting to be wanted. Waiting to live. Waiting to be loved. To be made. To be born.
Tiny half babies swimming in our bellies. In your balls. In a tube somewhere between Point In and Point Out.
Babies who used to live in our house but aren't babies anymore. We still pick coins off the floor so no one eats them and buy food that goes down easy so no one chokes. Make sure there is milk. Peanut butter. Cookies.
Lots of Ghost Babies lying around. Toddling around.
In our chairs. Up our stairs.
Very late at night you might hear them. Smell them. See them. Feel them. Taste them.
You've never tasted a baby?
They are delicious.
10.04.2010
I have precious little to offer by way of dating advice, because I have precious little experience in the field.
I didn't care too much for boys when I was a teenager. Well, dating more so than boys. I had zero interest in dating because all good girls know that dating puts you in situations that you don't want to be in like explaining away a hickey to your dad or contracting the clap.
I met Dave on, like, my second day of college and if you have a boyfriend in college you just go to basement parties and the caf together, which are hardly dates. But a much better alternatives than what my friends were doing (see: hickeys and clap)
These days dates usually end up with me falling asleep on the couch in front of Netflix or building ramps with Dr. Seuss books to figure out the best and most precise angle that McQueen will jump the highest and roll the furthest and not flip over upon impact.
I can tell you all about that, if that's the sort of stuff you are looking for.
But I'm for shit on dating advice of the normal kind.
Back in my olden days, there were three boys that I really liked liked and thought were super cute and they managed to crush my heart into a thousand tiny pieces before I somehow got on with life.
Three.
And where are those boys now?
Boy 1: Barely graduated high school, despite attending faithfully almost every single day from K-12. Dedicated, adorable, genuinely nice and accidentally hilarious, but not too smart. He delivers parcels these days, and my mom says he is still very handsome. She sees him when he brings stuff to the courthouse.
That's my mom, always loving a man in uniform.
Wondering what brown can do for her.
Boy 2: Is rumored to be dating the guy who cuts my mom's hair.
(Why is it that my mom has been mentioned twice in this post? Ick.)
But we are friends and I'm over it all and he's back at home living at his mom's but when he lived here in Philadelphia we hung out a few times and I was completely okay with it and didn't have the urge to hug him or touch his face or anything like that. I effectively crushed that crush nearly 20 years ago when I realized that no matter how many carnations I sent to his homeroom on carnation day he wasn't going to send any back. Now that I am almost 100% sure he likes boys I feel a lot better about it all.
It actually makes me like him more, because I have this thing for gay boys. I love them with unhealthy proportions of my love that I have available to give to the world. But gayboy love is so completely different than crush love, so it's all good.
Boy 3: who is really Boy 2 chronologically but I'd rather save the worst for last came up on my Facebook suggested friends list.
He was sort of a drama dork in middle school (I don't remember if we went to high school together. It was big and you didn't see everyone who went there. I think I assumed he moved away), always in the school plays and in the chorus and in band. A geek, obsessed with Nintendo and sort of a kiss ass towards the teachers. SO not my type but man alive did I like the way he looked.
You know, when I was 11, and I had a type.
I really liked that he was missing the tooth behind his top pointy dogtooth. It fell out when he fell off his bike and his mom's insurance wouldn't cover a false one until he lost his 12 year old molars because it would somehow mess up the spacing in his mouth.
To this day I find a missing back tooth a desirable trait in someone. Provided that the rest of the teeth are in tip top shape, of course.
Anyway, so he comes up on my suggested friends list because we have four friends in common and this is his profile picture:
Eyes, mouth, and horns added by me to protect his identity because it might be illegal to lift people's photographs off and post them on your blog.
Well, it's Facebook, so it's probably totally legal.
Just rude.
You can totally click on that to embiggen it.
Holy crap.
The bad tattoos. The Budweiser. The Confederacy. The knife. The jean shorts. The sword. The shaved head in close proximity to all those things I just listed.
All things that I'm vehemently opposed to.
And that's just his profile picture.
You should see some of the other stuff on there.
What a winner.
The one who got away.
He told me he didn't like me because I had glasses and braces and was too skinny and tall.
I thought I would die, and that I could never love again and no one would ever love me because I was so gangly and hideous.
But braces come off and contacts go in and someone becomes a White Supremacist and we all move on.
I have no problem directing you to his page if you ask. But I'm not going to post it here. That would be wrong.
Lucky for the part of my soul that deals with all things unrequited, these guys aren't all that dreamy. They aren't members of the Erie Yacht Club. Or living in Forest Glen. Or driving DeLoreans. Or dining nightly at the Pufferbelly. Or getting me pregnant with eight babies. Or doing anything that I ever MASHed us to do.
Do kids still MASH?
If your kids are MASHing, tell them that it's a waste of time.
All that paper.
All those dreams.
All the planning.
All for naught.
Thank God.
I didn't care too much for boys when I was a teenager. Well, dating more so than boys. I had zero interest in dating because all good girls know that dating puts you in situations that you don't want to be in like explaining away a hickey to your dad or contracting the clap.
I met Dave on, like, my second day of college and if you have a boyfriend in college you just go to basement parties and the caf together, which are hardly dates. But a much better alternatives than what my friends were doing (see: hickeys and clap)
These days dates usually end up with me falling asleep on the couch in front of Netflix or building ramps with Dr. Seuss books to figure out the best and most precise angle that McQueen will jump the highest and roll the furthest and not flip over upon impact.
I can tell you all about that, if that's the sort of stuff you are looking for.
But I'm for shit on dating advice of the normal kind.
***
Back in my olden days, there were three boys that I really liked liked and thought were super cute and they managed to crush my heart into a thousand tiny pieces before I somehow got on with life.
Three.
