Sunday, February 04, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
sitting on the couch while the cultural war rages on: why parents do not engage
As the mother of a daughter, there are several choices I’ve had to make that have been less than popular, and, at times, less than comfortable, in regard to how I allow my daughter to interact with our current culture. Such decisions have been made after a great deal of inner debate, and have been guided in part by insight from books I’ve read and discussed with others, such as Home Invasion by Rebecca Hagelin and Your Girl by Vicky Courtney. So when I came across Dean’s post about a hyper-sexualized middle school talent show a few weeks back, I began giving further thought as to why it seems so many other parents DON’T seem to be making similar choices.
Dean quotes from the original New York Times article about the highly provocative nature of the “talent” being displayed, then quotes another blogger who asks, “Why are parents giving up?” Dean responds that the answer is simple. “Many of these parents probably hold secret misgivings about what goes on in these productions, but silence them in an effort not to damage their child's acceptance in the achievement elite.” He concludes his post by saying, "Because those parents who might object to this kind of thing are silent, those who have the greatest tolerance for the sexualization of children continue to push the boundaries of acceptability. Combine this reality with the common belief that sexual mores inevitably become looser as time goes by and the belief that the highest calling one can have on one's life is to be a celebrity (which requires the early sacrifice of modesty) and you end up with talent shows like this one."
Dean quotes from the original New York Times article about the highly provocative nature of the “talent” being displayed, then quotes another blogger who asks, “Why are parents giving up?” Dean responds that the answer is simple. “Many of these parents probably hold secret misgivings about what goes on in these productions, but silence them in an effort not to damage their child's acceptance in the achievement elite.” He concludes his post by saying, "Because those parents who might object to this kind of thing are silent, those who have the greatest tolerance for the sexualization of children continue to push the boundaries of acceptability. Combine this reality with the common belief that sexual mores inevitably become looser as time goes by and the belief that the highest calling one can have on one's life is to be a celebrity (which requires the early sacrifice of modesty) and you end up with talent shows like this one."
While I agree entirely that this is a legitimate factor, I disagree that it is as “simple” as this. I think there are many more reasons why even well-meaning, able-conscienced parents throw up their hands and allow their children to be swallowed whole by the culture. I will take a moment here to offer up just a few.
Rebecca Hagelin states, in the introduction to the afore mentioned book, “…too often, even good moms and dads, when confronted with the struggle—and believe me, it’s a struggle—simply give up. They shrug their shoulders and decide, 'I just don’t have the energy to argue. Everybody’s doing it, so what’s the harm in my child doing it too?' This syndrome has become the mantra of too many parents.” It takes energy to engage in the cultural war against our children and families. Many parents simply lack the energy or the motivation to stand up for what they know internally to be right and appropriate, because they think they are but one facing millions (or even just one other) and they are not up for the argument. They don’t want to be challenged or questioned, they don’t want to be given a hard time, they just want to sit on their couch and be comfortable. If every parent who had a conscience would take the time and energy to stand up for what they believe to be right and appropriate for their children, be it at the school talent show or with the entertainment industry or with their own child, we would see standards change. They would have to.
Furthermore, many parents not only lack energy and motivation, but conviction as well. It bothers them that their twelve year old is gyrating her pelvis on stage (or even just in the living room) with her abdomen exposed and the rest of her body barely covered, but they aren’t really sure why and they’re not bothered enough to really DO something about it. In a culture that lacks a moral compass, lines are not easily drawn. If a parent has not taken the time to draw these lines both for themselves and for their child, they are not equipped to respond to the uneasiness that arises within them in such situations. And they will likely not become passionate about it until the threat of pregnancy or STD is eminent, because those are the only lines they ARE clear about.
But the lines are not drawn come middle school, when the sign-ups begin for the talent show—they begin as early as life begins with the choices surrounding what their children will and will not be exposed to and how they will deal with such exposure. Rebecca Hagelin states, “…media companies who want your child to like their programming at, say, fourteen, start trying to captivate them at age four. The idea is to get the kids and the parents gradually numb to certain ideas that would normally offend their sensibilities—and they start, oh, so subtly and cleverly to do so.” Many parents have become numb to the culture because they are over-saturated by it. About ten years ago my husband and I partook in a little experiment and for all intents and purposes stopped watching TV all together. As the time has gone by, we find ourselves more and more appalled by what is on television, because we have not been regularly and systematically desensitized by the entertainment industry for the last decade. This makes us all the more vigilant about what we allow our children to be exposed to, because we have seen first hand how we can become numb to our consciences.
