I miss my little man. When my mom had originally said she wanted to take my 3-½ yr old for a week every summer (she’s a high school counselor and gets most of summer off) I thought it sounded like a great idea. This year especially I was looking forward to it so that my husband and I could get some much needed couple time before we become a family of four.
Sunday was great, we only made one comment on how we are usually entertained by him before bed and we’re going to have to come up with something else for the next week. By Monday night we had figured it out and were having fun. I, of course, called at least twice a day to say good morning and good night but Trysten was obviously having too much fun because for the most part he refused to talk to me.
Wednesday night was what we had envisioned the week to look like; we went to a farewell party for Zach’s boss and then went to a bar with two other couples and a singleton. It was admittedly a lot of fun but I was saddened while driving home when I realized I wouldn’t get to look in on a blissfully sleeping little boy when I arrived back home.
I called him today (Thursday) more than a couple times and he’s had a lot to say each time. I think it’s safe to say we are officially missing each other immensely and I’m not only counting the days now but also the hours. It’s not that I don’t love the alone time with my husband; in fact, when we’re hanging out together it makes it incredibly easier to survive without my son. However, it’s times away from the both of them that I reflect on just what I miss about the boy.
In the morning the only thing waking me up now is a kicking baby who wants fed, I no longer hear the pounding on the door of my Trysten Zachary. I miss his first smile when I come in to get him and the hug he so willingly shares when I’m too tired to move. I miss his reenactments of Power Rangers when I open the door after taking a shower and I miss the way he plays with his hair while he drinks his first morning’s glass of apple juice. I miss his giggle when I let the puppies in and the way he yells, “No, Stotle!” whenever our obese lab tries to sneak a few Lucky Charms. The “Bye mommy, have a good day, I wuv you,” is considerably better than the silence I leave before work without Trysten.
I drive by his daycare now and resist the very powerful urge to pull in and see if some other kid will come running to me the way Trysten does; arms stretched out ready for a hug while he runs the 40 paces to me. I miss hearing every detail about his day and trying to decide which ones were just figments of his miraculous imagination and which ones are really part of his every day life. Getting home and having him help me water the flowers; sitting on the counter while I cook; negotiating every bite for dinner; twirling his hair while drinking his milk. “Two more minutes mommy,” as he bats his long eyelashes knowing full well I’ve never been able to resist him or his daddy when they do that.
But I really miss bedtime; I really, really miss bedtime. Giving him a bath and watching his whole body prune-icize. The way he delights in the water and the bubbles and the toys is sheer joy to watch. Getting him out and snuggling with him in his towel. The smell of his lotion makes me remember him as a baby; I catch my self sneaking sniffs periodically throughout the rest of the night. Lying down with him in his bed as we read Harry Potter (okay, I read and he lays on my belly pretending to listen). Hearing his voice as he prays to His maker to watch over him, his baby, his mommy and daddy and his poopers (puppies). And then when he turns to me and plays with my hair. He giggles when it goes in my eyes and will stay there playing with it as long as I let him. Admittedly it’s hard to turn away so bedtime can last quite long when I’m feeling like I need the extra attention. But then to turn around as I walk out of his room and hear, “I wuv you mommy!” as he turns in bed and pulls the covers under his chin. I even miss the devious tricks plays by calling us up after that to go to the bathroom or wipe his nose.
I realize it’s a blessing to have parents (and sister) who want to take my son for a week and spoil him beyond belief. It’s good for them both to see each other so much. It’s even good for Zach and I to remind us of why we first fell in love and learn to appreciate that and hold on to that throughout the rest of the year. But I do miss my little man and I can’t help but be a bit jealous of my family who has seen him every day this week.
So pray for my state of mind for the next fifty hours of my life. And pray that I might remember how much I even miss when he calls me into the bathroom to help him wipe his butt upon his return.
I'm no writer, I assure you. Just a woman with a few things on her mind. A mom that makes mistakes, a wife that loves her husband more than words can say and a woman constantly seeing God in the everyday.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The Only Thing To Fear...
I have a fear, a fear I haven’t admitted to a lot of people, but a huge fear nonetheless. I fear that I will die without any warning or notice and without time to tell the people I love how I feel about them. Perhaps it’s irrational, perhaps in another lifetime I was left by a loved one without knowing how they felt. I do know there are a few examples from this lifetime in which people have passed without me ever telling them how I feel.
My ex-boyfriend’s dad died of a heart attack my freshman year of college. After dating the boy for the better part of 3 years, Jon had become my second dad and I loved him very dearly. He was smart, loving, hilarious and full of energy. I have a vivid mental picture from one of my high school basketball games (when I wasn’t even dating his son) of him in the front row yelling, “Go Tesi” at the top of his lungs and then standing and clapping whenever I didn’t screw up. I remember his favorite song was Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” and he held off smoking in the garage whenever I was around because it made my eyes turn red. At his funeral one of their best family friends came up to me and said, “Jon always said he thought of you as his daughter and if he could’ve chosen one it would’ve been you.” (He had two sons, no daughters). Though her words gave me comfort, I prayed so intensely that God was on the other side telling Jon, “She always said if she were to have a second dad, she would’ve wanted it to be you.” I never told him, we got along so well I comfort myself in believing he just had to have known how much I loved him and still think about him all the time.
My senior year of college I called my mom’s office (she was one of my high school’s counselors). The secretary then told me she was in another woman’s office comforting her because her son had just died in a car accident. It just so happened I graduated with her son and considered him a good guy, a friend. I broke down and decided it best not to attend classes that day. Matt was the guy in high school who was a friend of everybody. My “position” in high school was an interesting one but Matt never cared much about that and always showed me the greatest amount of support and respect even when people from his “group” disagreed. He not only accepted my stance against partaking in things he and his friends did, he respected it and told me so on more than one occasion. The day before he died he and some friends were in Iowa City and they stopped by my house. He got to meet my son for the first time and we were able to “catch up” in the twenty or so minutes they hung around. I walked in the house and lamented on how great of a guy he had always been. Unfortunately the lamenting stayed only between my husband and myself, because he was taken from this world not 12 hours later.
So this morning I woke up early and got ready before Trysten woke up so that we could spend some extra quality time before we went to work and daycare. Sure enough, we had a lot of fun. His favorite game is to say something like, “I really like this cereal, but you know what I like more than this cereal?” He waits for me to ask, “What?” And with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen, he claims, “You”. So we played this adorable game the good portion of the morning and when it was time for me to head off to work I gave him a hug and he told me to “share good with my friends” and sent me off. As I was maneuvering (everything is a maneuver when you’re 7 months pregnant, in a skirt, trying to get into a Honda Civic) into the car Zach yells at me, “Tesi wait.” Trysten came out, obviously crying. He came up to me and said, “I sad cuz you left and I didn’t say I wuv you.” I truly was thisclose to shrugging off work for the day and staying with my child who shares my sometimes-irrational fear.
I have to believe it’s at least a small fear in all of us. That even from a small age we innately want “to love and be loved in return”. The ability to love is the greatest blessing God has given us and I am considerably luckier than most that I have had an abundance of love to give and given to me in my life. My husband and I don’t leave each other without a kiss and an “I love you”. My mom and I have long since said it to one another and I’ve slowly coaxed it out of my dad and sister when we’re parting ways as well (I fear I have a long way to go for my little brother). It comes extremely naturally to all the Klipschs, more often than not it’s a competition on who can prove their love more or say the words first. But I hope my family, friends and acquaintances realize those words are more than words to me, that not only do I truly love them, but respect, admire and appreciate them. If I die tomorrow I don’t want them to just remember how I said those words so often but how I made them feel them all the time.
This blog is dedicated not only to my enormous family: blood, extended, in-laws and the like, but also to my friends both old and new, to teachers and mentors and everyone in between. To God, that He reminds me of the people who need to hear what I think of them the most. And that He continuously shows me his love, as his has for all my years. And to everyone out there who might share in this little fear of mine. Go spread a little love people.
My ex-boyfriend’s dad died of a heart attack my freshman year of college. After dating the boy for the better part of 3 years, Jon had become my second dad and I loved him very dearly. He was smart, loving, hilarious and full of energy. I have a vivid mental picture from one of my high school basketball games (when I wasn’t even dating his son) of him in the front row yelling, “Go Tesi” at the top of his lungs and then standing and clapping whenever I didn’t screw up. I remember his favorite song was Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” and he held off smoking in the garage whenever I was around because it made my eyes turn red. At his funeral one of their best family friends came up to me and said, “Jon always said he thought of you as his daughter and if he could’ve chosen one it would’ve been you.” (He had two sons, no daughters). Though her words gave me comfort, I prayed so intensely that God was on the other side telling Jon, “She always said if she were to have a second dad, she would’ve wanted it to be you.” I never told him, we got along so well I comfort myself in believing he just had to have known how much I loved him and still think about him all the time.
My senior year of college I called my mom’s office (she was one of my high school’s counselors). The secretary then told me she was in another woman’s office comforting her because her son had just died in a car accident. It just so happened I graduated with her son and considered him a good guy, a friend. I broke down and decided it best not to attend classes that day. Matt was the guy in high school who was a friend of everybody. My “position” in high school was an interesting one but Matt never cared much about that and always showed me the greatest amount of support and respect even when people from his “group” disagreed. He not only accepted my stance against partaking in things he and his friends did, he respected it and told me so on more than one occasion. The day before he died he and some friends were in Iowa City and they stopped by my house. He got to meet my son for the first time and we were able to “catch up” in the twenty or so minutes they hung around. I walked in the house and lamented on how great of a guy he had always been. Unfortunately the lamenting stayed only between my husband and myself, because he was taken from this world not 12 hours later.
So this morning I woke up early and got ready before Trysten woke up so that we could spend some extra quality time before we went to work and daycare. Sure enough, we had a lot of fun. His favorite game is to say something like, “I really like this cereal, but you know what I like more than this cereal?” He waits for me to ask, “What?” And with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen, he claims, “You”. So we played this adorable game the good portion of the morning and when it was time for me to head off to work I gave him a hug and he told me to “share good with my friends” and sent me off. As I was maneuvering (everything is a maneuver when you’re 7 months pregnant, in a skirt, trying to get into a Honda Civic) into the car Zach yells at me, “Tesi wait.” Trysten came out, obviously crying. He came up to me and said, “I sad cuz you left and I didn’t say I wuv you.” I truly was thisclose to shrugging off work for the day and staying with my child who shares my sometimes-irrational fear.
