Tempting Fate

I am always amazed when I read childhood memoirs. Not only at the vast array of experiences in people’s lives and the way children interpret things with their developing minds, but at the ability of the storyteller to conjure up such rich, detailed images of things that happened so many years (often decades) ago.

Other than the family stories that have been told and retold and a few snapshots that I have seen hundreds of times, I have no memories of my childhood before 5th grade. I can recite the story of my first day in Kindergarten where I was too short to hang my coat up on the hooks mounted in the hallway and was rescued by a classmate who would become a treasured friend. I can’t tell you what the hallway looked like or what color my coat was or what the weather was like outside. I also couldn’t tell you what the rest of the day was like, or even if I attended full day or half day Kindergarten classes. That story came from my mother.
I have several other “memories” like that – that were witnessed by others in my family but resonate with me no more than they would with you if you heard the story several times. I know the names of my first and second grade teachers, couldn’t tell you who my third grade teacher was if my life depended on it and am only marginally certain who my fourth grade teacher was because there were only two to choose from in the entire school and I think I got the mean one. Or was that my brother?
For most of my life, I thought that was normal. I didn’t realize that other people had vivid memories of times in their childhoods and it wasn’t until I had my first flashback nearly sixteen years ago that it occurred to me that there was a reason I didn’t know anything about my life as a child. I don’t even know if I can properly call what I had a “flashback.” It was more of a still photo than anything else. From that memory came a clear knowledge that there was a song associated with that period in my life – the period during which my sister and I were repeatedly sexually assaulted by the teenage son of the woman who watched my sister after school until I could come get her and take her home.
The only other clear memory I have is of the day when our adopted brother was taken away from us. I have searched and searched for the post that completes the story I began with the above link and it appears I never did. I guess I know what my next post will be. I have to finish that story now that I feel as though I have more memories of it. Sorry – stay tuned for that one and in the meantime, go back and read the first half so you’ll be up to speed when I post the finale, as it were.
For the last several years in therapy, I have examined the themes and patterns in my fears and anxieties and have found them to be mostly related to abandonment issues, control issues and not feeling as though I am worthy of unconditional love. I have often questioned where these strong issues come from and, several times, have wished I had more concrete information about my childhood. That wish is very quickly followed up by a resolute slamming of that door in my head. No f*ing way! Stay out of there. It could undo you.

Today as I practiced yoga I once again wished for some more clarity about my history. And instead of succumbing to the knee-jerk response that admonished me to Shut.The.Door., I asked myself why. What was it that I was hoping to gain from having these memories? I realized that what I want is to know who to blame. Who can I legitimately be furious with for screwing up my life? I have done a lot of work around forgiving the boy who abused me and feel as though there is a light spot in my heart because I have let go of most of that. And, while that is certainly trauma enough to cause me to lose memories, I know that none of that happened until I was at least in the 3rd or 4th grade. There is more. I know that.
I was so surprised at my ultimate reason for wanting to recover these traumatic memories that I nearly fell out of my side angle pose. Do I really want someone to blame? Yup. And even though I know that I will likely not find any easy answers or any justice, the idea that someone other than myself is to blame for what I experienced is huge. For years I have carried around the notion that I was unlovable, incapable of deserving nurturing attention, the person who blew things out of proportion simply to get attention and I’m tired of that story now. I was a kid. I deserved love and affection and care and comfort. And knowing that someone else should have been responsible for that and dropped the ball lets me off the hook a little bit.
That’s not to say I’m not freaking terrified of these memories. And a friend of mine who suffers from PTSD and has had flashbacks has warned me that I have no control over whether or when I might get them back, in any case. Personally, that’s the part that turns my knickers inside out. I want to know and I want to know on my terms. But like they say, if you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans. Still, I feel as though I’ve tempted fate by simply writing these words and I suspect that I ought to have been more careful what I wished for…

Tempting Fate

I am always amazed when I read childhood memoirs. Not only at the vast array of experiences in people’s lives and the way children interpret things with their developing minds, but at the ability of the storyteller to conjure up such rich, detailed images of things that happened so many years (often decades) ago.