As previously mentioned, in the interest of time and space, these are but a few of the reasons I believe many parents simply “give up” in the battle against our culture. I believe many (myself included, at times) lack the energy, the motivation, the conviction, and the moral sensitivity necessary to enter into a war that will likely not be won in our lifetime. Combine these factors with a driving desire to be comfortable and not rock the boat, and the pervasive message that parents are no longer the experts when it comes to their own children, and you get entire armies of parents who sit, dazed and useless, on their couches while their children become casualties.
Although the war is daunting, I strongly believe battles can be won for our children in the day to day if we only take the time and the energy to say no to that which makes us uncomfortable. Our conscience is our God-given, internal alarm that tells us that something is not right. As parents we must learn to trust it and follow it, because if we do not exercise our conscience, it will weaken over time, and our children will pay the price.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
ready or not...
“Momma, what’s sex?” My eyebrows shoot up involuntarily as my heart skips a beat. As she is turned away from me in the dark and using her “I’m feeling really self-conscious” voice, I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly. I silently hope I haven’t.
“What did you say, Bub?”
“What is sex?” She turns toward me and I see her questioning almost-eight-year-old eyes in the half-light of her bedroom. I heard her correctly. I silently hope aliens will abduct one of us, rescuing me from having to answer her earnest yet uncomfortable question. They do not.
I take a deep breath.
Fortunately, I am not completely unprepared for this conversation—the lucky side effect of being a slightly neurotic parent who worries about too much about too many things and has too many books but too little time to read them. My bookshelves and nightstand all contain, smattered among the memoirs and novels and books on writing, titles like How and When to Talk to Your Kids About Sex or How to Talk to Your Child About Sex or Talking to Your Kids About Sex. (Books on the topic are prolific—alas, creative titles are not.) I’ve even read parts of some of them. And underlined in them. I’ve been a good student. I just didn’t think the final exam would come for, oh, about another year. Or two. Or five.
I silently wish I’d studied harder.
This is not our first conversation, which further complicates the situation. She has been asking questions, albeit infrequently, for about six months now, and I have been answering them in honest but veiled answers, explaining that more information will come as she is older. The groundwork has been laid. But she has been less and less pacified by my responses. She is wanting more. But is she ready?
“Where did you hear that word?” I begin with an indirect route, trying to determine how she’s heard the word used and by whom, who is saying what, what does she really know. As the conversation continues, it becomes clear she is getting some very erroneous information from some very confident but VERY misguided second graders. I am going to have to answer her directly. She needs honest, accurate answers. I silently hope for the Second Coming.
I don’t remember learning about sex for the first time, but there is much I do remember. Awkward conversations, questions directed toward friends who were more “experienced” though not necessarily more knowledgeable, avoided conversations, lessons learned about the hard way. Shame, embarrassment, and confusion were the threads that wove together my knowledge of sexuality. They do not pull out easily. It is not what I want for my daughter.
And so, as carefully and simply as I can, I explain “sex” to my precious, precocious almost-eight-year-old.
“That’s weird,” she giggles, wrinkling her nose. I wrinkle mine back. “Yeah, it is kinda weird, isn’t it?” We have a good giggle and then talk for while longer, allowing her to empty her overflowing bucket of questions. I kiss her good night, reminding her that second graders are not the authority on such matters. I leave her, hopefully, with thoughts of sleepovers and birthday parties.
I silently hope I have done the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.
“What did you say, Bub?”
“What is sex?” She turns toward me and I see her questioning almost-eight-year-old eyes in the half-light of her bedroom. I heard her correctly. I silently hope aliens will abduct one of us, rescuing me from having to answer her earnest yet uncomfortable question. They do not.
I take a deep breath.
Fortunately, I am not completely unprepared for this conversation—the lucky side effect of being a slightly neurotic parent who worries about too much about too many things and has too many books but too little time to read them. My bookshelves and nightstand all contain, smattered among the memoirs and novels and books on writing, titles like How and When to Talk to Your Kids About Sex or How to Talk to Your Child About Sex or Talking to Your Kids About Sex. (Books on the topic are prolific—alas, creative titles are not.) I’ve even read parts of some of them. And underlined in them. I’ve been a good student. I just didn’t think the final exam would come for, oh, about another year. Or two. Or five.
I silently wish I’d studied harder.
This is not our first conversation, which further complicates the situation. She has been asking questions, albeit infrequently, for about six months now, and I have been answering them in honest but veiled answers, explaining that more information will come as she is older. The groundwork has been laid. But she has been less and less pacified by my responses. She is wanting more. But is she ready?