I have to believe it’s at least a small fear in all of us. That even from a small age we innately want “to love and be loved in return”. The ability to love is the greatest blessing God has given us and I am considerably luckier than most that I have had an abundance of love to give and given to me in my life. My husband and I don’t leave each other without a kiss and an “I love you”. My mom and I have long since said it to one another and I’ve slowly coaxed it out of my dad and sister when we’re parting ways as well (I fear I have a long way to go for my little brother). It comes extremely naturally to all the Klipschs, more often than not it’s a competition on who can prove their love more or say the words first. But I hope my family, friends and acquaintances realize those words are more than words to me, that not only do I truly love them, but respect, admire and appreciate them. If I die tomorrow I don’t want them to just remember how I said those words so often but how I made them feel them all the time.
This blog is dedicated not only to my enormous family: blood, extended, in-laws and the like, but also to my friends both old and new, to teachers and mentors and everyone in between. To God, that He reminds me of the people who need to hear what I think of them the most. And that He continuously shows me his love, as his has for all my years. And to everyone out there who might share in this little fear of mine. Go spread a little love people.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Jesus, Are You There?
“The way school needs teachers, the way Kathie Lee needed Regis, that’s the way I need Jesus”.
I’m sure there’d be many-a religious scholars who would have problems with me describing the way I need Jesus like Kanye West so poignantly does in his song “Jesus Walks”, but I’m not afraid. See, it took me a long time to not only admit to myself how much I need Jesus, but also to everyone else. I still find myself wishing for that song to come on the radio so I can point at it and say, “oh man, so true, so true” rather than just come right out and say, “You know what man, I love Jesus and I need Him”.
I don’t think I’m alone in this hesitancy. Ask someone if they’re Christian and there’s a good chance there will be a hesitation and then a long explanation that ends somewhere between yes and no but never sticking to an exact answer. I often do that when someone asks me a spiritual question or asks me to quote a place in the Bible. I fumble around for what would seem to be the right answer like a baby trying to nurse for the first time. It’s not a pretty sight and I fear I tend to distract people from the message, the true message I’m trying to get out. “I don’t have the answers, all I know is the man is a good man and He loves me and I love Him”.
I’m not your typical Jesus lover at first glance. I curse more than I like to admit (though I blame that entirely on my husband), I yell at the dogs too much, I once in awhile make fun of someone else to make myself feel better and I’m definitely not the kind of wife or mother the Bible says you should be. Most my prayers end in me apologizing for being so sleepy and saying something like, “But you know me right? Just listen to my heart and do that please”. I get fidgety when I have to pray aloud, and I am lucky to read passages from the Bible three times a week. I listen to music that my dad so lovingly refers to as “F-this, F-that crap” (as noticed by my two Kanye West references I’m sure). I don’t have a fish bumper sticker, I wear my cross necklace once in awhile, and I have no t-shirts that reference Jesus, God, church, missionary trips or the like, the closest I have is an Oprah shirt and perhaps that counts for some people.
But I do love Jesus and I need Him more than I need anything else. I have a “spiritual journey” just like the next gal, but mine I like to keep a bit private. I still wrestle with my spirituality and sometimes my own wants and needs are the Cael Sandersons and sometimes God’s are, it just depends. It took me a long time to relinquish my control, isn’t that what we’re brought up to want? The American dream, the money, the power, the title, everything. Interestingly enough it’s exactly what God asks you to give up and let Him take control over. It’s just a tough thing to rewire, your whole thought process. Even if you were brought up in a good Christian home like I was, I was also brought up in an intelligent home, one that taught you to think for yourself. It’s only natural that I would want proof and not go on faith alone.
But faith and His grace is what has given me all the amazing things I have now, it definitely hasn’t been my smarts or my beauty (both of which I like to think if ever there was a person that could get by on those alone, it could be me). Only recently have I learned He gives and He takes away with such force and resilience the only thing we humans can do is bow down and worship it. He has given me a beautiful child and taken one away, yet He gives again! He has given me an amazing husband, a beautiful house, a job that makes me happy a good portion of the time, yet has not blessed us with the best health. Ironically the closer I get in my walk with Him, the more I realize it is the taking away that brings me closer to Him. I can for an instant think I am the reason for all the goodness in my life, but it’s in moments of sadness that I realize none of it is about me. In moments of quiet (or loud) desperation I realize it has nothing to do with me.
A couple days ago my husband had to work late so I was home alone with my pneumonia-ridden son. He had been diagnosed a couple days before that but it had seemed to be getting progressively worse. He fell asleep okay but an hour later woke up screaming. I ran upstairs and got him, which usually stops the screaming, but he continued on for the next 10 minutes or so. I started crying and carrying on just like him until he asked, “Mommy, why are you crying”? It took me forever to admit, “Because I’m scared”. This wasn’t a good thing to say as his answer to that was “I’m scared too” and more screams and crying from the both of us. I hugged him and started praying, “God please don’t take him, please heal him, make him feel better, do SOMETHING! Anything, God please.” (Note this was the first time in a long time that I realized this prayer would not end with me sleeping, so I was a bit rusty). But I couldn’t help it I was scared. I was scared I would go in to the doctor thinking he was fine and they would tell me he had cancer or some other life-threatening disease that I was not ready to handle with my angel of a three-year-old. I called my much more grounded husband and we met at the ER. Of course, it was still just pneumonia.
I reflected while watching him with Zach on the hospital bed that I am so out of control in almost every situation I’m in. I may feel in control sometimes, because thank God He gives me the illusion to keep me sane, to keep me happy; but He’s in control whether I like it or not. As tough as that is for me to admit even now, I know it and I love that about Him. He gives me a life much better than I could ever create trying to go at it alone. This is why I love Him, why I need Him and why I shouldn’t be afraid of saying all of that.
Now, “I ain’t here to argue about His facial features, not here to convert atheists into believers”. I’m just trying to say I need Jesus and I’m going to try to be more and more like Him everyday. And next time someone asks me if I’m a Christian, I won’t just take off my shirt and show them my tattoo of a cross, I’ll keep my shirt on and say something like, “Why yes, yes I am and it comes highly recommended.”
I’m sure there’d be many-a religious scholars who would have problems with me describing the way I need Jesus like Kanye West so poignantly does in his song “Jesus Walks”, but I’m not afraid. See, it took me a long time to not only admit to myself how much I need Jesus, but also to everyone else. I still find myself wishing for that song to come on the radio so I can point at it and say, “oh man, so true, so true” rather than just come right out and say, “You know what man, I love Jesus and I need Him”.
I don’t think I’m alone in this hesitancy. Ask someone if they’re Christian and there’s a good chance there will be a hesitation and then a long explanation that ends somewhere between yes and no but never sticking to an exact answer. I often do that when someone asks me a spiritual question or asks me to quote a place in the Bible. I fumble around for what would seem to be the right answer like a baby trying to nurse for the first time. It’s not a pretty sight and I fear I tend to distract people from the message, the true message I’m trying to get out. “I don’t have the answers, all I know is the man is a good man and He loves me and I love Him”.
I’m not your typical Jesus lover at first glance. I curse more than I like to admit (though I blame that entirely on my husband), I yell at the dogs too much, I once in awhile make fun of someone else to make myself feel better and I’m definitely not the kind of wife or mother the Bible says you should be. Most my prayers end in me apologizing for being so sleepy and saying something like, “But you know me right? Just listen to my heart and do that please”. I get fidgety when I have to pray aloud, and I am lucky to read passages from the Bible three times a week. I listen to music that my dad so lovingly refers to as “F-this, F-that crap” (as noticed by my two Kanye West references I’m sure). I don’t have a fish bumper sticker, I wear my cross necklace once in awhile, and I have no t-shirts that reference Jesus, God, church, missionary trips or the like, the closest I have is an Oprah shirt and perhaps that counts for some people.
But I do love Jesus and I need Him more than I need anything else. I have a “spiritual journey” just like the next gal, but mine I like to keep a bit private. I still wrestle with my spirituality and sometimes my own wants and needs are the Cael Sandersons and sometimes God’s are, it just depends. It took me a long time to relinquish my control, isn’t that what we’re brought up to want? The American dream, the money, the power, the title, everything. Interestingly enough it’s exactly what God asks you to give up and let Him take control over. It’s just a tough thing to rewire, your whole thought process. Even if you were brought up in a good Christian home like I was, I was also brought up in an intelligent home, one that taught you to think for yourself. It’s only natural that I would want proof and not go on faith alone.
But faith and His grace is what has given me all the amazing things I have now, it definitely hasn’t been my smarts or my beauty (both of which I like to think if ever there was a person that could get by on those alone, it could be me). Only recently have I learned He gives and He takes away with such force and resilience the only thing we humans can do is bow down and worship it. He has given me a beautiful child and taken one away, yet He gives again! He has given me an amazing husband, a beautiful house, a job that makes me happy a good portion of the time, yet has not blessed us with the best health. Ironically the closer I get in my walk with Him, the more I realize it is the taking away that brings me closer to Him. I can for an instant think I am the reason for all the goodness in my life, but it’s in moments of sadness that I realize none of it is about me. In moments of quiet (or loud) desperation I realize it has nothing to do with me.
A couple days ago my husband had to work late so I was home alone with my pneumonia-ridden son. He had been diagnosed a couple days before that but it had seemed to be getting progressively worse. He fell asleep okay but an hour later woke up screaming. I ran upstairs and got him, which usually stops the screaming, but he continued on for the next 10 minutes or so. I started crying and carrying on just like him until he asked, “Mommy, why are you crying”? It took me forever to admit, “Because I’m scared”. This wasn’t a good thing to say as his answer to that was “I’m scared too” and more screams and crying from the both of us. I hugged him and started praying, “God please don’t take him, please heal him, make him feel better, do SOMETHING! Anything, God please.” (Note this was the first time in a long time that I realized this prayer would not end with me sleeping, so I was a bit rusty). But I couldn’t help it I was scared. I was scared I would go in to the doctor thinking he was fine and they would tell me he had cancer or some other life-threatening disease that I was not ready to handle with my angel of a three-year-old. I called my much more grounded husband and we met at the ER. Of course, it was still just pneumonia.
I reflected while watching him with Zach on the hospital bed that I am so out of control in almost every situation I’m in. I may feel in control sometimes, because thank God He gives me the illusion to keep me sane, to keep me happy; but He’s in control whether I like it or not. As tough as that is for me to admit even now, I know it and I love that about Him. He gives me a life much better than I could ever create trying to go at it alone. This is why I love Him, why I need Him and why I shouldn’t be afraid of saying all of that.
Now, “I ain’t here to argue about His facial features, not here to convert atheists into believers”. I’m just trying to say I need Jesus and I’m going to try to be more and more like Him everyday. And next time someone asks me if I’m a Christian, I won’t just take off my shirt and show them my tattoo of a cross, I’ll keep my shirt on and say something like, “Why yes, yes I am and it comes highly recommended.”
