Yesterday I was talking to two friends about the fact that I needed to spend today getting myself and my three kids packed for our trip to the beach tomorrow. I'm not supposed to be spending it reading blogs and writing my own, but that's just how I roll! Nothing like packing at the last minute.
The subject of packing for husbands came up. One friend said she did not do anything to get her husband ready for a trip, because they are both veteran travellers for work, and it would be counter-productive for her to pack for him. Makes perfect sense to me. However, I mentioned that my mother had packed for my father, a retired salesman, for just about every weekly trip he had taken in 30 years, which I think is ridiculous (sorry, Daddy!). My friend said, "Yeah, but she was a housewife, right?" To which I said the thing that got me thinking, "No, actually she worked. But, I'm a housewife, and I don't pack for my husband." What? As soon as I said that word, I was uncomfortable. Did I really use that word, housewife? I am married with three children and do not do work that brings in a paycheck, but I do not consider myself a housewife.
When I was a new mother, a friend who was a few years older than me told me that she did not like the term "housewife," because she was married to a man, not a house. I've never forgotten that, and I am truly thankful not to be married to my house. If I was married to my house, it would be demanding a divorce right now. I do not love it and show it the respect it rightly deserves. I ignore it and let it sit in its own dust and clutter and turn a blind eye while I blithely type away on the computer. I have not fancied my house up in pretty paint and curtains, nor have I put paintings or objects of art throughout its rooms, so I'm pretty sure it hates me for that. I am a very bad wife to my house, so needless to say, I do not use that term.
Now let me say something about my friend lest anyone be confused. She respects my position as a "non-paid" mom, and she would never say anything to hurt my feelings. I am sure she used the term "housewife" because she was referring to our mothers' generation and that was the term that they used. This post is not about political correctness. I hate the "word police." We have enough problems in the world without people getting offended for other people. Most people who are up on their "PC" horses are completely disingenuous, and they make me crazy! 'Nuff said.
So, back to my real question. What do I call me? If I don't even know what to call myself, how can I expect others to know what to call me? Some of the titles I have used are stay-at-home mom, which is okay, but doesn't exactly fill the bill. I do stay home to take care of my children, but I also drive kids all over creation and do a lot more than take care of children. I've also used homemaker, but that one makes me nervous. If I am a home maker, what sort of home am I making? Is it a pleasant home? Is it a clean home? Is it a home that is good for my husband, children and myself? I want to break out in hives when I start thinking too much about that, probably because I feel convicted about not being such a great homemaker (see house wanting a divorce above).
Yes, I've heard the titles such as domestic engineer or Mom on Call (okay, my kids are already way too entitled already. There is no way I am giving myself a name that suggests I am at their beck and call!) I even Googled titles for stay-at-home moms and found a Washington Post contest to come up with a new name. I didn't really like the contest, because it was based on political correctness, but I was down-right offended by some of the comments. Lil_Husky suggested that women like me should be called MoochiMoms. Lil_Husky, you are an idiot. Working moms and dads pay someone to take care of their children, but since I do that for my children without getting paid, you think I am mooching off my husband? If I died tomorrow, he would have to pay someone to take care of them, so what exactly is the problem with THEIR OWN MOTHER taking care of them FOR NO PAY? Lil_Husky, I will not waste my outrage on you. I am sure that you are unsightly, have body odor, and no wife or children, therefore you hate women and are bitter. Or even worse, you are one of those husbands who has his wife on an "allowance" of $50 a week for all household expenses whether she needs that much or not. Or worse yet, you are forcing her to work a job she hates when all she really wants to do is be home with her children. *Note to self, do not read comments from idiots.*
The biggest part of my naming problem is that mom is not the only role I play in life. I have many roles: wife, daughter, sister, unpaid writer, Girl Scout leader, school volunteer, embroiderer (for which I do get paid, but it is a pittance and as my husband would say, "If if costs you money, it is a hobby, not a job.") Not to mention the more existential roles I play: child of God, friend, role model, citizen of a small town, the state of Tennessee, the United States, the World (I'm feeling a flashback from 12th grade English and "Our Town"). This list could get quite long. So tell me, why does my title have to do with whether or not I make money. Or, whether or not I am a mother or wife? I know this is a much debated question about sense of self and worth and all that jazz, and I also know that I may not ever be able to answer it in a satisfactory way.
But, I think I have come up with a new title that encompasses all of the roles I play. The next time someone asks me what I do, I think I will reply, "I am a Lori. It's very demanding work, but quite fulfilling, too." At least that is what I am going to call myself until I hit the best-seller list, and then I'll just call myself a best-selling author. I rather like the ring of that.
*In case you are curious, the reason I do not pack for my husband, even though I am a Lori, is that he does not want me to. I tried to pack for him when we first got married, because I thought it was a "wifey" thing to do. (See story about my mother above.) He thanked me very much and then proceeded to ask me 42 questions about what I had packed and ended up taking everything out and re-doing it himself. Now I just make sure he has clean clothes and put some underwear and undershirts on the bed next to his suitcase and let him pick the rest himself. He is really the most efficient man I know. He can pack for a week in about 10 minutes and not forget anything and have exactly what he needs. I am in awe of his packing prowess. I, on the other hand, take forever, forget highly important things like contact solution or underwear, and am still packing after he has loaded the entire car and is honking outside for me and yelling, "come on!" But, maybe that's because by the time I get ready to pack for myself, I have already packed for three other people and my brain has shut down. Speaking of which, time to go and pack. This time is going to be different!
Friday, July 24, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
You decide
I've been thinking about this post since last week. Yes, originally I was going to post three or four times a week, but life and my three children and more life and minor surgery for my daughter and my nephew coming for a week of rock band camp and football camp for my son and did I mention life? have gotten in the way. So, here I am a week later finally writing this post.
My favorite southern author, Joshilyn Jackson, had a meme on her blog last week. Don't know what a meme is? Neither did I, so I Googled it. I had kind of figured it out from the context -- I'm smart like that -- but wanted to be sure. According to Wikipedia, a meme is basically a question posed and answered by a blogger who asks other bloggers to answer the same question, and it sort of becomes viral from there.