“Where did you hear that word?” I begin with an indirect route, trying to determine how she’s heard the word used and by whom, who is saying what, what does she really know. As the conversation continues, it becomes clear she is getting some very erroneous information from some very confident but VERY misguided second graders. I am going to have to answer her directly. She needs honest, accurate answers. I silently hope for the Second Coming.
I don’t remember learning about sex for the first time, but there is much I do remember. Awkward conversations, questions directed toward friends who were more “experienced” though not necessarily more knowledgeable, avoided conversations, lessons learned about the hard way. Shame, embarrassment, and confusion were the threads that wove together my knowledge of sexuality. They do not pull out easily. It is not what I want for my daughter.
And so, as carefully and simply as I can, I explain “sex” to my precious, precocious almost-eight-year-old.
“That’s weird,” she giggles, wrinkling her nose. I wrinkle mine back. “Yeah, it is kinda weird, isn’t it?” We have a good giggle and then talk for while longer, allowing her to empty her overflowing bucket of questions. I kiss her good night, reminding her that second graders are not the authority on such matters. I leave her, hopefully, with thoughts of sleepovers and birthday parties.
I silently hope I have done the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
catching up
The tree is put away, the presents have all found places to live, we have been to Florida and back, and all the suitcases are finally empty. A few more loads of laundry, and life will finally return to "normal." (Or as normal as things can be with a spouse starting graduate school!) Hopefully, this will mean more WRITING.
In the meantime, my college friend Dean, inspired by having his first child, has had some great discussions going about several social issues that affect us as parents. Take a minute to browse through the past few weeks of posts, if you're so inclined. He has some good, intelligent points to make--feel free to make a few of your own!
In the meantime, my college friend Dean, inspired by having his first child, has had some great discussions going about several social issues that affect us as parents. Take a minute to browse through the past few weeks of posts, if you're so inclined. He has some good, intelligent points to make--feel free to make a few of your own!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
my own pursuit of happyness
“This part of my story is called: Fear.”
It is 6:00 AM on a Saturday morning and I am wide-awake. Given that I am not usually wide awake until about 9:30, preferably 11:00, I am not sure what to do with myself, let alone the stirring in the pit of my stomach. I rummage around our hotel room for paper and a pen, fortunate to find two measly sheets by the phone, and slip back into my space in the middle of the king-sized bed next to my sleeping husband, pulling the heavy duvet back up over my chilled legs. He moans softly as I turn on the light by my bedside. I begin to write anyway.
It is the writing that has caused this stirring—this inability to enjoy my Saturday morning without children in a bed large enough to have its own zip code. No—perhaps it is the movie that has caused the stirring, but the stirring is about the writing. Whatever the exact source of this tension, I don’t like it—especially when I could be sleeping. Especially when I could remain comfortable. I don’t like to be stirred. Like the meals in my crockpot after a day left alone on low, too much of one thing is stuck to the bottom and too much of another has risen to the surface. Do I stir it all back into the soup, or do I start skimming off the top and avoiding the bottom?
What makes a man with a high school education, barely getting by in his sales job, think he can be a stock broker just because he could go through a math book in a week as a child? What makes a mother of two in the “heart of America” with a zoo membership and a microvan think she has anything to say that could be of relevance to anyone just because a few people told her she could write? Better yet, what makes one act on it, boldly pursuing his dream, while the other sits on the couch at the end of the day staring at her laptop, paralyzed by fear and the excuse of busyness and the mundanity of her life?
In a scene that I overlooked until this early-morning moment of epiphany, Will Smith’s character boldly pitches himself and his product to a CEO way out of his league in the CEO’s private box at a 49ers game and is shot down for his inexperience. The disappointment is clear in his eyes, in the shrug in his shoulders as he leaves later that day, bone density scanner in hand, and walks several blocks to take the bus back to his hotel room from which he is about to be evicted, rendering him homeless. What I first saw in this scene was the failure, the rejection, the disappointment. Then I saw the determination to keep going. But it wasn’t until this morning that I finally saw the big picture.
Will’s character, “Chris,” met that afternoon at the football game several young, up-and-coming businessmen eager to invest in the exploding 80’s market. His pursuit of the big fish had resulted in failure, but in the end it reeled him in a large enough net full of smaller fish to procure him the coveted 1 in 20 position at Dean Whitter, which began his climb to success and wealth. Small fish, big picture. He got it. I haven’t. Yet.