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Ode to Marital Strife
After one of Zach and my heated “discussions” I was laying in bed trying to remember why it started in the first place. I’m sure every married person can relate to my inquiry. The story goes something like:
Woman: “I cooked, cleaned up, fed and watered the animals, put our kids to bed while the lazy bum I married sits on the couch.”
Man: “Ahhh had a tough day at work today. Feels so good to be home and relaxing. What’s on TV?”
As seen in the example, only one of the parties is aware of the impending discussion. I’m pretty sure our discussion last night started that way and had begun to end that way until my betrothed came to bed to give me hugs and kisses (our way of saying sorry without having to hurt our pride and actually say it).
Zach and I made an agreement not to go to bed angry at each other. This pact makes sense as you never know if you’ll get another moment together in this life so why have the last one be of silence and anger? But this night was different. I was tired, the discussion was going nowhere and I just wanted to go to bed. I went to bed with our words still lingering where I left them in the living room with my husband, and I sat awake. I never do actually fall asleep angry, I’m pretty sure God just won’t allow it because He knows it will hold awful repercussions for me when I awake well rested and over the squabble.
I’m also pretty sure good portions of our discussions are for no good reason. Sure, it starts with something that bothers us but always ends the same way. I think sometimes we argue just to talk to each other. After 3+ years of marriage we get sick of talking about the same things, asking the same questions. Work, check, kid, check, weather, check. The topics are all the same with few possible variations and it gets tiring; especially considering our first date (and many thereafter) we did little else but sit in bookstores and talk for hours about everything. Picking each other’s brains. Going on wild excursions to find books with the most interesting titles or renting each other’s favorite books in order to understand each other a bit more.
See, I fell in love with Zach for what was on his innards, as we like to call them. Don’t get me wrong, his outards are quite nice indeed and I have always enjoyed viewing those as well, but his innards are what hooked me. I didn’t marry him because I could foresee future stimulating conversations of burp rags, toddler poo and dogs that just refuse to potty train. So it makes sense that we get downtrodden at those mundane discussions. This is not to say our son’s BM schedule is not altogether an interesting subject, as it’s a great segway for my husband to discuss how it compares to his own BM schedule which is ultimately one of his favorite subjects. However, I can tell we want more because of how we get almost excited to argue with each other. Trying to prove our higher-than-normal-intelligence and trying to make points that will win the other one over.
We love looking at older couples that lean on each other as they walk the 5 paces to the restaurant. While seated they gaze out the window lost in many decades of being together. Not having to talk because they’ve pretty much said it all. Zach and I look forward to being that couple, we really do. But there’s such a huge part of me that hopes after 60ish years together we realize there’s still good discussions in Presidents or nuclear disarmament. I hope we can still tote our walkers into bookstores to find the craziest titles and discuss our favorite books.
The thought that our marriage will easily be summed up in a few sentences over dinner scares me. It’s not necessarily a bad thing I understand that. I know grandparents who are just the most precious people, couples I look up to, and don’t say much. I just don’t want that from us. I truly hope the first place our grandkids look when they can’t find us is some obscure park, saying movie lines and seeing if the other’s memory is good enough to recall which movie it comes from. I hope we’re as good of storytellers as we are now. That by the time we’re in our nineties, the story that started out as “Zach meets Tesi”, turns into a thirty minute story, mostly made up of course, of what we were wearing and how he smelled. I hope there’s still so much of the twenty year old I married that I still get a kick out of the crazy things he does like his big childlike grin when he plants a fart smelled ‘round the world. That I still wake up, look at the long eyelashes, the two moles and the large 6’2” frame curled up in the fetal position and smile, overjoyed at the memory of a lifetime spent together and a lifetime yet to come.
Woman: “I cooked, cleaned up, fed and watered the animals, put our kids to bed while the lazy bum I married sits on the couch.”
Man: “Ahhh had a tough day at work today. Feels so good to be home and relaxing. What’s on TV?”
As seen in the example, only one of the parties is aware of the impending discussion. I’m pretty sure our discussion last night started that way and had begun to end that way until my betrothed came to bed to give me hugs and kisses (our way of saying sorry without having to hurt our pride and actually say it).
Zach and I made an agreement not to go to bed angry at each other. This pact makes sense as you never know if you’ll get another moment together in this life so why have the last one be of silence and anger? But this night was different. I was tired, the discussion was going nowhere and I just wanted to go to bed. I went to bed with our words still lingering where I left them in the living room with my husband, and I sat awake. I never do actually fall asleep angry, I’m pretty sure God just won’t allow it because He knows it will hold awful repercussions for me when I awake well rested and over the squabble.
I’m also pretty sure good portions of our discussions are for no good reason. Sure, it starts with something that bothers us but always ends the same way. I think sometimes we argue just to talk to each other. After 3+ years of marriage we get sick of talking about the same things, asking the same questions. Work, check, kid, check, weather, check. The topics are all the same with few possible variations and it gets tiring; especially considering our first date (and many thereafter) we did little else but sit in bookstores and talk for hours about everything. Picking each other’s brains. Going on wild excursions to find books with the most interesting titles or renting each other’s favorite books in order to understand each other a bit more.
See, I fell in love with Zach for what was on his innards, as we like to call them. Don’t get me wrong, his outards are quite nice indeed and I have always enjoyed viewing those as well, but his innards are what hooked me. I didn’t marry him because I could foresee future stimulating conversations of burp rags, toddler poo and dogs that just refuse to potty train. So it makes sense that we get downtrodden at those mundane discussions. This is not to say our son’s BM schedule is not altogether an interesting subject, as it’s a great segway for my husband to discuss how it compares to his own BM schedule which is ultimately one of his favorite subjects. However, I can tell we want more because of how we get almost excited to argue with each other. Trying to prove our higher-than-normal-intelligence and trying to make points that will win the other one over.
We love looking at older couples that lean on each other as they walk the 5 paces to the restaurant. While seated they gaze out the window lost in many decades of being together. Not having to talk because they’ve pretty much said it all. Zach and I look forward to being that couple, we really do. But there’s such a huge part of me that hopes after 60ish years together we realize there’s still good discussions in Presidents or nuclear disarmament. I hope we can still tote our walkers into bookstores to find the craziest titles and discuss our favorite books.
The thought that our marriage will easily be summed up in a few sentences over dinner scares me. It’s not necessarily a bad thing I understand that. I know grandparents who are just the most precious people, couples I look up to, and don’t say much. I just don’t want that from us. I truly hope the first place our grandkids look when they can’t find us is some obscure park, saying movie lines and seeing if the other’s memory is good enough to recall which movie it comes from. I hope we’re as good of storytellers as we are now. That by the time we’re in our nineties, the story that started out as “Zach meets Tesi”, turns into a thirty minute story, mostly made up of course, of what we were wearing and how he smelled. I hope there’s still so much of the twenty year old I married that I still get a kick out of the crazy things he does like his big childlike grin when he plants a fart smelled ‘round the world. That I still wake up, look at the long eyelashes, the two moles and the large 6’2” frame curled up in the fetal position and smile, overjoyed at the memory of a lifetime spent together and a lifetime yet to come.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Roses
“To get there we run, we walk, we fly; because with my family we know where home is, so instead of sending flowers, we the roses.”
While driving home from St. Louis last weekend, I heard the song “Roses” from Kanye West’s new CD. He’s rapping/singing (whatever you’d like to call it) about when his grandmother was in the hospital. All of his aunts and family members had come to the hospital and were waiting to hear if grandma was going to make it. It brought up a discussion Zach and I had on our way to St. Louis about family.
I was raised believing I was going to be an “active” member in both my immediate and extended families. I knew from very early on that if my cousins were playing a game within an hour (give or take) of us, we would be there. I knew I’d be at all the weddings, funerals, births, just all around big moments in their lives. I grew up loving that they were there for me and I was there for them. I honestly believe this is what has led to such an awesome relationship with all my aunts, uncles and cousins.
This past weekend we had found out that Zach’s grandmother’s health was failing. She lived in St. Louis and I decided immediately it would be good to go. Zach only had a few hesitations but we obviously ended up going. On the way there we discussed the differences between our families. All my family (including grandmas and most cousins, etc) have been there every time I’ve needed them or wanted them. My state track meets, my graduations, my wedding, the birth of my son, my miscarriage, my new house. All events; happy, sad or indifferent have been shared with my family. That is in stark contrast to Zach’s family who was just not raised that way. When deciding our wedding details I wanted all of my cousins to be involved. He wanted representation from his side (with good reason) but struggled remembering his cousin’s names. There have many instances like those and it’s completely baffling to me.
After watching Zach’s grandma die it has become more obvious that we really, truly, only get one life here on earth. Thinking back to all those moments when I’ve been the happiest, I realize there is one equation that just works, family, friends, and love too big to fit into one room. So why not make every effort to get my fill of that every day I’m given on earth? It’s so very easy to get wrapped up in our own lives. To skip an event a couple hours away because the house just needs to be cleaned. We find ourselves making excuses why we couldn’t be there for someone who truly needed us because it would be too much work to do it. But I’ve seen the reaction on my loved ones face when I make the extra effort to prove my love for them. I drove 8 hours to go to my cousin’s bachelorette party only to turn around and head back a few hours later. That night she related to me just how much it meant to have me there. Grandma was pretty out of it when we went to see her in the hospital last weekend but when I told her I was there, she looked at me and held my hand for just a few moments. I saw her reaction when Zach said hello as well, it meant something to her and to us, to be there when she breathed her last. Let’s be honest everyone needs proof that they're loved sometimes, how do you put a price on prooving that to them? It’s definitely worth more than a tank of gas or “time spent with my family”. Granted, I believe we all need down time, time with just me, Zach and Trysten. But I also know it’s much easier to show them that I love them because I get the opportunity every day. I don’t get that opportunity with my sister in Virginia or my in-laws in Chicago. It just means I need to work extra hard so they don’t just know I love them, but can feel it, can literally reach out and touch it.
I assure you, I am most definitely not on a soapbox. I love Zach’s family so much it’s ridiculous (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents). I see that they do have as close of a relationship as possible being far apart and never having had those moments of making every effort to see each other. I’m not saying my way is better than Zach’s or anything of the sort. I just know it’s what I want from my children. I want them to expect they’ll drive the 4 hours to Chicago if my in-laws have another baby. I want them to know there is literally no distance too far if someone needs them or if they need me. I need them to understand life is not necessarily about the every day. Life is sometimes about the miracles. Witnessing every aspect of life and relate it not just to yourself but also to the people around you. Live life’s biggest moments with the ones you love. Be there for the laughs and the tears. Be an active member of the family and community. I have no idea who sent me flowers on my biggest days, but I can tell you all 420 people who attended our wedding. Save money I’ll tell my kids, instead of sending flowers, be the roses.