So, here's the question: What famous person do you resemble? Just so you know, I love to play along with these sorts of question/answer games. I fill out all those personal quizzes on Facebook and love to look at friends' answers. However, on this one I am stumped. I know I have been told once or twice that I look like someone famous. I think I remember someone saying Annie Potts. What? But usually it's more along the lines of, "Wow, you look just like my old neighbor." Or, "You look like a girl I knew in high school." You get the picture.
I'm kind of your basic girl-next-door type (yes, technically it's woman, but I still like to think of myself as young). Personally, I think it's kind of hard to judge our own outward appearance without prejudice. I see every pore, line, freckle (which will soon have to be called age spots) extra five or more pounds, stretch marks, under eye bags, etc. on my body. I know that I am not beautiful (although my children tell me I am, God bless their pea-pickin' little hearts!) but I think of myself as attractive. I have good hair (when I take the time to fix it), fairly striking eyes, and a pretty smile. I'm not the kind of girl that turns a lot of heads, but I did manage to catch my husband's eye (and then flirt with him for half a semester from across the room in human sexuality class before he finally asked me out, but that is a blog for another day), and he is quite the catch, if I do say so myself. And you can see both of us for yourself from our picture. Sorry, couldn't find one of me alone. It was either the two of us or me and the kids, so I opted for him. Not sure that I want to put the kiddos on here just yet.
I've read other bloggers who say they are average looking and they think that is why they aren't told they look like someone famous. That makes a lot of sense to me. Most of us aren't Hollywood types. Although there are a lot of character actors out there who aren't either. So, I've been thinking a lot this week on looks and beauty and what makes us look like other people -- is it our features or something more, like maybe our essence? And, what makes a person attractive or unattractive? And why don't any of my children really look like me, since I am the one who carried them in my big, fat, swollen belly for nine months!?! Oops, there goes my stream-of-consciousness thinking again.
Anyway, I've gotten way more involved in this post than I ever expected -- that's what happens when I think on things for a whole week. So, since I don't have a clue what famous person I look like, I'll let you tell me. As I am wont to tell my children, "Be nice!" If you tell me I look like some punk rocker or a man, I will blacklist you from this blog! (Don't know if I can really do that, but I'll figure out something.) Realistically, I'm expecting to hear that I look like an old friend of yours.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
My Special Kind of Southern Angst
I was reading book blogs, instead of doing the hundred or so other things I said I would do today, when I came upon a reading contest. For those of you who don't know, I am a voracious reader. I consume books. I read books like I swim: head down, hard as I can go, only coming up now and again for a large breath of air before plunging in again. I love the written word. My eyes are incapable of being still when in the presence of words. I'm the kind of person you will catch reading the back of the cereal box if there is nothing else to read. I understand completely why Jefferson wrote, "I cannot live without books."
Being the competitive person that I am, I also love a contest. I have already earned my book light from the Nashville Public Library Contest this summer and that only took about two weeks. All you had to do was read four books. But this new contest I found is a little different. Not only must you read three books, you must blog about them, too. How exciting! I can combine two of my passions: reading and writing. And better yet, it's not just any fiction. It has to be Southern fiction, because it is a Southern Reading Challenge. Be still my heart! If reading is my passion, reading Southern fiction is my reading heart's greatest joy.
I think my love of Southern fiction was probably born from angst over my Southern identity. I was born in Tampa, Florida and lived about thirty minutes from the city in Valrico. We lived at the end of a dirt road where the Bookmobile would come to visit. Our seven acres were surrounded by 250 acres of pasture and our backyard wandered off into the woods. My brother had a B.B. gun at age 7 and a pellet gun at age 9 or 10 by which time he was proficient hunting small woodland creatures.
My father was born in the mountains of Western, North Carolina. Although he moved to Florida at the age of 11, he remains to this day very much a Southern mountain man. My mother, a Florida native, spent her first years in the country in a little town called Seffner and spent her summers at her grandmother's house in Dothan, Alabama. Although the big city of Tampa was only a half an hour away, we were very much a small-town Southern family.
In 1979 at the age of six, we moved to a little town in East Tennessee called Sulphur Springs, where I was immediately cast as the outsider. One of the things I remember most was a few years after moving there a boy in my class commented on my accent and my home state and came to the conclusion that I was a Yankee. I may have been just young at the time, but I knew what a yankee was and I knew I wasn't one. I was from Florida -- not the North. (I realize that parts of Florida are now merely retirement communities for the Northeast, but not the part I was from in 1979.) I credit that one statement by some long-forgotten boy for the beginning of my Southern identity angst. My mother, who had been made fun of for her country accent when she moved into town as a child, had developed impeccable grammar. My brother and I were always corrected when we spoke with poor grammar in our home. So, here I was the kid with the 'funny' accent using correct grammar in a little school in East Tennessee being called a yankee. I knew it was untrue, but it cut me to the quick. Somehow I was not as Southern as the rest of them.
As I grew older and learned what "Southern" meant to the rest of the country, my angst grew. I lived in the foothills in East Tennessee, not the Delta in Mississippi. I developed a country twang for an accent, not a lovely drawl. I lived in a small house on an acre surrounded by cow fields, not down a long drive flanked with live oaks. I was much more likely to end up at a NASCAR race than at the Kentucky Derby, and the only thing being added to a Coke at my Souhtern Baptist house was ice cubes, not bourbon. I loved growing up in my beloved South, but I just never felt Southern enough.
Fast forward to 1994 at the University of Tennessee, where as a junior I was looking for a good literature class to satisfy my soul, as well as an elective requirement. My sorority sister Renee told me about a class she was taking called Contemporary Southern Fiction. It wasn't on the schedule; you had to have the professor's permission to take it. She recommended I show up and see if he would let me add it. When I walked into the small conference room that first day little did I know that an important part of my life would never be the same.