And where are those boys now?
Boy 1: Barely graduated high school, despite attending faithfully almost every single day from K-12. Dedicated, adorable, genuinely nice and accidentally hilarious, but not too smart. He delivers parcels these days, and my mom says he is still very handsome. She sees him when he brings stuff to the courthouse.
That's my mom, always loving a man in uniform.
Wondering what brown can do for her.
Boy 2: Is rumored to be dating the guy who cuts my mom's hair.
(Why is it that my mom has been mentioned twice in this post? Ick.)
But we are friends and I'm over it all and he's back at home living at his mom's but when he lived here in Philadelphia we hung out a few times and I was completely okay with it and didn't have the urge to hug him or touch his face or anything like that. I effectively crushed that crush nearly 20 years ago when I realized that no matter how many carnations I sent to his homeroom on carnation day he wasn't going to send any back. Now that I am almost 100% sure he likes boys I feel a lot better about it all.
It actually makes me like him more, because I have this thing for gay boys. I love them with unhealthy proportions of my love that I have available to give to the world. But gayboy love is so completely different than crush love, so it's all good.
Boy 3: who is really Boy 2 chronologically but I'd rather save the worst for last came up on my Facebook suggested friends list.
He was sort of a drama dork in middle school (I don't remember if we went to high school together. It was big and you didn't see everyone who went there. I think I assumed he moved away), always in the school plays and in the chorus and in band. A geek, obsessed with Nintendo and sort of a kiss ass towards the teachers. SO not my type but man alive did I like the way he looked.
You know, when I was 11, and I had a type.
I really liked that he was missing the tooth behind his top pointy dogtooth. It fell out when he fell off his bike and his mom's insurance wouldn't cover a false one until he lost his 12 year old molars because it would somehow mess up the spacing in his mouth.
To this day I find a missing back tooth a desirable trait in someone. Provided that the rest of the teeth are in tip top shape, of course.
Anyway, so he comes up on my suggested friends list because we have four friends in common and this is his profile picture:
Well, it's Facebook, so it's probably totally legal.
Just rude.
You can totally click on that to embiggen it.
Holy crap.
The bad tattoos. The Budweiser. The Confederacy. The knife. The jean shorts. The sword. The shaved head in close proximity to all those things I just listed.
All things that I'm vehemently opposed to.
And that's just his profile picture.
You should see some of the other stuff on there.
What a winner.
The one who got away.
He told me he didn't like me because I had glasses and braces and was too skinny and tall.
I thought I would die, and that I could never love again and no one would ever love me because I was so gangly and hideous.
But braces come off and contacts go in and someone becomes a White Supremacist and we all move on.
I have no problem directing you to his page if you ask. But I'm not going to post it here. That would be wrong.
Lucky for the part of my soul that deals with all things unrequited, these guys aren't all that dreamy. They aren't members of the Erie Yacht Club. Or living in Forest Glen. Or driving DeLoreans. Or dining nightly at the Pufferbelly. Or getting me pregnant with eight babies. Or doing anything that I ever MASHed us to do.
Do kids still MASH?
If your kids are MASHing, tell them that it's a waste of time.
All that paper.
All those dreams.
All the planning.
All for naught.
Thank God.
10.02.2010
A friend (who I've never met in real life and doesn't blog but reads mine and we are on each other's Facebookses) emailed me the other day and asked if I am as gregarious in real life as I am in my pictures.
Gregarious is a funny word. A good word. A strong word. One of my favorites.
It sounds like the proper name of someone who wears bedsheets and ivy hairbands out in public.
I hear it used wrong all the time. As if it means boisterous, or hauty, or vain, or obnoxious.
But it doesn't.
Websters defines gregarious as:
Gregarious is a funny word. A good word. A strong word. One of my favorites.
It sounds like the proper name of someone who wears bedsheets and ivy hairbands out in public.
I hear it used wrong all the time. As if it means boisterous, or hauty, or vain, or obnoxious.
But it doesn't.
Websters defines gregarious as:
a : tending to associate with others of one's kind : social
b : marked by or indicating a liking for companionship : sociable
c : of or relating to a social group
And I answered something like:
yes. (Until I'm not. I sucumb to hermitism sometimes but under normal circumstances I am quite gregarious.) I believe it is so important to find and build and develop and nurture a community around oneself. A support system, a chosen family, a safe and welcoming and reliable assemblage.
I have a friend who claims that I collect people. This is true.
That I collect people for the sole purpose of putting them all in one room together just to see what happens.
Guilty. Interesting things happen. Everyone comes away learning something about themselves, about others, about group dynamics and shared consciousness and differing opinions and things we have in common and things we certainly don't. It's amazing. No matter how outgoing or experienced or aged we are we come away from a gathering or a party or a class or a dinner or a meeting or a bus stop or a queue or whatever changed. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. It's an amazing thing to have happen, to observe, to enjoy, to orchestrate.
I'm gregarious because I have this burning need to feel connected, to feel like I belong, to feel normal, accepted, to not feel lonely. To make others feel connected, to feel like they belong, to feel normal, accepted, to not feel lonely.
I answered something like:
I think that it's so important to feel close to others. Mentally, socially, spiritually, emotionally, physically.
We are so afraid to be ourselves and to share ourselves with others, to let others share themselves. Afraid to let people in and to gain entrance to other people. Afraid of looking stupid or weak or vain or proud. Afraid to touch one another- to give a hug, a stroke, a good long hand holding. Afraid of being/feeling rejected. Being rejected is awful, especially if you don't have people to fall back on, people who make you feel like you are good and true and whole and worthy and wonderful. We all need people to fall back on, to make us feel good and true and whole and worthy and wonderful.
It's important these days, you know?
The world is scary. Much too scary to have a go at it alone.
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