While driving home from St. Louis last weekend, I heard the song “Roses” from Kanye West’s new CD. He’s rapping/singing (whatever you’d like to call it) about when his grandmother was in the hospital. All of his aunts and family members had come to the hospital and were waiting to hear if grandma was going to make it. It brought up a discussion Zach and I had on our way to St. Louis about family.
I was raised believing I was going to be an “active” member in both my immediate and extended families. I knew from very early on that if my cousins were playing a game within an hour (give or take) of us, we would be there. I knew I’d be at all the weddings, funerals, births, just all around big moments in their lives. I grew up loving that they were there for me and I was there for them. I honestly believe this is what has led to such an awesome relationship with all my aunts, uncles and cousins.
This past weekend we had found out that Zach’s grandmother’s health was failing. She lived in St. Louis and I decided immediately it would be good to go. Zach only had a few hesitations but we obviously ended up going. On the way there we discussed the differences between our families. All my family (including grandmas and most cousins, etc) have been there every time I’ve needed them or wanted them. My state track meets, my graduations, my wedding, the birth of my son, my miscarriage, my new house. All events; happy, sad or indifferent have been shared with my family. That is in stark contrast to Zach’s family who was just not raised that way. When deciding our wedding details I wanted all of my cousins to be involved. He wanted representation from his side (with good reason) but struggled remembering his cousin’s names. There have many instances like those and it’s completely baffling to me.
After watching Zach’s grandma die it has become more obvious that we really, truly, only get one life here on earth. Thinking back to all those moments when I’ve been the happiest, I realize there is one equation that just works, family, friends, and love too big to fit into one room. So why not make every effort to get my fill of that every day I’m given on earth? It’s so very easy to get wrapped up in our own lives. To skip an event a couple hours away because the house just needs to be cleaned. We find ourselves making excuses why we couldn’t be there for someone who truly needed us because it would be too much work to do it. But I’ve seen the reaction on my loved ones face when I make the extra effort to prove my love for them. I drove 8 hours to go to my cousin’s bachelorette party only to turn around and head back a few hours later. That night she related to me just how much it meant to have me there. Grandma was pretty out of it when we went to see her in the hospital last weekend but when I told her I was there, she looked at me and held my hand for just a few moments. I saw her reaction when Zach said hello as well, it meant something to her and to us, to be there when she breathed her last. Let’s be honest everyone needs proof that they're loved sometimes, how do you put a price on prooving that to them? It’s definitely worth more than a tank of gas or “time spent with my family”. Granted, I believe we all need down time, time with just me, Zach and Trysten. But I also know it’s much easier to show them that I love them because I get the opportunity every day. I don’t get that opportunity with my sister in Virginia or my in-laws in Chicago. It just means I need to work extra hard so they don’t just know I love them, but can feel it, can literally reach out and touch it.
I assure you, I am most definitely not on a soapbox. I love Zach’s family so much it’s ridiculous (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents). I see that they do have as close of a relationship as possible being far apart and never having had those moments of making every effort to see each other. I’m not saying my way is better than Zach’s or anything of the sort. I just know it’s what I want from my children. I want them to expect they’ll drive the 4 hours to Chicago if my in-laws have another baby. I want them to know there is literally no distance too far if someone needs them or if they need me. I need them to understand life is not necessarily about the every day. Life is sometimes about the miracles. Witnessing every aspect of life and relate it not just to yourself but also to the people around you. Live life’s biggest moments with the ones you love. Be there for the laughs and the tears. Be an active member of the family and community. I have no idea who sent me flowers on my biggest days, but I can tell you all 420 people who attended our wedding. Save money I’ll tell my kids, instead of sending flowers, be the roses.
Monday, November 14, 2005
"You Know What I Mean?"
I like to think that I pretty much know everything about myself so I was pretty surprised to find that is not exactly the case. This weekend while spending some quality time with my favorite husband, he pointed out that I tend to finish my comments with, “You know what I mean?” or some variation of it. This surprised me not only because I fancy myself an eloquent speaker (thus making it impossible someone wouldn’t know what I mean) but also because one of the main reasons I fell in love with Zach in the first place was because he always seemed to “know what I mean”.
In true Tesi form, I pondered over this revelation for quite some time. In true Zach form, any time thereafter I said it; he would point it out revealing just how much I say it. After much thoughtful consideration I’ve come up with the hypothesis that I say it because I have went through most of my life being misunderstood. My earliest memories of endless misunderstanding frustrations were in Junior High. My mom and sister were both big into romance novels so I dabbled in them as well. My mom and I have always been told we’re very much alike so I figured I would find as much satisfaction as she apparently did. Of course I found them altogether boring and pointless and was frustrated at the differences between us. I needed to find a deeper meaning in the books I read. I could read a few here and there if there was nothing better to read or do, but for the most part my thirst for mental stimulation in books went unsatisfied until my dad gave me my first copy of “The Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand one Christmas in high school. I read through it quite quickly and have since revisited the book many times. Every time I read it, it takes on a whole new meaning. It stands out as being the first “text” that understood me. It stands out also as the first moment I realized my dad and I were a lot more alike than I had ever given either of us credit for.
In high school I pretty much hung out with the female “jocks”. We had an immense amount of fun every time we hung out but there was still a sense of not belonging. We were all so different in personalities that sometimes it felt like talking to a brick wall. I would try to scratch the surface of issues and get to the real heart of our teenage angst, only to find it was too dark of a place for them to visit with me. I searched for meaning all by myself and would sometimes find a night hanging out with them too exhausting, too lonely. The women who I hung out with all the time still looked at me funny when I tried to go on one of my philosophical diatribes and it was so extremely frustrating. I obviously stayed in those relationships anyway (and still find much joy in them) because every once in awhile they’d respond “yes” to my $1000 question.
It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I met my match; I found the male version of myself in a guy by the name of Derek. The first night we hung out we immediately started talking about things never even covered with my high school friends. We stayed up all hours of the night discussing things like divorce, spirituality, what it meant to be “crazy” in a place like Vermillion, South Dakota. My idiosyncrasies became commonplace in our relationship and it was such an awesome, relieving place to be. Of course I had my moments of uncertainty, having someone understand you so well after years of not feeling that was very alarming, very tough in a lot of instances when all I wanted to be was my crazy self. I missed the anonymity that came with people not understanding me and giving up hope that they ever would. But in the end I found comfort, and still do, in the friendship that was my first of knowing each other without history. Of never having to say, “You know what I mean” because I just knew he did. Of saying anything without the fear of being laughed at or getting another set of eyes rolling away from me. That understanding transferred us both back to Iowa City and to a life I never thought possible.
That’s where I met Zach. My relationship with Zach became different than that of Derek and myself because in moments when Zach didn’t understand me, he worked to do so. Unlike Derek who never seemed to have those moments in the first place, or my high school friends who gave up and changed the subject; Zach would challenge me to dig deeper and explain where my crazy theories originated. If we ended up still on different pages, he chalked it up to my cleverness and loved me more intensely. We were so much alike yet different enough to keep things interesting. Our passion for philosophy extended to the wee hours of the morning and ended with lots of professions of love and a few near-breakup moments. We were constantly parched for each other’s thoughts and went to bed giddy at the thought of hearing each other’s versions of the latest chapter in The Republic. I taught him the beauty of the literary world and he taught me the liberation of feeling comfort in my own skin. I taught him to hear Eddie Veder’s words and he taught me the uniqueness of Outkast’s sound. In our 4 years of loving each other there have been definite moments of not understanding. His look that says, “You’re freakin crazy” is never too far from his face yet I know a large part of him understands the craziness. He understands what I mean when I say, “Burski babies”, he understands why I cry every time I’m at a wedding or a funeral. He even understands why I randomly use words from the 80s and why I sing along to songs even when I don’t know the words.
So I ask myself why I would say, “You know what I mean” to a man who sincerely does. Why would I say that to my husband who was the first man to either know what I mean or at the very least be interested at my working, thinking brain? I think it’s because I’m so scared of losing that. Of being the family member that everyone talks about behind his/her back. “Did you hear what Tesi said today? Wow, she’s freakin crazy!” I want to feel a little bit of certainty in this uncertain world and that’s what Zach has always provided for me. It’s a beautiful thing being understood by someone who is not going to tease you for having random thoughts after being awake for 24 hours straight but yet is not too afraid to call you out on your moments of ridiculousness. Even through the transformation of self I’ve had since meeting Zach, I still find comfort in him knowing who I am and what I’m thinking. Still find great joy in hearing him say, “That’s an interesting question” or “You’re so smart”. I’ve realized even though in my younger years I held onto my identity of not being understood, it’s an altogether better place to have a partner with you in this crazy thing we call life.
In true Tesi form, I pondered over this revelation for quite some time. In true Zach form, any time thereafter I said it; he would point it out revealing just how much I say it. After much thoughtful consideration I’ve come up with the hypothesis that I say it because I have went through most of my life being misunderstood. My earliest memories of endless misunderstanding frustrations were in Junior High. My mom and sister were both big into romance novels so I dabbled in them as well. My mom and I have always been told we’re very much alike so I figured I would find as much satisfaction as she apparently did. Of course I found them altogether boring and pointless and was frustrated at the differences between us. I needed to find a deeper meaning in the books I read. I could read a few here and there if there was nothing better to read or do, but for the most part my thirst for mental stimulation in books went unsatisfied until my dad gave me my first copy of “The Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand one Christmas in high school. I read through it quite quickly and have since revisited the book many times. Every time I read it, it takes on a whole new meaning. It stands out as being the first “text” that understood me. It stands out also as the first moment I realized my dad and I were a lot more alike than I had ever given either of us credit for.
In high school I pretty much hung out with the female “jocks”. We had an immense amount of fun every time we hung out but there was still a sense of not belonging. We were all so different in personalities that sometimes it felt like talking to a brick wall. I would try to scratch the surface of issues and get to the real heart of our teenage angst, only to find it was too dark of a place for them to visit with me. I searched for meaning all by myself and would sometimes find a night hanging out with them too exhausting, too lonely. The women who I hung out with all the time still looked at me funny when I tried to go on one of my philosophical diatribes and it was so extremely frustrating. I obviously stayed in those relationships anyway (and still find much joy in them) because every once in awhile they’d respond “yes” to my $1000 question.