Dr. Jack Reese, who had served as chancellor of UT for more than 16 years, had stepped down a few years prior to return to the classroom. When you've been chancellor, you pretty much get to run your classroom any way you choose. Just thinking about this man and the fact that he no longer inhabits this earth, brings tears to my eyes. He was dear and lovely and funny and erudite and there will never be another one like him. *drying eyes now*
Needless to say I was honored when Dr. Reese allowed me to join his class. There were 10 or 12 of us who met around a conference table next door to his office. His syllabus was two inches thick and 15 years and several moves later it is sitting in my lap as I type this. We read 12 novels and many essays and short stories that semester, which were broken up into topics imporant in the South. And for every section we covered, we watched a relevant Southern movie. The topics covered were: Coming of Age in the Modern South, Social Classes: Redneck to Aristocrat; Race and Civil Rights; The Southern Woman; A Sense of Family; Politics and Politicians; Religion; King Football and Other Sports; Getting Older; and Southern Music: Country and Blues.
That semester Dr. Reese introduced me to Eudora Welty and Peter Taylor, Kaye Gibbons and Lee Smith, Robert Penn Warren and Harry Crews, Wilma Dykeman and Josephine Humphries, Clyde Edgerton and Earnest Gaines, Walker Percy and Bobbie Ann Mason. But more than that, he introduced me to the beauty that is Southern Literature. This is not to say that I had not read Southern authors before -- of course I had -- but my eyes had not been opened to the genre of Southern Literature and the importantance of "place" in fiction and from what angst Southern literature comes. I had not experienced the many different places in the South from which literature springs. Yes, the South is magnolias and mint juleps and live oaks and such, but it is also mountains and backroads and places that inhabit my childhood and places that I pray to God I, and my children, never have to see.
You want a short story about a Southern family that you will never forget? Read Eudora Welty's "Why I Live at the P.O." You want a Southern gothic novel that will disturb you to the bone? Read Harry Crew's "Feast of Snakes." You want a strong mountain woman who will stir your soul? Read Lee Smith's "Fair and Tender Ladies." Would you like to understand the hold that football has over those of us in the South? Read H.G. Bissinger's "Friday Night Lights: A Town, A Team, and A Dream." You want to read about a Southern grandmother who reminds you of your own? Read Clyde Edgerton's "Walking Across Egypt." How about a modern-day mother whose plight might hit a little close to home? Read Josephine Humphries, "Dreams of Sleep."
In Jack Reese's Contemporary Southern Fiction class I developed a passion for Southern fiction and the Southern writer that I hope never wains. Oh, I read and re-read Jane Austen and other British authors on a regular basis, as well as bestselling authors and up and coming authors, and even forgettable "Chick Lit" at the beach, but I always come home, back to my South. And I'm always looking for new authors to add to his list. If Dr. Reese were alive and teaching today, I think Joshilyn Jackson would be on his syllabus. She is currently my favorite Southern author and has a voice you need to hear. In fact, I'll probably be blogging about one of her books here. You can expect to read posts about three diffenent Southern authors in the coming month. Hope you will enjoy. I know I will.
Being the competitive person that I am, I also love a contest. I have already earned my book light from the Nashville Public Library Contest this summer and that only took about two weeks. All you had to do was read four books. But this new contest I found is a little different. Not only must you read three books, you must blog about them, too. How exciting! I can combine two of my passions: reading and writing. And better yet, it's not just any fiction. It has to be Southern fiction, because it is a Southern Reading Challenge. Be still my heart! If reading is my passion, reading Southern fiction is my reading heart's greatest joy.
I think my love of Southern fiction was probably born from angst over my Southern identity. I was born in Tampa, Florida and lived about thirty minutes from the city in Valrico. We lived at the end of a dirt road where the Bookmobile would come to visit. Our seven acres were surrounded by 250 acres of pasture and our backyard wandered off into the woods. My brother had a B.B. gun at age 7 and a pellet gun at age 9 or 10 by which time he was proficient hunting small woodland creatures.
My father was born in the mountains of Western, North Carolina. Although he moved to Florida at the age of 11, he remains to this day very much a Southern mountain man. My mother, a Florida native, spent her first years in the country in a little town called Seffner and spent her summers at her grandmother's house in Dothan, Alabama. Although the big city of Tampa was only a half an hour away, we were very much a small-town Southern family.
In 1979 at the age of six, we moved to a little town in East Tennessee called Sulphur Springs, where I was immediately cast as the outsider. One of the things I remember most was a few years after moving there a boy in my class commented on my accent and my home state and came to the conclusion that I was a Yankee. I may have been just young at the time, but I knew what a yankee was and I knew I wasn't one. I was from Florida -- not the North. (I realize that parts of Florida are now merely retirement communities for the Northeast, but not the part I was from in 1979.) I credit that one statement by some long-forgotten boy for the beginning of my Southern identity angst. My mother, who had been made fun of for her country accent when she moved into town as a child, had developed impeccable grammar. My brother and I were always corrected when we spoke with poor grammar in our home. So, here I was the kid with the 'funny' accent using correct grammar in a little school in East Tennessee being called a yankee. I knew it was untrue, but it cut me to the quick. Somehow I was not as Southern as the rest of them.
As I grew older and learned what "Southern" meant to the rest of the country, my angst grew. I lived in the foothills in East Tennessee, not the Delta in Mississippi. I developed a country twang for an accent, not a lovely drawl. I lived in a small house on an acre surrounded by cow fields, not down a long drive flanked with live oaks. I was much more likely to end up at a NASCAR race than at the Kentucky Derby, and the only thing being added to a Coke at my Souhtern Baptist house was ice cubes, not bourbon. I loved growing up in my beloved South, but I just never felt Southern enough.
Fast forward to 1994 at the University of Tennessee, where as a junior I was looking for a good literature class to satisfy my soul, as well as an elective requirement. My sorority sister Renee told me about a class she was taking called Contemporary Southern Fiction. It wasn't on the schedule; you had to have the professor's permission to take it. She recommended I show up and see if he would let me add it. When I walked into the small conference room that first day little did I know that an important part of my life would never be the same.