It is 6:00 AM on a Saturday morning and I am wide-awake. Given that I am not usually wide awake until about 9:30, preferably 11:00, I am not sure what to do with myself, let alone the stirring in the pit of my stomach. I rummage around our hotel room for paper and a pen, fortunate to find two measly sheets by the phone, and slip back into my space in the middle of the king-sized bed next to my sleeping husband, pulling the heavy duvet back up over my chilled legs. He moans softly as I turn on the light by my bedside. I begin to write anyway.
It is the writing that has caused this stirring—this inability to enjoy my Saturday morning without children in a bed large enough to have its own zip code. No—perhaps it is the movie that has caused the stirring, but the stirring is about the writing. Whatever the exact source of this tension, I don’t like it—especially when I could be sleeping. Especially when I could remain comfortable. I don’t like to be stirred. Like the meals in my crockpot after a day left alone on low, too much of one thing is stuck to the bottom and too much of another has risen to the surface. Do I stir it all back into the soup, or do I start skimming off the top and avoiding the bottom?
What makes a man with a high school education, barely getting by in his sales job, think he can be a stock broker just because he could go through a math book in a week as a child? What makes a mother of two in the “heart of America” with a zoo membership and a microvan think she has anything to say that could be of relevance to anyone just because a few people told her she could write? Better yet, what makes one act on it, boldly pursuing his dream, while the other sits on the couch at the end of the day staring at her laptop, paralyzed by fear and the excuse of busyness and the mundanity of her life?
In a scene that I overlooked until this early-morning moment of epiphany, Will Smith’s character boldly pitches himself and his product to a CEO way out of his league in the CEO’s private box at a 49ers game and is shot down for his inexperience. The disappointment is clear in his eyes, in the shrug in his shoulders as he leaves later that day, bone density scanner in hand, and walks several blocks to take the bus back to his hotel room from which he is about to be evicted, rendering him homeless. What I first saw in this scene was the failure, the rejection, the disappointment. Then I saw the determination to keep going. But it wasn’t until this morning that I finally saw the big picture.
Will’s character, “Chris,” met that afternoon at the football game several young, up-and-coming businessmen eager to invest in the exploding 80’s market. His pursuit of the big fish had resulted in failure, but in the end it reeled him in a large enough net full of smaller fish to procure him the coveted 1 in 20 position at Dean Whitter, which began his climb to success and wealth. Small fish, big picture. He got it. I haven’t. Yet.
Fear of rejection and a lack of faith in the bigger picture. That is what grips my stomach this morning, robbing me of precious time spent sleeping in. That and the knowledge that I need to either act on it or stop torturing myself with just talking about it. I’m really not too busy to do this—I’m just too chicken. And so it seems, like it or not, God has reached down in his divine wisdom and stirred the pot—all the dreams stuck to the bottom and all the fears skimming the top all mixed back up in one big, delicious scoop. The decision is now mine—do I serve up a dish while it’s ready, or will I inevitably let it settle again?
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
more orifice issues
My ear hurts, I hear from the front foyer. My ear hurts...it really hurts!!! He is crying, as he was most of the night. I cringe inwardly, knowing that I have a full day of clients ahead of me and I talk to my husband about taking him to the doctor's office. The details worked out, we go our separate ways with kisses and hugs and the drying of tears. Everything will be fine.
And yet there is a nagging... Two voices whisper in my ear. One is named guilt. It whispers things like, you should have caught this yesterday. How did you not see he had an ear infection? What kind of mom are you? I try my best to ignore it--after all, we've not had an ear infection in our home since my daughter got tubes over six and a half years ago. This is the first he has complained that his ear hurt. I could not have known. But you should have recognized it...
The second voice is named fear. It screams things like, what if you can't get him in to the doctor? What if his eardrum has ruptured? What if you have to take him to Urgent Care? To the Emergency Room? What if he misses his Christmas program on Thursday? Then, fear stops screaming and begins to whisper--icy cold breath on my neck that sends shivers down my spine. Thoughts I would never think on my own. Thoughts that make me crazy swirling around in my head until I know the answer and all is resolved.
Thoughts like, what if that little turkey stuck one of those tri-beads in his ear?!
And yet there is a nagging... Two voices whisper in my ear. One is named guilt. It whispers things like, you should have caught this yesterday. How did you not see he had an ear infection? What kind of mom are you? I try my best to ignore it--after all, we've not had an ear infection in our home since my daughter got tubes over six and a half years ago. This is the first he has complained that his ear hurt. I could not have known. But you should have recognized it...