It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I met my match; I found the male version of myself in a guy by the name of Derek. The first night we hung out we immediately started talking about things never even covered with my high school friends. We stayed up all hours of the night discussing things like divorce, spirituality, what it meant to be “crazy” in a place like Vermillion, South Dakota. My idiosyncrasies became commonplace in our relationship and it was such an awesome, relieving place to be. Of course I had my moments of uncertainty, having someone understand you so well after years of not feeling that was very alarming, very tough in a lot of instances when all I wanted to be was my crazy self. I missed the anonymity that came with people not understanding me and giving up hope that they ever would. But in the end I found comfort, and still do, in the friendship that was my first of knowing each other without history. Of never having to say, “You know what I mean” because I just knew he did. Of saying anything without the fear of being laughed at or getting another set of eyes rolling away from me. That understanding transferred us both back to Iowa City and to a life I never thought possible.
That’s where I met Zach. My relationship with Zach became different than that of Derek and myself because in moments when Zach didn’t understand me, he worked to do so. Unlike Derek who never seemed to have those moments in the first place, or my high school friends who gave up and changed the subject; Zach would challenge me to dig deeper and explain where my crazy theories originated. If we ended up still on different pages, he chalked it up to my cleverness and loved me more intensely. We were so much alike yet different enough to keep things interesting. Our passion for philosophy extended to the wee hours of the morning and ended with lots of professions of love and a few near-breakup moments. We were constantly parched for each other’s thoughts and went to bed giddy at the thought of hearing each other’s versions of the latest chapter in The Republic. I taught him the beauty of the literary world and he taught me the liberation of feeling comfort in my own skin. I taught him to hear Eddie Veder’s words and he taught me the uniqueness of Outkast’s sound. In our 4 years of loving each other there have been definite moments of not understanding. His look that says, “You’re freakin crazy” is never too far from his face yet I know a large part of him understands the craziness. He understands what I mean when I say, “Burski babies”, he understands why I cry every time I’m at a wedding or a funeral. He even understands why I randomly use words from the 80s and why I sing along to songs even when I don’t know the words.
So I ask myself why I would say, “You know what I mean” to a man who sincerely does. Why would I say that to my husband who was the first man to either know what I mean or at the very least be interested at my working, thinking brain? I think it’s because I’m so scared of losing that. Of being the family member that everyone talks about behind his/her back. “Did you hear what Tesi said today? Wow, she’s freakin crazy!” I want to feel a little bit of certainty in this uncertain world and that’s what Zach has always provided for me. It’s a beautiful thing being understood by someone who is not going to tease you for having random thoughts after being awake for 24 hours straight but yet is not too afraid to call you out on your moments of ridiculousness. Even through the transformation of self I’ve had since meeting Zach, I still find comfort in him knowing who I am and what I’m thinking. Still find great joy in hearing him say, “That’s an interesting question” or “You’re so smart”. I’ve realized even though in my younger years I held onto my identity of not being understood, it’s an altogether better place to have a partner with you in this crazy thing we call life.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Ah, the Troops
Last night as I was watching the Halloween parade pour through downtown I was able to swing my hips with the cadence of the bands, point and wave hi to the Nemo float and cover my ears at the fire trucks. I was a kid again lost in the fantasy world that is parades. Clowns perpetually smiling, TV personalities perpetually on air, children perpetually running after candy, so much so they come within centimeters of being run over by floats. It’s a sensory overload for everyone present, and it’s so much fun. It wasn’t until the men and women of the military came through that it made me truly appreciate all the joys and silliness I had felt.
The army came through in their fatigues, saluting the flag that passed before them. The sight gave me goosebumps, it brought a smile to my face and without realizing it, I was applauding. No matter what your political persuasion, I think it would be hard to not respect these people. Whether you believe they truly gave themselves to our armed forces voluntarily or not, the fact remains they deserve our respect. Whether you believe war is something that should never be or not, the people of the armed forces are what make it easy for us to live the life we’ve grown accustomed to.
I have people within my own “circle of trust” that disagree with my political beliefs and I actually appreciate friendly banter about our differences. I appreciate it because it means we’re in a country that not only allows it, but also encourages it! The people that passed my family in the parade were the ones that have agreed to put my life ahead of their own, without even knowing my name. What a powerful gesture. Even if they saw it as the only way out of a life of poverty, they still had a choice. In life, there is always a choice; the options may not be appealing, or ones our society even discusses, but there’s always a choice. So in my mind, these uniformed soldiers chose at one point to protect my freedom and continue to choose on a daily basis.
Looking at the people, and perhaps more specifically the women, of underdeveloped countries makes me respect these soldiers even more. To hear stories of women being able to go outside the house without being completely covered, women owning their own business for the first time, women speaking their minds, women choosing… to know I’ve taken all those things for granted my entire life and to realize all of this was made possible by people in uniform.
Let’s be honest, it’s not about the politicians. They can order people to war but it is the men and women fighting who make it possible for us to do the things we love. It is because of them that people are able to ride around in cars claiming Bush is the next Hitler without the threat of being killed for it. Our freedom is a mighty beautiful thing and for that, I will continue to get goosebumps when I see the soldiers, I will continue to get choked up any time the Star Spangled Banner is played and will continue to support the soldiers, wherever they may be.
So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thank the women and men in all varieties of uniform, for giving me a life everyone deserves.
The army came through in their fatigues, saluting the flag that passed before them. The sight gave me goosebumps, it brought a smile to my face and without realizing it, I was applauding. No matter what your political persuasion, I think it would be hard to not respect these people. Whether you believe they truly gave themselves to our armed forces voluntarily or not, the fact remains they deserve our respect. Whether you believe war is something that should never be or not, the people of the armed forces are what make it easy for us to live the life we’ve grown accustomed to.
I have people within my own “circle of trust” that disagree with my political beliefs and I actually appreciate friendly banter about our differences. I appreciate it because it means we’re in a country that not only allows it, but also encourages it! The people that passed my family in the parade were the ones that have agreed to put my life ahead of their own, without even knowing my name. What a powerful gesture. Even if they saw it as the only way out of a life of poverty, they still had a choice. In life, there is always a choice; the options may not be appealing, or ones our society even discusses, but there’s always a choice. So in my mind, these uniformed soldiers chose at one point to protect my freedom and continue to choose on a daily basis.
Looking at the people, and perhaps more specifically the women, of underdeveloped countries makes me respect these soldiers even more. To hear stories of women being able to go outside the house without being completely covered, women owning their own business for the first time, women speaking their minds, women choosing… to know I’ve taken all those things for granted my entire life and to realize all of this was made possible by people in uniform.
Let’s be honest, it’s not about the politicians. They can order people to war but it is the men and women fighting who make it possible for us to do the things we love. It is because of them that people are able to ride around in cars claiming Bush is the next Hitler without the threat of being killed for it. Our freedom is a mighty beautiful thing and for that, I will continue to get goosebumps when I see the soldiers, I will continue to get choked up any time the Star Spangled Banner is played and will continue to support the soldiers, wherever they may be.
So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thank the women and men in all varieties of uniform, for giving me a life everyone deserves.
Monday, October 24, 2005
To All The Men Who Make Me a Better Person
Most men are terrific, capable fathers. For the record, I could word that the same way, “Most women are terrific, capable mothers”. There are, of course, exceptions to both. It was after a recent episode of “Desperate Housewives” that I got to think how men are depicted in TV shows, advertisements and the like. In the aforementioned “Desperate Housewives” episode, Lynette has decided to go back to work while husband; Tom stays home with the kids. The first episode in which Tom has the kids the whole day, Lynette returns to a house with dishes everywhere, toys strewn about and an image of overall disarray; not to mention Tom looking haggard and exhausted. This first episode didn’t anger me because I believe it would be quite an adjustment to go from working full time to staying at home full time. It was at the end of the show when Tom has shown he continuously can’t handle the kids and the housekeeping like Lynette could that bothered me.
I’ve often been heard saying, “Zach is a better father than I am a mother.” Sure, I’d prefer him scrubbing out the stains on our carpet or vacuuming the couches after our dog decides to deposit large amounts of hair on them; but he is a fantastic father. He is not only warm and loving, he is attentive and caring, funny and playful. When Trysten was a baby, he would wake up with him just as much as I would to do the burping and the changing. He has been involved since day one and still loves having daddy and Trysten time when mommy is not invited. So seeing men in commercials not “handling” time alone with their own children or hearing men refer to “babysitting” their own children really gets me heated up. Maybe it’s because I have so many great examples of fathers in my own life: my dad, my husband, my father-in-law, and my brother-in-law that I get mad for them at the way they are represented. Imagine if the ad execs had the audacity to constantly portray mothers as incapable, can’t-wait-til-daddy-gets-home parents. There would be uproar in the feminist community, the likes to which have never been seen! So why aren’t those same women becoming outraged at such an atrocious portrayal of men?
I for once can’t answer that question. I have been a witness to men who do sincerely consider it “babysitting” when they are alone with their own child. I have known women who can’t go out without finding a babysitter because their husbands don’t want to be left alone with their children. But I’ve known more men who love and cherish and welcome time spent alone with their children, and it’s for these men that I am writing this.
For all intents and purposes, Zach is a better parent than I am. He is more patient, stricter, tickles better and will teach our son to pee standing up. Zach has pointed out that Trysten could care less about clean clothes as long as he gets more personal time with me on more than one occasion. It is for Zach, my faithful, loving husband that I write this. It is because of men like him that we women, we mothers, get such a good reputation. And for that, I thank you and I will yell at the TV next time a dad is portrayed as incompetent, even if I’m the only one yelling.
I’ve often been heard saying, “Zach is a better father than I am a mother.” Sure, I’d prefer him scrubbing out the stains on our carpet or vacuuming the couches after our dog decides to deposit large amounts of hair on them; but he is a fantastic father. He is not only warm and loving, he is attentive and caring, funny and playful. When Trysten was a baby, he would wake up with him just as much as I would to do the burping and the changing. He has been involved since day one and still loves having daddy and Trysten time when mommy is not invited. So seeing men in commercials not “handling” time alone with their own children or hearing men refer to “babysitting” their own children really gets me heated up. Maybe it’s because I have so many great examples of fathers in my own life: my dad, my husband, my father-in-law, and my brother-in-law that I get mad for them at the way they are represented. Imagine if the ad execs had the audacity to constantly portray mothers as incapable, can’t-wait-til-daddy-gets-home parents. There would be uproar in the feminist community, the likes to which have never been seen! So why aren’t those same women becoming outraged at such an atrocious portrayal of men?