Other than the family stories that have been told and retold and a few snapshots that I have seen hundreds of times, I have no memories of my childhood before 5th grade. I can recite the story of my first day in Kindergarten where I was too short to hang my coat up on the hooks mounted in the hallway and was rescued by a classmate who would become a treasured friend. I can’t tell you what the hallway looked like or what color my coat was or what the weather was like outside. I also couldn’t tell you what the rest of the day was like, or even if I attended full day or half day Kindergarten classes. That story came from my mother.
I have several other “memories” like that – that were witnessed by others in my family but resonate with me no more than they would with you if you heard the story several times. I know the names of my first and second grade teachers, couldn’t tell you who my third grade teacher was if my life depended on it and am only marginally certain who my fourth grade teacher was because there were only two to choose from in the entire school and I think I got the mean one. Or was that my brother?
For most of my life, I thought that was normal. I didn’t realize that other people had vivid memories of times in their childhoods and it wasn’t until I had my first flashback nearly sixteen years ago that it occurred to me that there was a reason I didn’t know anything about my life as a child. I don’t even know if I can properly call what I had a “flashback.” It was more of a still photo than anything else. From that memory came a clear knowledge that there was a song associated with that period in my life – the period during which my sister and I were repeatedly sexually assaulted by the teenage son of the woman who watched my sister after school until I could come get her and take her home.
The only other clear memory I have is of the day when our adopted brother was taken away from us. I have searched and searched for the post that completes the story I began with the above link and it appears I never did. I guess I know what my next post will be. I have to finish that story now that I feel as though I have more memories of it. Sorry – stay tuned for that one and in the meantime, go back and read the first half so you’ll be up to speed when I post the finale, as it were.
For the last several years in therapy, I have examined the themes and patterns in my fears and anxieties and have found them to be mostly related to abandonment issues, control issues and not feeling as though I am worthy of unconditional love. I have often questioned where these strong issues come from and, several times, have wished I had more concrete information about my childhood. That wish is very quickly followed up by a resolute slamming of that door in my head. No f*ing way! Stay out of there. It could undo you.

Today as I practiced yoga I once again wished for some more clarity about my history. And instead of succumbing to the knee-jerk response that admonished me to Shut.The.Door., I asked myself why. What was it that I was hoping to gain from having these memories? I realized that what I want is to know who to blame. Who can I legitimately be furious with for screwing up my life? I have done a lot of work around forgiving the boy who abused me and feel as though there is a light spot in my heart because I have let go of most of that. And, while that is certainly trauma enough to cause me to lose memories, I know that none of that happened until I was at least in the 3rd or 4th grade. There is more. I know that.
I was so surprised at my ultimate reason for wanting to recover these traumatic memories that I nearly fell out of my side angle pose. Do I really want someone to blame? Yup. And even though I know that I will likely not find any easy answers or any justice, the idea that someone other than myself is to blame for what I experienced is huge. For years I have carried around the notion that I was unlovable, incapable of deserving nurturing attention, the person who blew things out of proportion simply to get attention and I’m tired of that story now. I was a kid. I deserved love and affection and care and comfort. And knowing that someone else should have been responsible for that and dropped the ball lets me off the hook a little bit.
That’s not to say I’m not freaking terrified of these memories. And a friend of mine who suffers from PTSD and has had flashbacks has warned me that I have no control over whether or when I might get them back, in any case. Personally, that’s the part that turns my knickers inside out. I want to know and I want to know on my terms. But like they say, if you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans. Still, I feel as though I’ve tempted fate by simply writing these words and I suspect that I ought to have been more careful what I wished for…

Mama’s Summer Camp


Summer is one benchmark I use to measure the girls’ development. Not only have they just completed another year of school, but they have generally grown an inch or so and matured a wee bit as well. In keeping with their gradual aging, summer is when I add another chore to their respective repertoires. I know. What a way to kill summer enthusiasm, huh? Buzzkill.