The second voice is named fear. It screams things like, what if you can't get him in to the doctor? What if his eardrum has ruptured? What if you have to take him to Urgent Care? To the Emergency Room? What if he misses his Christmas program on Thursday? Then, fear stops screaming and begins to whisper--icy cold breath on my neck that sends shivers down my spine. Thoughts I would never think on my own. Thoughts that make me crazy swirling around in my head until I know the answer and all is resolved.
Thoughts like, what if that little turkey stuck one of those tri-beads in his ear?!
Sunday, December 10, 2006
it's all in my head
I’ve been sick so often since my youngest child was born that I’m beginning to have to grasp at straws in order to look for the bright side of this situation. My latest attempt involves likening my spiritual life to a sinus infection. In it’s most basic form, the theology goes something like this: I’ve got so much gunk in my head, I can’t think straight. Therefore, I feel like crap. It ain’t Augustine, but it works for me at the moment.
The Word indicates often that the thought life is the root of much of our trouble. That being the case, I seem to have developed a rather insidious strain that is particularly resistant to antibiotics, and it is wrecking havoc with my health. I no sooner clear up the symptoms than another infection rears its ugly head and I am down again. I worry—about my weight, about my finances, about my children, about my relationship with God. The germ enters my system and before I know it fear, discontent, and entitlement are racing full-blown through my bloodstream. I am sick.
I want to get better. But I am powerless. There was an old commercial for some food product that urged us to Eat all you want, we’ll make more! I’m convinced whatever creates snot in our heads works for the same product label. Blow all you want, we’ll make more! I take my thoughts captive as often as I blow my nose, discarded Kleenex and thought-particles all over the nightstand and floor, but my head is still full of both. No amount of striving brings change without a healing agent at work in my head.
Saline rinses, one person tells me. Oil of oregano capsules, says another. Echinacea, vitamin C, zinc lozenges, Airborne, mushrooms— I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. Bible reading plans, journaling, memorization, fasting, prayer—I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. I’ve got to try harder, I tell myself. The answer is out there somewhere, preferably in a conveniently-packaged pill form—that is the promise, is it not? Take this, you’ll feel better. But I’m not feeling better, and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.
The Word indicates often that the thought life is the root of much of our trouble. That being the case, I seem to have developed a rather insidious strain that is particularly resistant to antibiotics, and it is wrecking havoc with my health. I no sooner clear up the symptoms than another infection rears its ugly head and I am down again. I worry—about my weight, about my finances, about my children, about my relationship with God. The germ enters my system and before I know it fear, discontent, and entitlement are racing full-blown through my bloodstream. I am sick.
I want to get better. But I am powerless. There was an old commercial for some food product that urged us to Eat all you want, we’ll make more! I’m convinced whatever creates snot in our heads works for the same product label. Blow all you want, we’ll make more! I take my thoughts captive as often as I blow my nose, discarded Kleenex and thought-particles all over the nightstand and floor, but my head is still full of both. No amount of striving brings change without a healing agent at work in my head.
Saline rinses, one person tells me. Oil of oregano capsules, says another. Echinacea, vitamin C, zinc lozenges, Airborne, mushrooms— I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. Bible reading plans, journaling, memorization, fasting, prayer—I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. I’ve got to try harder, I tell myself. The answer is out there somewhere, preferably in a conveniently-packaged pill form—that is the promise, is it not? Take this, you’ll feel better. But I’m not feeling better, and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Finally at the end of myself and my medicine chest, I invite the Holy Spirit to do what only He can—to heal my weary head. I implore Him to clear out all that is not of Him and restore right thinking, clear breathing, proper functioning, and overall health. Bring healing where my best efforts have failed. Enable me to breathe again. I’m tired of sitting on the couch with a box of Kleenex—I want to get on with my life and stop blowing my nose. I am ready, Lord. It’s time to clear my head.
Monday, November 27, 2006
a nose for trouble
It is quiet under the kitchen table—a point I don’t immediately notice because I am tying over 1,000,000 knots in a craft project with my daughter while my son repeatedly retrieves the tri-beads he has dropped onto the kitchen floor. While her craft project is progressing, his, on the other hand, has mostly resulted in several trips under the table to retrieve beads. I have stopped paying attention at this point, other than to occasionally encourage him to put another bead or two on his snowflake. Suddenly, however, the silence becomes glaring and all movement from below stops. “Buddy, whatcha doin’?” My son is never silent. I do not have a good feeling about this.