Dr. Jack Reese, who had served as chancellor of UT for more than 16 years, had stepped down a few years prior to return to the classroom. When you've been chancellor, you pretty much get to run your classroom any way you choose. Just thinking about this man and the fact that he no longer inhabits this earth, brings tears to my eyes. He was dear and lovely and funny and erudite and there will never be another one like him. *drying eyes now*
Needless to say I was honored when Dr. Reese allowed me to join his class. There were 10 or 12 of us who met around a conference table next door to his office. His syllabus was two inches thick and 15 years and several moves later it is sitting in my lap as I type this. We read 12 novels and many essays and short stories that semester, which were broken up into topics imporant in the South. And for every section we covered, we watched a relevant Southern movie. The topics covered were: Coming of Age in the Modern South, Social Classes: Redneck to Aristocrat; Race and Civil Rights; The Southern Woman; A Sense of Family; Politics and Politicians; Religion; King Football and Other Sports; Getting Older; and Southern Music: Country and Blues.
That semester Dr. Reese introduced me to Eudora Welty and Peter Taylor, Kaye Gibbons and Lee Smith, Robert Penn Warren and Harry Crews, Wilma Dykeman and Josephine Humphries, Clyde Edgerton and Earnest Gaines, Walker Percy and Bobbie Ann Mason. But more than that, he introduced me to the beauty that is Southern Literature. This is not to say that I had not read Southern authors before -- of course I had -- but my eyes had not been opened to the genre of Southern Literature and the importantance of "place" in fiction and from what angst Southern literature comes. I had not experienced the many different places in the South from which literature springs. Yes, the South is magnolias and mint juleps and live oaks and such, but it is also mountains and backroads and places that inhabit my childhood and places that I pray to God I, and my children, never have to see.
You want a short story about a Southern family that you will never forget? Read Eudora Welty's "Why I Live at the P.O." You want a Southern gothic novel that will disturb you to the bone? Read Harry Crew's "Feast of Snakes." You want a strong mountain woman who will stir your soul? Read Lee Smith's "Fair and Tender Ladies." Would you like to understand the hold that football has over those of us in the South? Read H.G. Bissinger's "Friday Night Lights: A Town, A Team, and A Dream." You want to read about a Southern grandmother who reminds you of your own? Read Clyde Edgerton's "Walking Across Egypt." How about a modern-day mother whose plight might hit a little close to home? Read Josephine Humphries, "Dreams of Sleep."
In Jack Reese's Contemporary Southern Fiction class I developed a passion for Southern fiction and the Southern writer that I hope never wains. Oh, I read and re-read Jane Austen and other British authors on a regular basis, as well as bestselling authors and up and coming authors, and even forgettable "Chick Lit" at the beach, but I always come home, back to my South. And I'm always looking for new authors to add to his list. If Dr. Reese were alive and teaching today, I think Joshilyn Jackson would be on his syllabus. She is currently my favorite Southern author and has a voice you need to hear. In fact, I'll probably be blogging about one of her books here. You can expect to read posts about three diffenent Southern authors in the coming month. Hope you will enjoy. I know I will.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
MJ and the madness
I have not watched any of the coverage about Michael Jackson in the past few days, because I have been busy doing real-world things such as camping with the family for four days over the holiday and taking my daughter to have a planned out-patient procedure on Monday. And frankly yesterday I was just so worn out from worrying about her and her recovery, that I could not bear the thought of listening to all the blather.
However, I did hear on the radio yesterday a quote by the Rev. Al Sharpton to MJs kids. He said, "There was nothing weird about your Daddy," and then he said something along the lines of the only thing weird was the stuff he had to deal with or some other such nonsense. I'm thankful I was just pulling out of my driveway, or I may have run off the road. Nothing weird!?!
I find it very irritating that when some people die all of their bad traits/decisions/actions seem to be immediately erased from the collective consciousness and all that is remembered is the "good." This man was a train wreck! Whether the train wreck was his own fault or whether it was caused by his overbearing father and crazy childhood really does not matter. If you look up 'weird' in the dictionary, MJs face would be staring back at you.
Now being the good Southern girl that I am, manners dictate that you do not throw a person under the bus at his own funeral. You say a few "bless his hearts" and everybody gets the picture. Here are just a few examples of what the Rev. Al could have said to MJs kids, "Your father loved you very much," or "Your father was an incredible entertainer," or "Your father was an amazingly talented man who will be missed by many." All of these statements are true and kind about said crazy man.
The ridiculousness of this quote reminds me of another ridiculous quote a friend of mine posted on Facebook. It was from The Tennessean (the Nashville paper) over the weekend about Steve McNair, the former Titan's quarterback who was found shot to death with his mistress. The quote was from a fan who said, "Anyone can get famous. But it takes a genuinely moral person to be a leader." Really? The married father of four was found shot to death WITH HIS 20-YEAR-OLD MISTRESS, and the Tennessean chooses to run a quote that calls him a moral person? My friend wondered if that was really the best quote they could get or had they not interviewed enough people. I'm wondering if they were trying to be ironic.
Don't get me wrong. I think Steve McNair had some amazing qualities. He was very generous to his mother and the Nashville community. He set up a foundation that helped disadvantaged children and also raised a ton of money and supplies for Katrina victims in Mississippi. He was a truly amazing athlete who took us to our only Super Bowl. I am a fan of his and am deeply saddened by his death -- and disappointed by his affair. I know that we all sin and fall short of God's grace, so I am not judging him. However, I think it is painfully obvious now that we do not need to say things like he was a 'moral' leader just because he is gone. That is like saying MJ was not weird just because he is dead. Maybe we should say "if you can't say anything nice -- and true -- after a person's death, don't say anything at all."
However, I did hear on the radio yesterday a quote by the Rev. Al Sharpton to MJs kids. He said, "There was nothing weird about your Daddy," and then he said something along the lines of the only thing weird was the stuff he had to deal with or some other such nonsense. I'm thankful I was just pulling out of my driveway, or I may have run off the road. Nothing weird!?!