Whatever. My kids are not growing up without ever having had to lift a finger to help out around the house. And, since summer is devoid of homework, rigid bedtime schedules and sports/piano/guitar/horseback lessons, I figure they have all the time in the world to master this new skill, right? Usually when I introduce another chore I simply explain it, model it, tell them my expectations for how often it needs to be done, and consider it done. Given that they are already responsible for feeding the pets, taking out the garbage/recycle/compost, folding the laundry, and setting and clearing the dinner table, I was working a bit to come up with new chores. So I asked them what they thought. Suckers.
Eve decided she would like to try doing the dinner dishes.
Lola said laundry.
The month of July was reserved for housework immersion summer camp. Mama-style. The first night, I showed Eve my method for rinsing the dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher, separating the hand-wash only things out and scrubbing and rinsing them, and wiping down the counters. She was also responsible for emptying the dishwasher in the morning and putting everything away. Unfortunately for her, I love cooking and cook dinner at home from scratch nearly every night.
Lola was schooled on how to separate delicates from colors from linens from whites from handwashables and how to put each of these groups of laundry through the washer and dryer. Suspiciously, our dry cleaning bill skyrocketed in July when Bubba learned who would be responsible for caring for his work clothes.
My plan was to have the girls be solely responsible for these two tasks during the month of July. In August, they had Harry Potter camp and we were out of town for a week, so we would have to play it by ear. As soon as school started, they would only be responsible for these tasks on the weekends, leaving their weeknights free for practices and homework and family time.
Can I just say that I was terribly relieved when August 1 came? It was all I could do not to look over the girls’ shoulders and chew on my bottom lip. I offered Eve advice when it seemed as though she was rinsing more than necessary or if there was a more efficient way to get things done, but she would have none of it. I don’t blame her. I had to remind myself that she would learn more if she made her own mistakes. I wasn’t willing to let Lola make mistakes with my clothes, though, so I gave a bit more input there. Still, their timelines weren’t the same as mine.
Eve knew she had to clean the kitchen as soon as dinner was over. The problem came the following morning. Lola and I get up at the crack of dawn and my routine is to come downstairs, empty the dishwasher, make my latte and read the news. Eve discovered the joy of sleeping in this summer which meant that the dishwasher often didn’t get emptied until well after Lola and I had eaten breakfast. Which meant dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Waiting for Eve to get out of bed. Driving me nuts. Every day.
Lola’s job was much more cyclical. Not having my perspective and ability to look ahead and anticipate who would run out of underwear when or need to wear her “favorite skirt,” she quickly fell into a habit of only doing laundry when I told her to. Despite my continued warnings, she often started a load of wash and left it in there to molder for a few hours before remembering it needed to go in the dryer. She eschewed the laundry basket, preferring instead to gather up as many of the warm, dry clothes as she could in her (short, 9-year-old) arms and carry them to the couch, leaving a trail of clean items behind her in the dog and cat-hair tumbleweeds on the floor in the hall.
I spent far too much time ruminating on my frustrations – trying desperately to recall how I learned to do dishes and laundry the way I do them. I know for a fact that my mother would accept no jobs half-done, but I can’t recall any specific lessons on how to do things the way she wanted. I resigned myself to letting the girls work out their own systems and, by the end of the month, they had both learned some valuable lessons about how to be more efficient with their respective chores. That being said, on August 1st, it was an enormous relief to get back to doing the dinner dishes my own way. As for the laundry, Bubba has mysteriously decided that his clothes are safe to be washed at home once again. It was not all in vain though. At one point Eve said to me (her arms up to the elbow in dishsoapy water), “Mom, this is a lot of work. Every night after dinner, I’ll rinse my own plate and put it in the dishwasher for you. I promise.”
I’d like to say Lola had a similar revelation, but since her laundry accounts for the smallest portion in the house – given that she thinks being clean is vastly over-rated – and the fact that running large machinery combined with pouring chemicals is a dream generally reserved for her sleeping hours, she won’t likely come up with any gems. She is still more than willing to drop a load of laundry in the washer or dryer for me at my request.
Overall, it was a good experiment and it’s nice to know I can rely on the girls to help out when asked, but I am more than a little embarrassed to say that I don’t relish giving up my dominion over the kitchen or the laundry room again anytime soon.

Writing: The World’s Oldest Profession?


“When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me, and a trembling seizes me all over.” Sappho, Ancient Greek poet, 610-580BC


Despite the beauty of the words, what struck me first about this quote as I first saw it were the dates during which this poet lived. Nearly 2,500 years ago. There was written language. Like this.