I for once can’t answer that question. I have been a witness to men who do sincerely consider it “babysitting” when they are alone with their own child. I have known women who can’t go out without finding a babysitter because their husbands don’t want to be left alone with their children. But I’ve known more men who love and cherish and welcome time spent alone with their children, and it’s for these men that I am writing this.
For all intents and purposes, Zach is a better parent than I am. He is more patient, stricter, tickles better and will teach our son to pee standing up. Zach has pointed out that Trysten could care less about clean clothes as long as he gets more personal time with me on more than one occasion. It is for Zach, my faithful, loving husband that I write this. It is because of men like him that we women, we mothers, get such a good reputation. And for that, I thank you and I will yell at the TV next time a dad is portrayed as incompetent, even if I’m the only one yelling.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
I am She-Rah, Princess of Power
I love Harry Potter. Not in the “Oh, it’s a ‘fun’ read” love it; I love it, love it. I started thinking about this when I realized that the latest movie installment would be released November 18th. (See, I love it, love it). I realized it after I checked out the website www.gobletoffire.com just to get a few sneak peaks. I especially realized it when my son was wearing glasses and called them his “Harry Pottah” glasses (we only refer to Harry Potter with a British accent in my house).
The whole idea of Harry Pottah mania is so baffling to me because in all fairness, he’s just a wizard on a broomstick that gets in and out of trouble with two of his friends by his side. He’s just a boy wizard fighting crime so what’s all the fuss about? If I had a dollar for every time I thought to myself, “I wish I would’ve thought of this first…” I’d be one rich woman. But I didn’t think of it first, and that’s what brought me to my conclusion.
Kids love Harry Pottah because they are growing up in an age where TV, not fireflies, is keeping them entertained. It seems kids know more about Grand Theft Auto than King of the Hill on snow dunes. When was the last time you saw Red Rover being played anywhere but the schoolyard where PS2 doesn’t come as school-funded equipment? Childhood obesity wasn’t as prevalent when I was at that age because we only came inside when it was snack time or bedtime. Right after school it was down to the bridge to mine for fool’s gold, not picking which prostitute to sleep with then run over (For those of you who don’t know, that’s what happens in the game Grand Theft Auto, believe me, I’m not even good enough to make that up). What an incredible time when kids ask, “What am I supposed to do outside,” when not allowed to come inside.
It seems their imagination is being provided for them. Sure, as my avid game playing husband argues, there have been studies linking good hand-eye coordination from kids who play video games. Sure, there are the cartoons that can be intellectually stimulating and faith renewing. But when do they get a chance to form their own imagination? I can hear the “Debbie Downers” who think the same can be said for books but it’s a different world. When kids read Harry Pottah they put their own voices with it. Their own trusted friends are that of Hermoine and Ron. They picture themselves flying and when they’re reading the books they get lost in a guided world of imagination. It’s like the good old days when we read comic books and leapt off our beds like Catwoman. They are Harry Pottah just as much as I was She-Rah, Princess of Power.
It’s amazing to me how spoiled kids of today really are. With pre-packaged food and toys come pre-packaged imaginations. Just right for your little Mikey and works well for your little Betty too! I’m going to try my darndest to let Trysten explore the world of his own imagination. Reach beyond the corners of what TV can teach him. I ache to watch him create castles out of sand and hear the screams of a midnight game of hide-and-go-seek. I long to hear his version of the book he just read and wait with anticipation at the first time he can utter the beautiful words, “The book is better than the movie.”
Because that would mean I'm doing my job right. Afterall, the book is only a representation of his imagination.
The whole idea of Harry Pottah mania is so baffling to me because in all fairness, he’s just a wizard on a broomstick that gets in and out of trouble with two of his friends by his side. He’s just a boy wizard fighting crime so what’s all the fuss about? If I had a dollar for every time I thought to myself, “I wish I would’ve thought of this first…” I’d be one rich woman. But I didn’t think of it first, and that’s what brought me to my conclusion.
Kids love Harry Pottah because they are growing up in an age where TV, not fireflies, is keeping them entertained. It seems kids know more about Grand Theft Auto than King of the Hill on snow dunes. When was the last time you saw Red Rover being played anywhere but the schoolyard where PS2 doesn’t come as school-funded equipment? Childhood obesity wasn’t as prevalent when I was at that age because we only came inside when it was snack time or bedtime. Right after school it was down to the bridge to mine for fool’s gold, not picking which prostitute to sleep with then run over (For those of you who don’t know, that’s what happens in the game Grand Theft Auto, believe me, I’m not even good enough to make that up). What an incredible time when kids ask, “What am I supposed to do outside,” when not allowed to come inside.
It seems their imagination is being provided for them. Sure, as my avid game playing husband argues, there have been studies linking good hand-eye coordination from kids who play video games. Sure, there are the cartoons that can be intellectually stimulating and faith renewing. But when do they get a chance to form their own imagination? I can hear the “Debbie Downers” who think the same can be said for books but it’s a different world. When kids read Harry Pottah they put their own voices with it. Their own trusted friends are that of Hermoine and Ron. They picture themselves flying and when they’re reading the books they get lost in a guided world of imagination. It’s like the good old days when we read comic books and leapt off our beds like Catwoman. They are Harry Pottah just as much as I was She-Rah, Princess of Power.
It’s amazing to me how spoiled kids of today really are. With pre-packaged food and toys come pre-packaged imaginations. Just right for your little Mikey and works well for your little Betty too! I’m going to try my darndest to let Trysten explore the world of his own imagination. Reach beyond the corners of what TV can teach him. I ache to watch him create castles out of sand and hear the screams of a midnight game of hide-and-go-seek. I long to hear his version of the book he just read and wait with anticipation at the first time he can utter the beautiful words, “The book is better than the movie.”
Because that would mean I'm doing my job right. Afterall, the book is only a representation of his imagination.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
We Should Be an Act at the Circus
How do we balance work, wifehood, motherhood and self-gratification in the world we’re living in? I find this an immensely difficult question. See, I grew up with both my parents working, but when they got home it was family time. We had family dinner every night (including weekends for the most part), we took family vacations where we didn’t bring friends, and we did everything as a family. I don’t remember my parents really having a life outside of “family”. I remember a few times when I was younger, having a babysitter and watching my parents come home a bit more giggly and “touchy feely” than usual, but it wasn’t enough times to make me wonder what was going on. I still thought I was the center of their universe and I think my brother and sister can attest to the same feelings. So where is the balance?
My husband and I were just discussing this issue last night after putting our son to bed early so we could get some quality marriage time in. Is it a product of our upbringing that we think we should have a life that is independent of the family? Is it because I was the center of my parents’ universe that I still get a tinch selfish from time to time? I work out in the mornings, by myself, one night a week I try and fit in Pilates by myself. Zach is trying to find his “by myself” moments and in the midst of this discussion I got to thinking about my own parents. I would not change a thing about my childhood. I have the most amazing parents, the parents I aspire to be every single moment and yet I don’t want to wait until my last child is out of high school before I start having parties again and making new friends. Let’s be honest, making friends is exhausting and who has time for that after raising children?
At a time when over half of all marriages will end in divorce, should we be carving out more “by myself” time? Will this end the rash of seven-year itches, or midlife crisis’s? One of the times Zach seems the happiest is when he comes home from playing basketball, he’s sweatier than anyone I’ve ever seen, smells like an old boot but yet has the biggest smile on his face. He almost bounces from room to room, after two hours of non-stop running, he has more energy to give us when he comes home. It’s the same for me too; when I work out in the mornings there is a vast difference in my attitude. I sing more in the shower, I wrestle more with Trysten, I am a more agile Spiderwoman, and the list goes on! And isn’t that what all the professionals say…it’s about quality not quantity? But when we talk about which nights will be “by myself” nights, I can’t help but feel guilty. Will Trysten miss me, will he remember his dad, are we horrible parents for wanting to be away from him and will we get divorced because we don’t want to spend every waking moment wrapped in a lovers embrace?
Absolutely not. I don’t care what they say. I know it works for other parents to make child rearing their only priority but I will not have that be what defines me. I am a woman, I am a wife, I am a mother, I am a Christian, I am an athlete, I am a professional, I am too many things to be “okay” with focusing on one. If I let any one of them go I might as well let them all go because each one makes me too happy. I still very firmly put Zach and Trysten's desires before my own; however, I still find time for making sure I'm happy too. I don't have all the answers, but the parents Zach and I are, the ones that like to have “by myself” times as often as we can, are doing the best we can. And really, I don’t think we’re doing too badly.
My husband and I were just discussing this issue last night after putting our son to bed early so we could get some quality marriage time in. Is it a product of our upbringing that we think we should have a life that is independent of the family? Is it because I was the center of my parents’ universe that I still get a tinch selfish from time to time? I work out in the mornings, by myself, one night a week I try and fit in Pilates by myself. Zach is trying to find his “by myself” moments and in the midst of this discussion I got to thinking about my own parents. I would not change a thing about my childhood. I have the most amazing parents, the parents I aspire to be every single moment and yet I don’t want to wait until my last child is out of high school before I start having parties again and making new friends. Let’s be honest, making friends is exhausting and who has time for that after raising children?
At a time when over half of all marriages will end in divorce, should we be carving out more “by myself” time? Will this end the rash of seven-year itches, or midlife crisis’s? One of the times Zach seems the happiest is when he comes home from playing basketball, he’s sweatier than anyone I’ve ever seen, smells like an old boot but yet has the biggest smile on his face. He almost bounces from room to room, after two hours of non-stop running, he has more energy to give us when he comes home. It’s the same for me too; when I work out in the mornings there is a vast difference in my attitude. I sing more in the shower, I wrestle more with Trysten, I am a more agile Spiderwoman, and the list goes on! And isn’t that what all the professionals say…it’s about quality not quantity? But when we talk about which nights will be “by myself” nights, I can’t help but feel guilty. Will Trysten miss me, will he remember his dad, are we horrible parents for wanting to be away from him and will we get divorced because we don’t want to spend every waking moment wrapped in a lovers embrace?
Absolutely not. I don’t care what they say. I know it works for other parents to make child rearing their only priority but I will not have that be what defines me. I am a woman, I am a wife, I am a mother, I am a Christian, I am an athlete, I am a professional, I am too many things to be “okay” with focusing on one. If I let any one of them go I might as well let them all go because each one makes me too happy. I still very firmly put Zach and Trysten's desires before my own; however, I still find time for making sure I'm happy too. I don't have all the answers, but the parents Zach and I are, the ones that like to have “by myself” times as often as we can, are doing the best we can. And really, I don’t think we’re doing too badly.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
The Best Medicine
I laughed today. Not one of those teehee laughs, but a side splitting, ear-shattering laugh. The kind of laugh you remember for the rest of your life.