I find it very irritating that when some people die all of their bad traits/decisions/actions seem to be immediately erased from the collective consciousness and all that is remembered is the "good." This man was a train wreck! Whether the train wreck was his own fault or whether it was caused by his overbearing father and crazy childhood really does not matter. If you look up 'weird' in the dictionary, MJs face would be staring back at you.
Now being the good Southern girl that I am, manners dictate that you do not throw a person under the bus at his own funeral. You say a few "bless his hearts" and everybody gets the picture. Here are just a few examples of what the Rev. Al could have said to MJs kids, "Your father loved you very much," or "Your father was an incredible entertainer," or "Your father was an amazingly talented man who will be missed by many." All of these statements are true and kind about said crazy man.
The ridiculousness of this quote reminds me of another ridiculous quote a friend of mine posted on Facebook. It was from The Tennessean (the Nashville paper) over the weekend about Steve McNair, the former Titan's quarterback who was found shot to death with his mistress. The quote was from a fan who said, "Anyone can get famous. But it takes a genuinely moral person to be a leader." Really? The married father of four was found shot to death WITH HIS 20-YEAR-OLD MISTRESS, and the Tennessean chooses to run a quote that calls him a moral person? My friend wondered if that was really the best quote they could get or had they not interviewed enough people. I'm wondering if they were trying to be ironic.
Don't get me wrong. I think Steve McNair had some amazing qualities. He was very generous to his mother and the Nashville community. He set up a foundation that helped disadvantaged children and also raised a ton of money and supplies for Katrina victims in Mississippi. He was a truly amazing athlete who took us to our only Super Bowl. I am a fan of his and am deeply saddened by his death -- and disappointed by his affair. I know that we all sin and fall short of God's grace, so I am not judging him. However, I think it is painfully obvious now that we do not need to say things like he was a 'moral' leader just because he is gone. That is like saying MJ was not weird just because he is dead. Maybe we should say "if you can't say anything nice -- and true -- after a person's death, don't say anything at all."
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Just between you and me
Let's face it. In our society moms are not honest with each other. This has led to many a mother feeling that she is the only one in the world who is not crazy about dirty diapers and being spit up on and having her three-year-old wake her up three times in the same night needing to go potty. Why don't we call it like it is and say sometimes being a mother stinks. (I'm trying to keep the language here fairly clean.)
Your own mother will look you straight in the eye and tell you things like, "I was only in labor for a few hours, and then I don't know, I pushed a few times and you came out. It really wasn't that bad." What she will fail to tell you was that it was 1973, back in the good old days when women were knocked unconscious to have a baby, so of course it is not bad when you are UNCONSCIOUS and having a baby.
The other thing she will tell you is that she loved being a mother and that is was the most fulfilling thing she ever did and that you need to enjoy it because it just goes by so quickly! Well now that it's been almost 20 years since she had a child at home, it was a wonderful thing to raise children. It's easy to forget the nagging, whining, crying, suck-the-life-right-out-of-you behavior of three children at home all day every day in the summer.
God gives us the grace to forget is all I can say to that. When it comes to our moms, they've forgotten all the mind-numbing daily tasks involved in being a mother, and all they can remember are the sweet, angel things we did as children, not the staight from Hades behavior we sometimes exhibited. So I don't really blame our mothers for lying to us, because they really aren't. They are suffering from selective amnesia.
As for moms my age, I think some of them are out and out liars. When I was a relatively new mom, I had a friend from another town call me up to commiserate. Her son was challenging. He was the colicky type that didn't sleep well, fussed all the time and was downright difficult to deal with. She was having trouble adjusting and was fairly sure she would be the mother of an only child. My first child, on the other hand, was a little piece of heaven sent wrapped up in a blue blanket. He never cried, slept like a champ and adjusted well to any and all new situations. (Don't hate me! I have three kids, and I assure you my last one made up for it.)
Even though my son was the easiest baby ever born, I still had moments that I hated motherhood. I was not crazy about giving up my entire life just to be mom to this child. When you stay home with your child, everything you do is dictated by a little tyrant. They cry and scream to get their way and up until they are a certain age, you just have to accept that. It can be a hard adjustment.
Well, I was honest with my friend and made my usual snide remarks about the glories of motherhood. She told me that she liked calling me because I was honest and made her feel sane. (If you hadn't noticed, mythical reader, my ministry in life is to make other people feel a little less crazy. You're welcome!) Apparently her mommy friends in her town were not honest and were in the business of making other moms feel bad about themselves. One mom at her mommy group told her something along the lines of "I've loved every moment I've ever had with my children." Well, I laughed out loud and told my friend that woman was either a.) a bold-faced liar, b.) on so many "happy pills" that she didn't even know she had children, or c.) was crazy as a loon and her children would grow up warped. I don't care if you are a saint from heaven, there are days when you DO NOT LIKE BEING A MOTHER!!!!
That is not to say that you do not love your children. I would jump in front of a: dump truck, great white shark, terrorist machete, (fill in the blank with your favorite morbid death scene) to save my children. I love them with a crazy all-consuming love that makes me want to smash in the face of a snotty six-year-old little girl who has just hurt my six-year-old baby girl's feelings. Do not doubt for a moment, mythical reader, that I LOVE MY CHILDREN! However, there are days that I can not stand to be in the same room with them or even hear their whiney little voices in another room. This is the dichotomy that is motherhood.
I think sometimes mothers lie to each other because we are scared. We are afraid that if we don't love everything about being a mommy there is something wrong with us. And if, God forbid, another mom were to find out this horrible truth, she would certainly call DCS to have our children permanently removed from our homes. I had a mom tell me one time that she couldn't spank her son, because she was afraid she would lose her mind and beat him -- that's honest. It took me aback, because she is one of the sweetest, kindest women I know, but I completely understood. Kids can make you crazy, and it's easy to lose your cool. Good for her that she knows her limits, so she doesn't put herself in that situation. I think even more of her now than I used to, because I know she's not some Stepford mommy. It's nice to know she is normal like me. But it takes guts to admit that to another mom.