Forgive me for being terribly consumed by the age in which I live – the age of high speed internet and bluetooth cellular capability and routine air travel via jumbo jet. When I look back at my own life (nearly forty years long) and realize that most of these things haven’t been around that long – heck I started out life with rotary dial phones and didn’t get my first computer until I was a junior in college – I am astonished at what remains. In the last hundred years, automobiles were invented, rail travel was perfected, the telegraph came in to being. I often take for granted that our world changes drastically in small increments from generation to generation. I have seen movies go from reel-to-reel to beta to VHS tape to DVD. Phones go from rotary dial to push-button to cordless to cellular to smart phones. I will not be surprised in the least to look back on my life from my 80s to discover that something I thought impossible as a child has come to fruition.

But to be struck with the notion that over thousands and thousands of years, one thing in particular has remained for humankind, I truly did feel shocked. Communication. From the beginning of humankind, we have felt the need to converse with each other, tell each other stories, find a way to express ourselves. Before written language, there were oral histories, songs, musical instruments, sign language. And although written language has changed dramatically, from handwritten letters between two individuals to digitized e-books, the ultimate purpose remains. Communication. Sharing our ideas and needs and knowledge with each other.

Families with non-verbal members have long struggled to find ways to communicate among themselves. Technology has afforded many of these families with the ability to better understand each other, by circumventing the spoken language with keyboards and iPads.

Upon completing my first manuscript, I began to worry that the publishing industry would go the way of the dodo and I would be left scrambling to find a way to share my work. I needn’t have broken a sweat. The simple fact is, human beings are who we are because of our need to communicate with each other. We will always find ways to accomplish this – radio, blogs, ebooks, rallies, pamphlets, songs, things I am sure I haven’t yet considered. As a writer, I am heartened to realize that what I do fulfills such an integral need of humanity. Not everyone will read my words, and not all who read them will agree on their accuracy or importance, but the simple knowledge that language and discourse has stood the test of time and will find its way through like a weed in the sidewalk grounds me.

I Love Aging!


No, really. I do. It almost sounds cliche (or maybe it’s closer than “almost”) to say this, but dang, I feel pretty good. Despite the fact that I’m 40 days away from turning 40, I can say that the revelations I’ve had in the past decade are what have made me appreciate being exactly where I am in life.