“Nothin’,” is his response, as he climbs back into his chair, hands empty, tentatively rubbing the bridge of his nose. Something is not right.
“Buddy, where is your bead?”
“I dunno,” he flat out lies, still rubbing his nose, his eyes three times their normal size. He is scared. So am I.
“Buddy, did you put that bead up your nose?”
“No,” he lies again, eyes even wider, as if mystified that I could have possibly known the location of the missing bead. He tries sticking his finger up his nose to retrieve the object that he insists isn’t there. I catch him just in time. Oh crap, I think to myself, as the realization sets in that I am probably bound for the emergency room.
“Buddy, let me see…”
I draw his freakishly-quiet body to me, his eyes growing wider by the moment and threatening to brim with tears, and tip back his head. Now I am really scared—I cannot see the bloomin’ bead at first glance, and I envision an entire evening and one hundred bucks both spent at the ER. I very unceremoniously turn him upside-down under the light and breathe a sigh of relief—I can see it. Now I just have to retrieve it.
I lead him up to the bathroom, still rubbing his nose with his wide-eyed gaze monitoring my own to determine when or if he will need to freak out. So far I have not, so neither has he. So far.
I grab the tweezers and pray hard that bead-extraction is one of my as-of-yet unknown talents. He rubs his nose again, still pondering these events and their outcome, as I flip him over on my lap and begin the procedure. Apparently it went in more easily than it came out, but with two gentle pulls and one or two frightened cries from my three-and-a-half year old, it came out, nonetheless. We are both dully relieved, and we have a nice long talk about never, ever, ever putting anything in our noses ever again. Ever. He appears convinced, at least for the moment.
“Nothin’,” is his response, as he climbs back into his chair, hands empty, tentatively rubbing the bridge of his nose. Something is not right.
“Buddy, where is your bead?”
“I dunno,” he flat out lies, still rubbing his nose, his eyes three times their normal size. He is scared. So am I.
“Buddy, did you put that bead up your nose?”
“No,” he lies again, eyes even wider, as if mystified that I could have possibly known the location of the missing bead. He tries sticking his finger up his nose to retrieve the object that he insists isn’t there. I catch him just in time. Oh crap, I think to myself, as the realization sets in that I am probably bound for the emergency room.
“Buddy, let me see…”
I draw his freakishly-quiet body to me, his eyes growing wider by the moment and threatening to brim with tears, and tip back his head. Now I am really scared—I cannot see the bloomin’ bead at first glance, and I envision an entire evening and one hundred bucks both spent at the ER. I very unceremoniously turn him upside-down under the light and breathe a sigh of relief—I can see it. Now I just have to retrieve it.
I lead him up to the bathroom, still rubbing his nose with his wide-eyed gaze monitoring my own to determine when or if he will need to freak out. So far I have not, so neither has he. So far.
I grab the tweezers and pray hard that bead-extraction is one of my as-of-yet unknown talents. He rubs his nose again, still pondering these events and their outcome, as I flip him over on my lap and begin the procedure. Apparently it went in more easily than it came out, but with two gentle pulls and one or two frightened cries from my three-and-a-half year old, it came out, nonetheless. We are both dully relieved, and we have a nice long talk about never, ever, ever putting anything in our noses ever again. Ever. He appears convinced, at least for the moment.
I return to the kitchen and turn my thoughts toward dinner, feeling relieved and a little bit smug. I hearken for a moment back to my Girl Scout days, envisioning a bright, colorful “Bead Extraction” patch to add to my sash. Another notch in my Mom-belt. I have somehow arrived. I have removed my first tri-bead, saving my son from certain death and myself from a miserable evening at the hospital. I don my Super Mom apron and prepare now to make something spectacular for dinner, daring the beads that remain on the floor to “Go ahead, make my day.”
Friday, November 24, 2006
thanksgiving memories
(This piece began two years ago at our writer’s group—the prompt was to write about a favorite Thanksgiving memory from the 3rd person vantage point. This was my free-write, with a little editing, of course! Oh—and because my Mom and Dad will be sure to point it out, I’ve taken a little liberty with which cousin is which… writer’s perogative!)