What got me on my soapbox about motherhood is a "conversation" I had with a friend on Facebook. She's pregnant with number three and it is not all butterflies and unicorns, and I think she feels a little guilty about it. Well, I was perfectly honest with her and let her know that I wasn't even the least bit happy about being pregnant with number three until about the sixth month. I mean truly, most women do not like being pregnant. It is not all "brown paper packages tied up with string." It is hemorrhoids and heartburn and insomnia and a few of my other not-so-favorite things.
When people would comment about my third pregnancy and I would give them my lackluster response, they would then ask if it was planned. To which I would say, "Yes, just not well thought out." I had two small children at home and a husband who was out of town working, and it was awful. I felt overwhelmed by the two children I had. What on earth was I going to do with a third? At six months pregnant I realized that I was going to have another baby whether I liked it or not (okay, so I was a little slow on the uptake). I decided the only choice I had was to get happy about it, so I did. And when she was born I thought she was all sweetness and light and one of the most beautiful babies I'd ever seen -- the other two being her siblings. She recenlty turned three and has developed the new habit of screaming at the top of her lungs to try to get what she wants, which makes me contemplate burying her in the backyard until she grows out of it. Just kidding! (It's called hyperbole, mythical reader, look it up.)
My point is that all moms have days when they don't like their children and they don't like being a mom. Quit lying about it! You are making other moms feel bad and that is not nice. This is me now stepping down from my soapbox. Thanks for listening!
*Disclaimer: If you have any thoughts of hurting yourself or your baby shortly after giving birth or adopting a baby, or you can not stop continually crying, CALL YOUR DOCTOR, because that is not normal and you should not be miserable and she will give you something to make it better!
Your own mother will look you straight in the eye and tell you things like, "I was only in labor for a few hours, and then I don't know, I pushed a few times and you came out. It really wasn't that bad." What she will fail to tell you was that it was 1973, back in the good old days when women were knocked unconscious to have a baby, so of course it is not bad when you are UNCONSCIOUS and having a baby.
The other thing she will tell you is that she loved being a mother and that is was the most fulfilling thing she ever did and that you need to enjoy it because it just goes by so quickly! Well now that it's been almost 20 years since she had a child at home, it was a wonderful thing to raise children. It's easy to forget the nagging, whining, crying, suck-the-life-right-out-of-you behavior of three children at home all day every day in the summer.
God gives us the grace to forget is all I can say to that. When it comes to our moms, they've forgotten all the mind-numbing daily tasks involved in being a mother, and all they can remember are the sweet, angel things we did as children, not the staight from Hades behavior we sometimes exhibited. So I don't really blame our mothers for lying to us, because they really aren't. They are suffering from selective amnesia.
As for moms my age, I think some of them are out and out liars. When I was a relatively new mom, I had a friend from another town call me up to commiserate. Her son was challenging. He was the colicky type that didn't sleep well, fussed all the time and was downright difficult to deal with. She was having trouble adjusting and was fairly sure she would be the mother of an only child. My first child, on the other hand, was a little piece of heaven sent wrapped up in a blue blanket. He never cried, slept like a champ and adjusted well to any and all new situations. (Don't hate me! I have three kids, and I assure you my last one made up for it.)
Even though my son was the easiest baby ever born, I still had moments that I hated motherhood. I was not crazy about giving up my entire life just to be mom to this child. When you stay home with your child, everything you do is dictated by a little tyrant. They cry and scream to get their way and up until they are a certain age, you just have to accept that. It can be a hard adjustment.
Well, I was honest with my friend and made my usual snide remarks about the glories of motherhood. She told me that she liked calling me because I was honest and made her feel sane. (If you hadn't noticed, mythical reader, my ministry in life is to make other people feel a little less crazy. You're welcome!) Apparently her mommy friends in her town were not honest and were in the business of making other moms feel bad about themselves. One mom at her mommy group told her something along the lines of "I've loved every moment I've ever had with my children." Well, I laughed out loud and told my friend that woman was either a.) a bold-faced liar, b.) on so many "happy pills" that she didn't even know she had children, or c.) was crazy as a loon and her children would grow up warped. I don't care if you are a saint from heaven, there are days when you DO NOT LIKE BEING A MOTHER!!!!
That is not to say that you do not love your children. I would jump in front of a: dump truck, great white shark, terrorist machete, (fill in the blank with your favorite morbid death scene) to save my children. I love them with a crazy all-consuming love that makes me want to smash in the face of a snotty six-year-old little girl who has just hurt my six-year-old baby girl's feelings. Do not doubt for a moment, mythical reader, that I LOVE MY CHILDREN! However, there are days that I can not stand to be in the same room with them or even hear their whiney little voices in another room. This is the dichotomy that is motherhood.
I think sometimes mothers lie to each other because we are scared. We are afraid that if we don't love everything about being a mommy there is something wrong with us. And if, God forbid, another mom were to find out this horrible truth, she would certainly call DCS to have our children permanently removed from our homes. I had a mom tell me one time that she couldn't spank her son, because she was afraid she would lose her mind and beat him -- that's honest. It took me aback, because she is one of the sweetest, kindest women I know, but I completely understood. Kids can make you crazy, and it's easy to lose your cool. Good for her that she knows her limits, so she doesn't put herself in that situation. I think even more of her now than I used to, because I know she's not some Stepford mommy. It's nice to know she is normal like me. But it takes guts to admit that to another mom.
What got me on my soapbox about motherhood is a "conversation" I had with a friend on Facebook. She's pregnant with number three and it is not all butterflies and unicorns, and I think she feels a little guilty about it. Well, I was perfectly honest with her and let her know that I wasn't even the least bit happy about being pregnant with number three until about the sixth month. I mean truly, most women do not like being pregnant. It is not all "brown paper packages tied up with string." It is hemorrhoids and heartburn and insomnia and a few of my other not-so-favorite things.