I was having lunch with a girlfriend the other day and we were lamenting the fact that both of our tween daughters are asking about wearing makeup. I distinctly recall seventh grade as the “magic” year for me – I started shaving my legs, had my first period, and was allowed to wear deep blue eyeshadow and Debbie Gibson-brand mascara to school. All of those things sound horrific to me now. Each and every damn one of them. But back then, I was thrilled. And Eve, entering sixth grade this year, is convinced that she ought to be able to start wearing a little makeup as well. She did make a fairly keen observation, though.
“When I am allowed to wear makeup, who is going to teach me how to put it on the right way? You don’t know how to wear it, do you?”
I could have considered that an insult. But she’s right. Somewhere around the age of 19 or 20, I realized that I was trading sleep for makeup application time. Working two jobs and going to college full-time meant that sleep was at a premium. One of my jobs started at 4:30am and required me to care for the animals who had stayed the night at the local veterinary clinic – administering their medications, taking the dogs out to pee and stretch their legs, and cleaning the kennels before the office opened for the day. Those guys certainly couldn’t care less if I had mascara on. Generally, I finished just in time for my 8:00 class, so makeup lost the battle there.
I did retain the habit of wearing a little mascara and some blush for special occasions, but by the time my wedding day rolled around, I had to go out and specifically purchase makeup for the day since the stuff I had had been rattling around in a drawer for several years.
There have been times throughout the years where I have felt bad about myself, especially as I became more sedentary upon entering the workforce and again after having the girls. I have a closet with clothing that ranges in size from 6 to 12 and I am acutely aware of which of those clothes fit me comfortably. The difference now is that I won’t force myself to wear the smaller ones because of the number on the waistband. I am much more forgiving of myself and much less tolerant of tight, uncomfortable clothes. I prefer to spend my days feeling good.
I am also much less likely to beat myself up mentally. I started jogging in June, determined to add some cardio fitness to my yoga regime so that I can keep up with the girls better. While I generally don’t like running, I find that it is much more enjoyable if I don’t treat myself like a newbie at boot camp. If I miss a day or two, I don’t berate myself. Instead, I remember all of the previous days where I ran and tell myself that tomorrow will present another opportunity to run again. I have become capable of telling myself the same thing with regard to having dessert a few days in a row or not being disciplined enough with my writing schedule. Decrying the mistakes has never been motivating for me, but remembering that skipping one workout or sharing a hot fudge sundae with Lola isn’t grounds for desertion puts things in perspective.
Saturday, we had planned our first ever family whitewater rafting trip. The girls were old enough to be excited about it and it promised to be 90 degrees out. I was really excited until the guide launched into his safety spiel about what to do when you fall out on a Class 3 or 4 rapid, how to signal that you’re okay (or not), and how your paddle should never be out of your hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lola begin to blanch and I knew I had to keep my cool. I couldn’t let on that I was nervous, if only to reassure her. By the time the four of us climbed into the raft, Lola had recovered but I was sinking deeper into apprehension. I could see Class 3 rapids right out of the chute and did some quick calculations to determine whether the girls were actually okay to do this. Neither of them even weighs 65 pounds! I envisioned backing out. What would Bubba do? Would it be a relief to one or both of the girls – they could back out, too, and save face? I forced myself to stay put and breathe. I reminded myself that I am a very strong swimmer and I only had to be in this moment right now. Nowhere else. No projections into the future. And then I heard it. That voice inside my head. The angel on my shoulder. She said:
“You do not have to be anything other than you are right now.”
What?
Really?
No shit?
So I can be a somewhat-frightened, 39-and-counting mother of two sitting in a raft in the glorious sunshine. And that’s okay?
Yup. It is. It doesn’t require action on my part. It doesn’t mean that I ought to be striving to be anything other/different/better. It will not drastically alter anyone’s life for me to be just who I am right now in this moment. It would not make anyone else’s life or experience better if I were different. I simply am.
And that, my friends, is the beauty of aging. I finally get to just be who I am and be happy with it. No excuses. No shame.

Versatile Blogger Award



Dee over at Coming Home to Myself just honored my blog by passing on the “Versatile Blogger Award” and naming me as a blog she thinks deserves more readers. Thanks, Dee! I love more readers, if only because it invites more dialogue (read: comments), and that is what my writing is all about – creating conversation.

In keeping with the protocol of this award, I will point you to some other blogs I have recently discovered that I enjoy reading. Check out:
The final requirement is that I share seven unique things about myself. Here goes —
1. I was a vegetarian for thirteen years, very happily. Then, on a trip to the Canadian Rockies, as I sat down to nurse my then-seven-month-old daughter, Eve, I caught a whiff of the neighboring campsite’s bratwurst sausages on the grill. I begged Bubba to get in the car, drive to the nearest town (Banff), and buy me some. Ever the frustrated carnivorous husband, he couldn’t get there fast enough. I ate three that night and have loved meat ever since.
2. I have half a tattoo. Luckily it is in a very inconspicuous place. As a freshman in college, I went along with my roommate and her friends to get their tattoos and allowed myself to be peer-pressured in to getting one, too. I finally agreed and then changed my mind halfway through and abandoned the process, telling everyone that it was too painful to continue.
3. I had so many kidney infections as a kid that the doctors thought I would have to get a transplant and be on dialysis. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I realized the infections “magically” ceased as soon as the neighborhood teenage bully stopped sexually assaulting me on a regular basis.
4. I love cooking dinner so much that I make a weekly menu every Saturday night, shop for groceries on Sunday (and fresh produce and meat again on Wednesday), and cook almost every night of the week.
5. Doing dishes makes me happy. It is this lovely, zen moment where everyone else in the house leaves me alone (they don’t want to be recruited to help) and I get to engage in something that has tangible results. Often it is the only project I get to begin and end all in one fell swoop the entire day.
6. My dream car is a 1962 convertible Corvette. Candy-apple red with white interior and a white hard-top. Always has been. Always will be. I got to ride in one once as a Homecoming Princess in high school and haven’t forgotten it since.
7. I love the sound of moving water. My favorite place of all time is the beach (any beach, cold or warm water – doesn’t matter), but I love lakeshores, babbling brooks, koi ponds with waterfalls and backyard fountains. It somehow brings me to my center.
I’m on one last vacation with Bubba and the kids at a lake this long weekend and right now, I’m sitting at the kitchen table overlooking the water with a sopping wet dog at my feet (he has fetched about 652 sticks so far today) and two girls with their noses stuck in books in the room next to me. I am blissed out. Have a beautiful weekend, all.