It was a scene she remembered well—two little heads of hair, one curly, one straight, bobbing up and down the same creaky wooden steps. She looked across the room at her cousin with a knowing smile—the smile was returned with a confirming nod. It had been the two of them, some twenty-five years ago—bobbing up and down the steps, poking their heads through the cutout window on the landing that allowed a prime view of the preparations, eyeing the pies and the brownies with particular interest. It had been the two of them giggling, whispering, telling secrets and generally making the grown-ups worry and wonder. This year, it was their daughters…
She marveled at the resemblance as if seeing them again for the first time. No wonder her father often slipped and called her daughter by her own name. She wondered if her uncle did the same. “How surreal this must be for our parents,” she thought. It was surreal enough for her—as if she were looking back in time and observing her own childhood. She wished she could remember her own thoughts and plans and schemes—she wished for that precious insight into the mind of her daughter as she caught the gleam in her five-year-old eyes on her way through the living room for the fourth or fifth time. “Nothing,” her daughter responded sheepishly when asked what she was up to. None of them believed her.
It was a scene she remembered well—two little heads of hair, one curly, one straight, bobbing up and down the same creaky wooden steps. She looked across the room at her cousin with a knowing smile—the smile was returned with a confirming nod. It had been the two of them, some twenty-five years ago—bobbing up and down the steps, poking their heads through the cutout window on the landing that allowed a prime view of the preparations, eyeing the pies and the brownies with particular interest. It had been the two of them giggling, whispering, telling secrets and generally making the grown-ups worry and wonder. This year, it was their daughters…
She marveled at the resemblance as if seeing them again for the first time. No wonder her father often slipped and called her daughter by her own name. She wondered if her uncle did the same. “How surreal this must be for our parents,” she thought. It was surreal enough for her—as if she were looking back in time and observing her own childhood. She wished she could remember her own thoughts and plans and schemes—she wished for that precious insight into the mind of her daughter as she caught the gleam in her five-year-old eyes on her way through the living room for the fourth or fifth time. “Nothing,” her daughter responded sheepishly when asked what she was up to. None of them believed her.
Her father commented to her uncle about the scene looking familiar—apparently she was not the only one finding the unfolding events to be worthy of note. Somehow, that was reassuring to her. It felt good to know she was not alone in her fascination—nor in her feelings of affection. The curly-haired one bobbed by her yet again and she grabbed the wriggling child for a quick smooch on the top of the head before turning her loose once more, catching her father’s eye as she did. He smiled, and she smiled in return. “Brings back memories,” he said to his own curly-haired girl. “Indeed it does,” she replied with a sentimental smile. “Indeed it does.”
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
gains and losses
Some days, it is all I can do to not throw up. My muscles scream, my lungs implode, my head pounds with the driving bass. Driving me to move. Driving me to sweat. Driving me to “feel the burn.” Today is one of those days. I quiver and pant, wondering what the heck I was thinking, as I concentrate very hard on not vomiting in the middle of kick-boxing. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Throwing up would throw off my rhythm, just when I’d finally gotten the hang of it. Finally.
I bounce and kick and jog and squat and all the time I’m thinking, “I’ve been doing this over a year now—when does it get easier?” The questions won’t stop—when will my legs stop begging for mercy a third of the way through the leg workout? When, for that matter, will I be able to complete the entire leg workout? When, if ever, will I not collapse into a puddle of molecular goo on the floor during the leg workout? And an even more important question—is it poor aerobic-etiquette to lie down on the floor and cry in the middle of the leg workout? They are questions for which there are no answers.
There are days—rare, but existent—when I don’t feel like I will die in aerobics class. Nausea-free days when I leave feeling like I’ve worked hard but I can still make it to my car without needing my three-year-old to carry me. There are even moments, rarer still, of victory over weakness. Heart-pumping, pulse-quickening, adrenaline-flowing moments. I am powerful. I am strong. I am Wonder Woman. I am She-Ra, Princess of Power. I am not going to throw up. It is short lived. Before long, I am a quivering puddle of goo again.
The cycle repeats itself ad nauseum. I feel stronger, I feel weaker. I increase the weights, I decrease them. I increase the reps, I decrease them. I increase the intensity moves, I decrease them. My weight comes down, my weight goes up. Nothing is constant. My strength. My endurance. My fitness level. My will power. No gains are permanent. I don’t like not permanent.
I like things that are done when you are done. Grad school, for instance. I graduated in 1998 and I still have my Master’s degrees. Once I completed the requirements, I was done. Once I was licensed, I was done. Once I was done, I was done. Sure, I have to do CEU’s, but I don’t have to redo the flippin’ degrees every year. I’m done. Exercise is never done. I want to get in shape and be done.