When people would comment about my third pregnancy and I would give them my lackluster response, they would then ask if it was planned. To which I would say, "Yes, just not well thought out." I had two small children at home and a husband who was out of town working, and it was awful. I felt overwhelmed by the two children I had. What on earth was I going to do with a third? At six months pregnant I realized that I was going to have another baby whether I liked it or not (okay, so I was a little slow on the uptake). I decided the only choice I had was to get happy about it, so I did. And when she was born I thought she was all sweetness and light and one of the most beautiful babies I'd ever seen -- the other two being her siblings. She recenlty turned three and has developed the new habit of screaming at the top of her lungs to try to get what she wants, which makes me contemplate burying her in the backyard until she grows out of it. Just kidding! (It's called hyperbole, mythical reader, look it up.)
My point is that all moms have days when they don't like their children and they don't like being a mom. Quit lying about it! You are making other moms feel bad and that is not nice. This is me now stepping down from my soapbox. Thanks for listening!
*Disclaimer: If you have any thoughts of hurting yourself or your baby shortly after giving birth or adopting a baby, or you can not stop continually crying, CALL YOUR DOCTOR, because that is not normal and you should not be miserable and she will give you something to make it better!
Friday, June 26, 2009
Tales from Old-School Third Grade
On Wednesday I forgot to pick up my sweet, precious, beloved, 8-year-old son, and my friend's two children, from camp at their elementary school. There are no excuses. My friend called me at 2:00 to see if I could pick up her son. I said "sure" and "why don't I get your daughter for you, too?" She was appreciative and assumed they were in responsible hands. She may have assumed wrong.
I had 45 minutes to get some things done, so I threw in some laundry and did a few dishes and then sat down at the computer to check on Facebook. Oh Facebook, you black hole of my time, you stealer of all free minutes, why can't I quit you!?! Is it obvious by now, mythical reader, that the next time I looked at the clock - yes, that would be the little clock at the bottom right-hand side of my computer - it was 3:15? Three-freakin'-fifteen! I was supposed to pick them up at 2:50.
It took me about a half a second to process the fact that my son AND TWO OTHER CHILDREN WHO I AM ALSO RESPONSIBLE FOR had been waiting in line for 25 minutes at school, yet I was still sitting at my desk. I called the office and practically yelled at the secretary "I'M-ON-MY-WAY-I'M-SO-SORRY-PLEASE-TELL-THEM-I'LL-BE-RIGHT-THERE!" and then hung up the phone. Not two seconds later it rang and from the number I could tell it was Mrs. "B", who is in charge of the camp, calling to see if I was dead or in a ditch, because that is the only excuse for not picking up your children, right? So, I grabbed the phone and blurted out, "I'M-SO-SORRY-I-LOST-TRACK-OF-TIME-I-JUST-CALLED-THE-OFFICE-TO-TELL-THEM-AND-I'LL-BE-THERE-IN-JUST-A-MINUTE!" Before I could slam the phone down and take off out the door, she told me to calm down and don't wreck on the way and that she wasn't going anywhere.
Have I mentioned, mythical reader, that I live in the very best small town in the country? Well, I do. The county just built us a brand-new elementary school with all the best that technology has to offer, but we still have our same small-town teachers who love our children and the same small-town kids who all know each other, and I absolutely, positively can't imagine my children going to school anywhere else, forever and ever amen!
Well, after pulling up to the school and hearing my son proclaim with dramatic flair, "I can't believe you forgot us!", I got out of the car to apologize to Mrs. "B". She just laughed it off and said she told them she was going to take them home with her and serve frog legs and onions for dinner, which I thought was hysterical. 'Weird' food is one thing that makes my easygoing oldest child lose his mind. But just imagining her taking them home, reminded me of a story. And if you've know me for more than five minutes, mythical reader, you know I love telling stories.
Back in the early 80's when I was a third grader in another small town at another small school, I had Mrs. "W" for a teacher. Mrs. "W" was a great teacher. She did tell us one time after a music assembly that "rock-n-roll music" could change the rhythm of our hearts and that when we got to high school our friends might try to put drugs in our food at the cafeteria, so we should never take our eyes off our food. But other than that one side-trip to crazy town, she was a fabulous teacher.
When it was time to learn our multiplication tables, she came up with a contest. This was no ordinary contest. This was the contest to end all contests. Being the competitive little thing that I was (am), I was determined to win. It came down to the wire. Sarah "C" and Amy "M" and I were neck and neck and were all ready to say our last multiplication table on the same day. Mrs. "W" decided that the only fair way to determine the winner was to let us all say the last table that day, and if we all got it right, it would be a tie. As I'm sure you can imagine, it was a three-way tie. For our prize, we got to go see a movie with Mrs. "W" and her family on a Saturday and then go out to eat pizza. But wait, that's not all. We also got to go home with her to spend the night at her house. And as if that wasn't enough, we also got to, wait for it ... GO TO THE FIRST UNITED METHODIST CHURCH WITH HER ON SUNDAY MORNING!!! We thought it was the greatest prize EVER!
Yes, I hear you peoople at the ACLU going into apoplexy as I type, and I say "kiss it," because those were the good ol' days! It was wonderful. There are three things that I remember most about that weekend. One was that I got into the backseat of the wrong non-descript white sedan after we had eaten pizza and was momentarily horrified. The second was that I was so nervous about going to Mrs. "W"s church, because I was a good Southern Baptist girl, and I thought there might be kneeling or praying outloud involved at the Methodist church, and I didn't know what to do about that. I don't remember much about the service, so it must have been fine. The last thing I remember about that strange, wonderful weekend was fixing my hair in the bathroom in the morning before church.
At 8 years old in the third grade I curled my hair with a curling iron about every day. (I think I just remembered a hideous Toni home perm that my mother gave me that year that was growing out. Oh, I think I might need me some therapy now.) Anyway, Mrs. "W"s daughter was a few years older than we were and she was amazed that we were fixing our own hair, because her mother was still fixing her hair for her. I remember wondering why on earth she didn't do it herself. And once her mother saw us (I'm pretty sure Sarah was curling her own hair, too) she decided her daughter was plenty old enough to fix her own hair.