The Fun Part

…is having your work shared. Follow the link and find my most recent essay for BuddhaChick Magazine. This is the third one I’ve had the pleasure of seeing “published” online and I hope for many more. When you’re done with this, look through the entire issue. There are some pretty amazing writers and women’s voices contained within.

Namaste.

Be Careful What You Wish For: Sleepaway Camp Revelations



We all survived Harry Potter Camp. It was the girls’ first attempt at a sleepaway camp and I would not be exaggerating if I said it caused us all some anxiety. Back in March, when I signed Eva and Lola up for this week-long YMCA-sponsored camp, it was easy to be excited. The girls were thrilled at the prospect of getting to immerse themselves in all things Harry Potter for a week – trying their hand at quidditch, potion-making, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and escaping from Azkaban. Bubba and I could hardly contain our glee at the idea of getting an entire week at home without having to arrange for a babysitter if we wanted to go to the movies or dinner. I vowed not to cook or do dishes for the entire week and told Bubba if he scheduled a business trip I would wring his neck like a Thanksgiving turkey.

And then the week approached. We checked items off of the packing list and pretended not to be nervous around each other. Lola broke first.
“I’m gonna miss you guys a lot,” she turned her eyes down to the tablecloth, avoiding eye contact. I felt a little tear in my resolve.
“I’m going to miss you, too. But I think you’re going to be so busy every day that you won’t even remember to miss me very much.”
Two days before we dropped the girls off, Bubba told me he had to go to California for two days the next week. Before I could wrap my fingers around his thick, stocky neck he reared back, “Come with me! The girls won’t know. I’ll get a nicer hotel than I normally stay in. You can bring your laptop and hang out by the pool and we can go out at night.” Again, it sounded great.
I imagined myself as one of those mothers who could say I’d been away with my husband on a fabulous trip without the kids. I’ve always aspired to join that group, but have balked at leaving the girls behind. The truth is, I like spending time with them and traveling is a great way to have new and different adventures with them. But this, well. They were leaving us, right?
The camp counselors had the drop-off down to a science. Get everyone out of the car at the lagoon at the bottom of the hill, give hugs good-bye and load the kids into waiting paddle-boats for a trip across the lagoon. The kids were excited about a boat ride, unsure whether this was the “real” good-bye, and the parents had to climb back into the cars and drive the sleeping bags and suitcases up the hill to the cabins. Busy the parents checking their kids in, have them drop the gear in the cabin to which their child was assigned, and send them on their way.
WHAT? Oh. I guess we said good-bye. I will admit feigning a full bladder so I could use the restroom next to the campfire before driving away. This way, I got to catch a quick glimpse of Eve and Lola fully immersed in campfire chants with Ginny, Hermione, Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley.
I didn’t cry. Bubba and I didn’t look at each other and made nervous, chattering conversation for the hour and a half back home. We checked the movie listings, went to “Planet of the Apes,” and got to have sushi without ordering a veggie roll. By the time we got home, we could pretend that the girls were just on sleepovers at friends’ houses. On a Sunday night.
Monday, Bubba got to go to work. I pretended it was a school day, blissfully free of lunch-packing and prodding Eve to get out of her snug bed. I went to yoga with a friend, had coffee with another friend and drove downtown to have dinner with Bubba at a fancy restaurant.
Tuesday morning I cried. Tuesday morning I panicked. What if Lola, true to her balls-out nature, flung herself out of a tree and broke another bone? What if Eve got some food that wasn’t gluten-free and her stomach was in agony? And I blithely went to California, a two hour plane ride and a two hour drive away? Bubba managed to talk me off the edge and call his sister to ensure that she could dash to camp and get the girls if something horrible happened.
And, yet again, I was thankful for the dichotomy in our parenting relationship. As the parent who stays home with the girls, I have built my life around them. Any activities I do are scheduled during the hours when I know they don’t need me. And if they do need me during those hours, the activities don’t rest on my participation. I can leave to go get a vomiting child. I can skip a day of volunteering if Lola has a teacher inservice. I can reschedule my appointment if Eve is running a cross-country race one day.
Bubba has the option of separating himself a bit more. He knows he isn’t what I call the “primary parent.” He knows that he won’t be called upon unless it is an extreme emergency. He goes to work knowing that very few things have the potential to derail his day. And while this has prompted some resentment on my part over the years, it also affords him a different perspective. He is able to see things in a more global way and come to decisions about how to deal with tricky situations more quickly than I. I used to think that this was because I am more emotionally-driven than he, but I’m not so sure anymore.
My relationship with the kids is more need-based than his. From the beginning, they learned that I was the repository of all food, comfort, physical relief, and crisis management. For me, that set up a constant state of readiness. Even when the girls went off to school, I knew that I had to have my cell phone at the ready and not be too far away in case someone needed something. While that often made me frustrated at the restrictions it placed on me, I realize that I came to rely on it. When you learn that coloring inside the lines is important, you begin to respect the lines. Count on them.
With the girls away for a week, in a place with adults I trust to take care of them, and the likelihood that they would need me for something very slim, my lines are gone. I’m free. Like that tame bird whose cage door stands wide open, I’m a little afraid to venture outside of what I know.
In the end, the girls came home from camp filthy and exhausted and full of tales from Hogwarts. Who knew wizards could have belly-flop competitions? Who knew you could go to the Yule Ball in August? They made their own wands, were sorted into houses (Eve in Ravenclaw and Lola and Hufflepuff), and were sad to leave. They slept for two days when they got home, taking breaks only to spill tales of adventures at camp like machine gun fire.
And me? I learned that there is life beyond parenting. And it’s pretty good. Thank goodness I have several more years to figure it out.