Sitting in the back of our rented van, my mom’s head thrown back, a torrential downpour of her laughter raining down on my brother and sister sleeping in the back. Me, 5 years old, utter joy pulsing through my veins.
Chasing my brother up the stairs, falling at the top tickling him so hard he turns purple. My stubborn sister sitting down during a performance on our dance team. Me, loving them so much I always laugh.
Walking down the aisle arm in arm with my dad, the only man I’d ever really trusted. Watching him hand me off to the man who truly makes me laugh every single day. Me, laughing so hard; joy, sorrow, excitement, nervousness, happiness…pure happiness.
8 months pregnant playing a daring game of outburst with the exuberant Klipschs. Girls vs. Guys, game is on the line. Gentlemen only by title have to guess other names for “fart”. My eldest brother-in-law shouting the most repulsive expressions ever heard by my poor sister-in-law’s virginal ears. Me, without breath, gasping for air and feeling the sweet strangulation of a good laugh.
Grunting, pushing. “He has long eyelashes!” 8 lbs 8 ounces of the cutest mass of person ever seen. A miniature Zach in my arms staring up at me. Me, holding my firstborn knowing it is only the first time he’ll make me laugh so hard I cry.
Stirring Alfredo sauce in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago. My big-eyed sister-in-law pouring me another glass of wine. Discussing deep issues with sarcastic tones. Fighting to look like anything but desperate housewives. Me, crossing my legs, watching her through tear streaked eyes and thanking God for a feeling this good.
I want to bottle it up, my laughter. The feeling you get when you’re surrounded every day of your life by people who make your stomach hurt. How do I bottle that up and send it to the people touched by tragedies I’ve never known? How big of a bottle would it require to make them feel for one second what I get to feel every second?
Sitting in the back of our rented van, my mom’s head thrown back, a torrential downpour of her laughter raining down on my brother and sister sleeping in the back. Me, 5 years old, utter joy pulsing through my veins.
Chasing my brother up the stairs, falling at the top tickling him so hard he turns purple. My stubborn sister sitting down during a performance on our dance team. Me, loving them so much I always laugh.
Walking down the aisle arm in arm with my dad, the only man I’d ever really trusted. Watching him hand me off to the man who truly makes me laugh every single day. Me, laughing so hard; joy, sorrow, excitement, nervousness, happiness…pure happiness.
8 months pregnant playing a daring game of outburst with the exuberant Klipschs. Girls vs. Guys, game is on the line. Gentlemen only by title have to guess other names for “fart”. My eldest brother-in-law shouting the most repulsive expressions ever heard by my poor sister-in-law’s virginal ears. Me, without breath, gasping for air and feeling the sweet strangulation of a good laugh.
Grunting, pushing. “He has long eyelashes!” 8 lbs 8 ounces of the cutest mass of person ever seen. A miniature Zach in my arms staring up at me. Me, holding my firstborn knowing it is only the first time he’ll make me laugh so hard I cry.
Stirring Alfredo sauce in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago. My big-eyed sister-in-law pouring me another glass of wine. Discussing deep issues with sarcastic tones. Fighting to look like anything but desperate housewives. Me, crossing my legs, watching her through tear streaked eyes and thanking God for a feeling this good.
I want to bottle it up, my laughter. The feeling you get when you’re surrounded every day of your life by people who make your stomach hurt. How do I bottle that up and send it to the people touched by tragedies I’ve never known? How big of a bottle would it require to make them feel for one second what I get to feel every second?
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
The Sisterhood of the Blogging Klipschs
I might have the best sister-in-laws in the entire world. Yesterday I joined the sisterhood of bloggers with one of my sisters I was blessed to marry into. Leslie is a professional writer and her blog: http://hotchristianmama.blogspot.com/ is filled with profound poems and amazingly insightful short stories. I read her blog and want to be a better person. The pink words come off the page and make me laugh, cry, do the happy dance and send silent hugs through email. She’s an amazing stay-at-home mom that doesn’t give herself enough credit; which, let’s be honest, what mom does? She is an intellectual stimulator and if she loves you, she will be your biggest fan until the day she dies. We have been told (maybe only by each other) that we look a lot alike, we laugh often and on occasion drink too much wine. We fancy ourselves entrepreneurs in spirit and will go to great lengths to discuss what kinds of new business this world needs. She is what I like to call a little piece of heaven right here on Earth.
After I joined the blogging world, my second sister-in-law, Kait wasted no time joining too. See, that’s just what we do. Leslie blogs, so do Kait and I. I have babies, so does Leslie (and Kait will too as soon as she can). Kait buys a purse, so do Leslie and I. That’s just the kind of sisters we are. Her blog http://lachicagoana.blogspot.com/ is filled with ridiculously sound statements made from a college freshman. She has always been that way. She’s one of those women we short women hate. Tall, long legs, beautiful in literally every way imaginable. If she weren’t my sister, she would be one of those women I would search for something to make fun of just so I felt better about myself. The sad part is, I’ve actually tried and there is literally nothing bad about this woman. Kait is the most down-to-earth, hilarious, intelligent, self confident, Godly woman I’ve ever met. I like to pretend like I’m so much older and wiser than she; I am after all 5 years older, but she understands more of the world than I do. She has a greater grasp of life than most people I know. If I were to have a daughter, I would honestly want her to be exactly like Kait, long eyelashes, long legs and all. She is what I like to call a little piece of heaven right here on Earth.
So why dedicate an entire blog entry to these two women? Because in a world where we fantasize about having Halle Berry’s facial features and Anna Kornikova’s body; I find myself wanting to be most like a stay-at-home mom and a college freshman. Perfect in their imperfections. And how great would it be if we all idolized other women for their intellect or their Godliness and not on their size 4 frame and ridiculously good bone structure? The way I see it, hopefully I'm just ahead of the times. Maybe when my kids get to the idolizing age they will find perfect examples in their siblings; in an even better world, maybe they'll just find it in themselves.
After I joined the blogging world, my second sister-in-law, Kait wasted no time joining too. See, that’s just what we do. Leslie blogs, so do Kait and I. I have babies, so does Leslie (and Kait will too as soon as she can). Kait buys a purse, so do Leslie and I. That’s just the kind of sisters we are. Her blog http://lachicagoana.blogspot.com/ is filled with ridiculously sound statements made from a college freshman. She has always been that way. She’s one of those women we short women hate. Tall, long legs, beautiful in literally every way imaginable. If she weren’t my sister, she would be one of those women I would search for something to make fun of just so I felt better about myself. The sad part is, I’ve actually tried and there is literally nothing bad about this woman. Kait is the most down-to-earth, hilarious, intelligent, self confident, Godly woman I’ve ever met. I like to pretend like I’m so much older and wiser than she; I am after all 5 years older, but she understands more of the world than I do. She has a greater grasp of life than most people I know. If I were to have a daughter, I would honestly want her to be exactly like Kait, long eyelashes, long legs and all. She is what I like to call a little piece of heaven right here on Earth.
So why dedicate an entire blog entry to these two women? Because in a world where we fantasize about having Halle Berry’s facial features and Anna Kornikova’s body; I find myself wanting to be most like a stay-at-home mom and a college freshman. Perfect in their imperfections. And how great would it be if we all idolized other women for their intellect or their Godliness and not on their size 4 frame and ridiculously good bone structure? The way I see it, hopefully I'm just ahead of the times. Maybe when my kids get to the idolizing age they will find perfect examples in their siblings; in an even better world, maybe they'll just find it in themselves.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Oh No You Didn't!
It's true, it can happen to anyone. Even someone who all but minored in women's studies. Someone who fancies herself a feminist and loses her temper when sexist remarks are whispered at water coolers. Even we bra burning women can raise a son who says, "No mommy, boys are fast, not girls."
It happened on a cool day in Davenport, on a little jaunt to the local Wal Mart. My 2 1/2 year old son, Trysten, and I were "racing" to the front door. I did something I will regret for the next few months at least, I let him win.
"Wow!" I exclaimed, "You're fast".
"Yes", he said with a grin the size of Texas, "fast like daddy".
Not to toot my horn but, I was a college track athlete afterall, I couldn't let this moment pass, "No, fast like mommy".
"No, fast like Papa Frank", he assures me.
"Oh Trysten, mommy is DEFINITELY faster than Papa Frank, he is a grandpa after all!"
And here it comes...."No mommy, boys are fast, not girls".
Perhaps I overreacted, I couldn't help myself. In one instance I saw his life flash before my eyes. A 5 year old on the playground not letting a girl be on his kickball team; a 14 year old teasing a girl for throwing differently; a 21 year old only complimenting women for their outward appearance and finally a 50 year old executive, not giving the woman the same amount of money the man was getting for the same job. I felt my heart break, I felt my heart break! I treated it like any other misdoing we happen along when raising a toddler, I got down to eye level and stated calmly, "Trysten, that is not exactly true, there are lots of girls that are faster than boys, you shouldn't make those umbrella statements, they are unfair to many people."
He took it well. His big blue eyes looked up and he said, "Okay mommy".
"Well then say you run fast like mommy and give me a kiss and we can go get you a toy at Wal Mart".
Like I said, I'm a flawed mom. I ran this atrocity past my husband, brother-in-law and father-in-law. To set the stage all of those men are better men than the overwhelming majority. They all treat women with more respect than we treat each other and they usually give a hearty cry at the outrages against all minorities. My father-in-law and Zach (my husband) looked at each other and then at me like I was overreacting. It was only my brother-in-law that gave me a look like he could understand as well as any man could.
My husband, who I assure you is a great man, he did marry me after all, said "Well, you have to admit it is true, most men are faster than women."
I gave him one of my now notorious death glares, "Okay Maurice, let's see you race Marion Jones!" I ached to yell.
But what good does it do? Even someone like me understands that it's not always about the big battles but the little fights have to be won too. But was this too small of a fight? Was I a woman standing up for women's rights or a woman who complains about the color pink in the University of Iowa opponent's locker rooms?
One comment from my innocent little boy made me rethink what it meant to be a feminist in this age. I stand by my outrage, but I stand by it now only because it represents a man I don't want him to become. The fact is, Maurice Green will forever beat Marion Jones in the 200 and it's something I'm just going to have to get used to. But I will never let my son, or any other man for that matter, win a little fight that could one day become a big battle.
It happened on a cool day in Davenport, on a little jaunt to the local Wal Mart. My 2 1/2 year old son, Trysten, and I were "racing" to the front door. I did something I will regret for the next few months at least, I let him win.
"Wow!" I exclaimed, "You're fast".
"Yes", he said with a grin the size of Texas, "fast like daddy".