I want to come back after the three-week break and still be able to make it through class without collapsing. I want to make it though a workout all four weeks of the month, not just one, two if I’m lucky. I want my weight to level out and stay put. I want to invest my time and energy up front and then have it pay out consistent returns for the long haul. I want to get to a point where it’s easy. Where I’m coasting. Where I’m done.
I look around me at the other women in the room. Women in their 20’s. Their 30’s. 40’s. 50’s. Perhaps even older. Women in for the long haul. Women who get that this health and fitness thing is never done. I must be honest in questioning if I want to be one of those women. I have never been one of them before—this is a newfound persona, birthed out of the desire and need to lose weight. But therein lies the issue—it is always about losing the weight, never about maintaining. Health and fitness is about maintaining, and that has never been my strength.
When I step back from the dumbbells I can see I have made some gains that have not been lost. The ends of the weights say 8lbs and 5lbs now, not 3lbs. The bar reads 15, not 12. And my Monday class, which once threatened to kill me, has been conquered, thanks, in part, to the class that is yet to be slain. It isn’t easy. But perhaps, on a good day, it is easier. And with time and perseverance, it will slowly but surely become even more so. And, perhaps, that is the point. Some things are never done. But they can get easier with time.
I bounce and kick and jog and squat and all the time I’m thinking, “I’ve been doing this over a year now—when does it get easier?” The questions won’t stop—when will my legs stop begging for mercy a third of the way through the leg workout? When, for that matter, will I be able to complete the entire leg workout? When, if ever, will I not collapse into a puddle of molecular goo on the floor during the leg workout? And an even more important question—is it poor aerobic-etiquette to lie down on the floor and cry in the middle of the leg workout? They are questions for which there are no answers.
There are days—rare, but existent—when I don’t feel like I will die in aerobics class. Nausea-free days when I leave feeling like I’ve worked hard but I can still make it to my car without needing my three-year-old to carry me. There are even moments, rarer still, of victory over weakness. Heart-pumping, pulse-quickening, adrenaline-flowing moments. I am powerful. I am strong. I am Wonder Woman. I am She-Ra, Princess of Power. I am not going to throw up. It is short lived. Before long, I am a quivering puddle of goo again.
The cycle repeats itself ad nauseum. I feel stronger, I feel weaker. I increase the weights, I decrease them. I increase the reps, I decrease them. I increase the intensity moves, I decrease them. My weight comes down, my weight goes up. Nothing is constant. My strength. My endurance. My fitness level. My will power. No gains are permanent. I don’t like not permanent.
I like things that are done when you are done. Grad school, for instance. I graduated in 1998 and I still have my Master’s degrees. Once I completed the requirements, I was done. Once I was licensed, I was done. Once I was done, I was done. Sure, I have to do CEU’s, but I don’t have to redo the flippin’ degrees every year. I’m done. Exercise is never done. I want to get in shape and be done.
I want to come back after the three-week break and still be able to make it through class without collapsing. I want to make it though a workout all four weeks of the month, not just one, two if I’m lucky. I want my weight to level out and stay put. I want to invest my time and energy up front and then have it pay out consistent returns for the long haul. I want to get to a point where it’s easy. Where I’m coasting. Where I’m done.
I look around me at the other women in the room. Women in their 20’s. Their 30’s. 40’s. 50’s. Perhaps even older. Women in for the long haul. Women who get that this health and fitness thing is never done. I must be honest in questioning if I want to be one of those women. I have never been one of them before—this is a newfound persona, birthed out of the desire and need to lose weight. But therein lies the issue—it is always about losing the weight, never about maintaining. Health and fitness is about maintaining, and that has never been my strength.
When I step back from the dumbbells I can see I have made some gains that have not been lost. The ends of the weights say 8lbs and 5lbs now, not 3lbs. The bar reads 15, not 12. And my Monday class, which once threatened to kill me, has been conquered, thanks, in part, to the class that is yet to be slain. It isn’t easy. But perhaps, on a good day, it is easier. And with time and perseverance, it will slowly but surely become even more so. And, perhaps, that is the point. Some things are never done. But they can get easier with time.
I can only hope to God this aerobics class is one of them.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
ouch
Most of us collapse at the first grip pf pain. We sit down at the door of God's purpose and enter a slow death through self-pity. And all the so-called Christian sympathy of others helps us to our deathbed. But God will not. He comes with the grip of the pierced hand of His Son, as if to say, "Enter inoto fellowship with Me; arise and shine." If God can accomplish His purposes in this world through a broken heart, then why not thank Him for breaking yours?
Oswald Chambers
My Utmost for His Highest
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
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