To Glee or Not to Glee



My girls have reached the “musical” stage of their childhood. Eve got to go see “Oliver!” last year with her class and she came home singing all of the songs and begged me to get the music. Lola’s music teacher taught them most of the songs from “The Sound of Music” last year and she went around singing them until I thought I’d throw up. Repetition aside (or maybe repetition-inspired), I decided to expand their repertoire by finding some more musical soundtracks to introduce them to.

“Annie?” Check.
“Mamma Mia?” Check.
“Grease?” Triple check.
I loved that movie. It came out in 1978 and I must have been too young to see it in the theater, but I watched it a dozen times as an adolescent (we weren’t delineated into teens and tweens back then, of course). I saved my money and bought the album as soon as I could and I listened to it over and over again. In fact, I’m fairly certain that green cover with the photo of Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta sat empty in my cupboard for a long time since the record rarely came off of my record player. Twenty-five years later I still remember all of the words to all of the songs and just hearing them conjures up images of Frenchie’s pink hair and Rizzo dancing in her underwear at the slumber party as she sang “Sandra Dee.”
My girls quickly fell in love with the music to “Grease” too. And it wasn’t long before they began asking to watch the movie.
Gulp.
Eva is nearly twelve and Lola just turned nine. Are they too young? I don’t honestly remember how old I was when I first saw “Grease,” but I know that some of the concepts are pretty grown up. Even some of the song lyrics are a little edgy – “…I’m Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity.” (Mom, what’s ‘virginity?’ I can imagine Lola asking.) The boys singing “Greased Lightning” and talking about the girls “creaming their pants.” Hmmm.
I don’t recall my reaction when I heard lines like that in the movie. I know there isn’t any sex or nudity and, other than the sexual inferences and stereotypical bad behavior from teens, I don’t think there is anything objectionable. But do I want to be responsible for my girls learning concepts like “creaming your pants?” Of course, the cat’s out of the bag for a lot of it if they slow down and really listen to the song lyrics. And they already listen to a lot of music with words I don’t allow them to say – heck, even the Indigo Girls drop the f-bomb here and there.
I’m stuck wondering whether I want to let them see me squirm and, thus, set them up to pay closer attention to the movie, wondering what it is that I’m worried about. Maybe they will watch the movie, absorb the parts they care about and are developmentally able to, and chuck the rest, only realizing what was really going on sometime about the age of 20.
Eve has been pressuring me to let her watch “Glee” since most of her friends and classmates watch it and love it. It’s not that I won’t let her, but it isn’t a show I watch, so it doesn’t occur to me to record it and even see if it is okay. And then there is the logistical issue of how to let Eve watch something that Lola isn’t allowed to. Don’t get me started on that.
I suppose the worst that could happen is that they bump up against a concept they are unfamiliar with or one that makes them uncomfortable and we have to talk about it. I’m more than happy to do that, although Lola has been teasing me lately about giving her “too much information.” In my defense, the questions she asks are getting more complex. “What’s a foster home?” “Why are there so many homeless people?” “Why is Eve so cranky all the time?”