Not to toot my horn but, I was a college track athlete afterall, I couldn't let this moment pass, "No, fast like mommy".
"No, fast like Papa Frank", he assures me.
"Oh Trysten, mommy is DEFINITELY faster than Papa Frank, he is a grandpa after all!"
And here it comes...."No mommy, boys are fast, not girls".
Perhaps I overreacted, I couldn't help myself. In one instance I saw his life flash before my eyes. A 5 year old on the playground not letting a girl be on his kickball team; a 14 year old teasing a girl for throwing differently; a 21 year old only complimenting women for their outward appearance and finally a 50 year old executive, not giving the woman the same amount of money the man was getting for the same job. I felt my heart break, I felt my heart break! I treated it like any other misdoing we happen along when raising a toddler, I got down to eye level and stated calmly, "Trysten, that is not exactly true, there are lots of girls that are faster than boys, you shouldn't make those umbrella statements, they are unfair to many people."
He took it well. His big blue eyes looked up and he said, "Okay mommy".
"Well then say you run fast like mommy and give me a kiss and we can go get you a toy at Wal Mart".
Like I said, I'm a flawed mom. I ran this atrocity past my husband, brother-in-law and father-in-law. To set the stage all of those men are better men than the overwhelming majority. They all treat women with more respect than we treat each other and they usually give a hearty cry at the outrages against all minorities. My father-in-law and Zach (my husband) looked at each other and then at me like I was overreacting. It was only my brother-in-law that gave me a look like he could understand as well as any man could.
My husband, who I assure you is a great man, he did marry me after all, said "Well, you have to admit it is true, most men are faster than women."
I gave him one of my now notorious death glares, "Okay Maurice, let's see you race Marion Jones!" I ached to yell.
But what good does it do? Even someone like me understands that it's not always about the big battles but the little fights have to be won too. But was this too small of a fight? Was I a woman standing up for women's rights or a woman who complains about the color pink in the University of Iowa opponent's locker rooms?
One comment from my innocent little boy made me rethink what it meant to be a feminist in this age. I stand by my outrage, but I stand by it now only because it represents a man I don't want him to become. The fact is, Maurice Green will forever beat Marion Jones in the 200 and it's something I'm just going to have to get used to. But I will never let my son, or any other man for that matter, win a little fight that could one day become a big battle.
God Deserves a Knuckle Sandwich
We lost our baby.
Those words still seem so foreign to me. Still so new, so hard to pronounce I find myself writing them rather than speaking them. Instead of calling my dearest friends and family I wrote a mass email, similar to one that you get with a funny forward attached. Only this mass email contained only sadness, only my tears strewn across the keyboard as I wrote.
There’s no easy way to say it. Miscarriage. The word in itself pisses me off. As if I did something wrong, I carried it wrong, I MIScarried. If anything, I tried my hardest to protect this 10 week old fetus. I ate better, I avoided any movement that would affect my belly. I wouldn’t let my 100 lb dog on the couch with me anymore, I thought twice before wrestling with my 2 year old, I was a cautious carrier of my baby and yet, I miscarried.
I knew it would happen when I got so sick. As bad as I was feeling it tears me apart inside to think of my baby feeling that or even worse but flying to heaven on the wings of an unmistakable angel, there could be worse ways to go.
My husband asked how I was doing. I was surprised to hear myself say, “better than I expected”. In what world would I have expected this? How can you be better than expected when you weren’t expecting it in the first place? I found myself lying to him, and to others who asked. “How are you doing?” “Oh good,” I would answer as if there was a good way to answer that. I could feel how uncomfortable even the people who loved me most were about the subject. “I’m not okay!!!” I wanted to yell. How could I be okay with losing something I loved so much?
I’m not exactly sure when the miscarriage from hell will stop. I trust God will show me one day why I had to endure all this, perhaps He already has and I’ve just been to pissed off to see it. I asked my mom, who in a heinous twist of fate had a miscarriage her second pregnancy too, when the emotional pain stops. “Not until you get pregnant again, TL”. Only now do those words feel like some sort of sucker punch to the stomach since who knows if I’ll ever be able to get pregnant again.
What words do I have for other women who might have miscarried? Absolutely none. Again, my disdain for unwanted “advice” takes over and the only thing I could offer a woman who went through this truly miserable experience is a big hug and a few shared tears over babies only we truly felt. And you know what, maybe that’s enough. Maybe miscarriage is one cut that heals with hugs and tears. It couldn’t hurt to try.
Those words still seem so foreign to me. Still so new, so hard to pronounce I find myself writing them rather than speaking them. Instead of calling my dearest friends and family I wrote a mass email, similar to one that you get with a funny forward attached. Only this mass email contained only sadness, only my tears strewn across the keyboard as I wrote.
There’s no easy way to say it. Miscarriage. The word in itself pisses me off. As if I did something wrong, I carried it wrong, I MIScarried. If anything, I tried my hardest to protect this 10 week old fetus. I ate better, I avoided any movement that would affect my belly. I wouldn’t let my 100 lb dog on the couch with me anymore, I thought twice before wrestling with my 2 year old, I was a cautious carrier of my baby and yet, I miscarried.
I knew it would happen when I got so sick. As bad as I was feeling it tears me apart inside to think of my baby feeling that or even worse but flying to heaven on the wings of an unmistakable angel, there could be worse ways to go.
My husband asked how I was doing. I was surprised to hear myself say, “better than I expected”. In what world would I have expected this? How can you be better than expected when you weren’t expecting it in the first place? I found myself lying to him, and to others who asked. “How are you doing?” “Oh good,” I would answer as if there was a good way to answer that. I could feel how uncomfortable even the people who loved me most were about the subject. “I’m not okay!!!” I wanted to yell. How could I be okay with losing something I loved so much?
I’m not exactly sure when the miscarriage from hell will stop. I trust God will show me one day why I had to endure all this, perhaps He already has and I’ve just been to pissed off to see it. I asked my mom, who in a heinous twist of fate had a miscarriage her second pregnancy too, when the emotional pain stops. “Not until you get pregnant again, TL”. Only now do those words feel like some sort of sucker punch to the stomach since who knows if I’ll ever be able to get pregnant again.
What words do I have for other women who might have miscarried? Absolutely none. Again, my disdain for unwanted “advice” takes over and the only thing I could offer a woman who went through this truly miserable experience is a big hug and a few shared tears over babies only we truly felt. And you know what, maybe that’s enough. Maybe miscarriage is one cut that heals with hugs and tears. It couldn’t hurt to try.
I'm a Flawed Mom
I've never known if it was how I was raised or a product of my degree from a liberal arts college; but I don't believe in the theory that a book or magazine can tell me how to raise my child. Don't get me wrong, I still read endless amounts of parenting magazines, I rip out the latest edition of, "10 Ways to Keep Your Child From Dying" with an intensity not seen since I went through labor. I just don't buy into the idea that someone else can tell me how to raise my child.
This is why I'm a flawed mom. I read those and can find at least one time in which I tell myself, "Oh, you should stop doing that". But my son is the most amazing child I've ever met. I'm not just saying that either. I do so many things wrong, I often find myself wondering if he should be in a science museum somewhere with a plaque at the bottom that reads, "Came from a mom who made too many mistakes." I can see it now, him standing motionless with his big smile, big blue eyes and blonde Mohawk, just happy to be alive.
My husband and I like to try and take credit for it. The truth is I'm beginning to believe a lot more in nature than nurture. I got pregnant before Zach and I were officially married. We had Trysten when we were just 21. We were getting our college degrees and working and somehow made it work. All signs point to thousands of dollars of therapy in Trysten's future, but for now he's great and it has little to do with the kind of mom I am.
Where do we women get the idea that we have to have answers to everything? That there is a "DaVinci Code" for motherhood. Is there some random equation that will just make motherhood make sense? I find my single friends look to me for all the answers on motherhood and wifehood. I feel like a failure for not knowing them, I SHOULD know them shouldn't I? But I find myself gufawing at all the mothers who seem to have the answers to everything. How could what they do for their Susie most assuredly work for my Trysten? Without the same DNA make up, there really is no telling what one parent's go to method could do to another parent's child.
I went into my son's room this morning when he was saying good morning to Spiderman. I watched him read his books and play pretend games not seen in my imagination since I was that age. I realized then that it is entirely possible I learn more from him every day than he could learn from me. What does he learn from me? No apple juice on our new, white carpet; milk for dinner. And what do I get to learn from him? In our very own living room we have an entire baseball field with unlimited amounts of bats, balls, hats and gloves. That my husband is flawless in our child's eyes and that I actually don't look too bad in the outfit I've had for years. It turns out, me being a flawed mom, a mom who doesn't have all the answers, will pay off in the end. It might just mean that my 2 year old can provide me with wisdom way beyond my years.
This is why I'm a flawed mom. I read those and can find at least one time in which I tell myself, "Oh, you should stop doing that". But my son is the most amazing child I've ever met. I'm not just saying that either. I do so many things wrong, I often find myself wondering if he should be in a science museum somewhere with a plaque at the bottom that reads, "Came from a mom who made too many mistakes." I can see it now, him standing motionless with his big smile, big blue eyes and blonde Mohawk, just happy to be alive.
My husband and I like to try and take credit for it. The truth is I'm beginning to believe a lot more in nature than nurture. I got pregnant before Zach and I were officially married. We had Trysten when we were just 21. We were getting our college degrees and working and somehow made it work. All signs point to thousands of dollars of therapy in Trysten's future, but for now he's great and it has little to do with the kind of mom I am.
Where do we women get the idea that we have to have answers to everything? That there is a "DaVinci Code" for motherhood. Is there some random equation that will just make motherhood make sense? I find my single friends look to me for all the answers on motherhood and wifehood. I feel like a failure for not knowing them, I SHOULD know them shouldn't I? But I find myself gufawing at all the mothers who seem to have the answers to everything. How could what they do for their Susie most assuredly work for my Trysten? Without the same DNA make up, there really is no telling what one parent's go to method could do to another parent's child.
I went into my son's room this morning when he was saying good morning to Spiderman. I watched him read his books and play pretend games not seen in my imagination since I was that age. I realized then that it is entirely possible I learn more from him every day than he could learn from me. What does he learn from me? No apple juice on our new, white carpet; milk for dinner. And what do I get to learn from him? In our very own living room we have an entire baseball field with unlimited amounts of bats, balls, hats and gloves. That my husband is flawless in our child's eyes and that I actually don't look too bad in the outfit I've had for years. It turns out, me being a flawed mom, a mom who doesn't have all the answers, will pay off in the end. It might just mean that my 2 year old can provide me with wisdom way beyond my years.
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