Or maybe none of these things is that complicated. Maybe I’m just seeing it that way through my complicated-colored glasses.

Pro-Life Politicians More Concerned With Controlling Women’s Health and Forcing Their Own Morality Than Anything Else.

Yup, that’s right. And I’m hopping mad. This past week, all but two of the Planned Parenthood offices in Arizona were forced to stop providing abortion services. The two that remain are in the biggest urban areas in the state, leaving the majority of women in Arizona out of possibilities that are safe and convenient.

The Arizona Court of Appeals has upheld a 2009 pro-life state law that, in part, requires the mother to be informed of abortion risks and alternatives at an in-person doctor visit the day before getting an abortion, requires notarized parental consent for abortion on a minor child, and includes right of conscience religious provisions.

You can bet that this sort of law would never apply to, say, vasectomies, or a prescription for Viagra. No flipping way. The reason that the rural PP offices were forced to stop offering abortion was because their services were provided by nurse practitioners and, thus, don’t fulfill the “in-person doctor visit” portion of the law. I call bullsh*t.

The reason this law was enacted was to force women into other alternatives besides abortion. There has been much debate, and I think we can all agree that abortion is not a desired outcome for anyone, pro-life or pro-choice. But if our true intention is to decrease the number of abortions, than we ought to be aiming our arrows at preventing unwanted pregnancies and offering early prenatal care to avoid life-threatening conditions that could prompt abortions in desired pregnancies. Instead, lawmakers are defunding one of the best-known agencies that provides both of those services – Planned Parenthood. This law was aimed directly and unyeildingly at abortion service providers and the women who access them.

Some politicians say they are simply trying to make abortions safer. Bullsh*t again. Abortions are as safe as any other in-office surgical procedure. Most of them occur without any sort of intravenous or general anesthesia, which cannot be said for other surgeries such as many plastic surgeries, tubal ligations, and trauma repair that occur in-office these days. As with any other procedure, getting an abortion requires informed consent. Clearly, the woman seeking those services has to speak with her provider and get the information necessary to agree to this procedure. So what’s the deal?

Here is where abortion is different. It is a decision that must be made within a certain, specific time period or the decision is effectively made for you. A man seeking a vasectomy can wait a few weeks after seeing a physician to make his decision. He can either abstain from sexual activity or use some form of birth control in the meantime. A woman seeking an abortion is already pregnant. She doesn’t have much time to consider her options.

The man is also not subjected to picketers judging him and showing him graphic photos of his surgery. I’m willing to bet that most men, should they see 11×14 full-color posters of their testicles exposed, painted with Betadine, and a surgeon’s hand with the scalpel at the ready, would run for the nearest bush, vomit violently, and pass out.

These laws are not aimed at preventing unwanted or risky pregnancies. They are not aimed at protecting women. They are not aimed at improving the quality of the healthcare that women receive. They are designed to limit access to a safe, viable, legal surgical procedure that some lawmakers disagree with morally. The fact that they feel the need to lie about their intentions is a warning bell. Like I tell my kids, “If you feel like you need to hide what you’re doing, it’s probably not the right thing to do.”