Looking back I'm not sure what shocks me most, that a teacher would let students spend the night with her, or that 8-year-old little girls could be trusted with HOT CURLING IRONS to fix their own hair. (The church part doesn't really shock me, because truly when you live in the Buckle of the Bible Belt in 1983 and you've invited your students to spend the night with you on a Saturday night, what else are you going to do with them on Sunday morning but take them to church?) Yes, I think remembering that curling iron is the kicker for me. It makes me realize that I am way too overprotective of my children. I am so afraid of them getting hurt, I don't let them touch anything. I'm sure that my 8-year-old has never cut anything with a knife. And the thought of him using any implement - even a brush - to fix his hair is ludicrous. He wets it a little so it doesn't stick up, but he surely doesn't brush it. (But that is probably a girl vs. boy thing, rather than a capability thing.) Good grief, I'm fairly certain my father was using large, sharp, rusty farm equipment at the age of 8, so I think I can now entrust my son with a butter knife. Actually, he will earn his whittling chip in Cub Scouts this year, so I think that is a step in the right direction.
Don't worry, mythical reader, I'm not planning on handing over sharp/hot/rusty implements to my children and setting them free, but I think it's high time I started entrusting them with more responsibility. I don't expect my oldest to go out and plow the field, but seeing that he can reach level 42 on his favorite Wii game, I think opening the washer, throwing in some clothes and soap and pushing the on button is not above his capability level. I guess we'll see. I'm so glad I was reminiscing about how things were "back in the day," and I'm sure my children will be thrilled with their new responsibilities. And to think, it's all because I was irresponsible about picking up my child at school. Ironic, huh?
I had 45 minutes to get some things done, so I threw in some laundry and did a few dishes and then sat down at the computer to check on Facebook. Oh Facebook, you black hole of my time, you stealer of all free minutes, why can't I quit you!?! Is it obvious by now, mythical reader, that the next time I looked at the clock - yes, that would be the little clock at the bottom right-hand side of my computer - it was 3:15? Three-freakin'-fifteen! I was supposed to pick them up at 2:50.
It took me about a half a second to process the fact that my son AND TWO OTHER CHILDREN WHO I AM ALSO RESPONSIBLE FOR had been waiting in line for 25 minutes at school, yet I was still sitting at my desk. I called the office and practically yelled at the secretary "I'M-ON-MY-WAY-I'M-SO-SORRY-PLEASE-TELL-THEM-I'LL-BE-RIGHT-THERE!" and then hung up the phone. Not two seconds later it rang and from the number I could tell it was Mrs. "B", who is in charge of the camp, calling to see if I was dead or in a ditch, because that is the only excuse for not picking up your children, right? So, I grabbed the phone and blurted out, "I'M-SO-SORRY-I-LOST-TRACK-OF-TIME-I-JUST-CALLED-THE-OFFICE-TO-TELL-THEM-AND-I'LL-BE-THERE-IN-JUST-A-MINUTE!" Before I could slam the phone down and take off out the door, she told me to calm down and don't wreck on the way and that she wasn't going anywhere.
Have I mentioned, mythical reader, that I live in the very best small town in the country? Well, I do. The county just built us a brand-new elementary school with all the best that technology has to offer, but we still have our same small-town teachers who love our children and the same small-town kids who all know each other, and I absolutely, positively can't imagine my children going to school anywhere else, forever and ever amen!
Well, after pulling up to the school and hearing my son proclaim with dramatic flair, "I can't believe you forgot us!", I got out of the car to apologize to Mrs. "B". She just laughed it off and said she told them she was going to take them home with her and serve frog legs and onions for dinner, which I thought was hysterical. 'Weird' food is one thing that makes my easygoing oldest child lose his mind. But just imagining her taking them home, reminded me of a story. And if you've know me for more than five minutes, mythical reader, you know I love telling stories.
Back in the early 80's when I was a third grader in another small town at another small school, I had Mrs. "W" for a teacher. Mrs. "W" was a great teacher. She did tell us one time after a music assembly that "rock-n-roll music" could change the rhythm of our hearts and that when we got to high school our friends might try to put drugs in our food at the cafeteria, so we should never take our eyes off our food. But other than that one side-trip to crazy town, she was a fabulous teacher.
When it was time to learn our multiplication tables, she came up with a contest. This was no ordinary contest. This was the contest to end all contests. Being the competitive little thing that I was (am), I was determined to win. It came down to the wire. Sarah "C" and Amy "M" and I were neck and neck and were all ready to say our last multiplication table on the same day. Mrs. "W" decided that the only fair way to determine the winner was to let us all say the last table that day, and if we all got it right, it would be a tie. As I'm sure you can imagine, it was a three-way tie. For our prize, we got to go see a movie with Mrs. "W" and her family on a Saturday and then go out to eat pizza. But wait, that's not all. We also got to go home with her to spend the night at her house. And as if that wasn't enough, we also got to, wait for it ... GO TO THE FIRST UNITED METHODIST CHURCH WITH HER ON SUNDAY MORNING!!! We thought it was the greatest prize EVER!
Yes, I hear you peoople at the ACLU going into apoplexy as I type, and I say "kiss it," because those were the good ol' days! It was wonderful. There are three things that I remember most about that weekend. One was that I got into the backseat of the wrong non-descript white sedan after we had eaten pizza and was momentarily horrified. The second was that I was so nervous about going to Mrs. "W"s church, because I was a good Southern Baptist girl, and I thought there might be kneeling or praying outloud involved at the Methodist church, and I didn't know what to do about that. I don't remember much about the service, so it must have been fine. The last thing I remember about that strange, wonderful weekend was fixing my hair in the bathroom in the morning before church.
At 8 years old in the third grade I curled my hair with a curling iron about every day. (I think I just remembered a hideous Toni home perm that my mother gave me that year that was growing out. Oh, I think I might need me some therapy now.) Anyway, Mrs. "W"s daughter was a few years older than we were and she was amazed that we were fixing our own hair, because her mother was still fixing her hair for her. I remember wondering why on earth she didn't do it herself. And once her mother saw us (I'm pretty sure Sarah was curling her own hair, too) she decided her daughter was plenty old enough to fix her own hair.
Looking back I'm not sure what shocks me most, that a teacher would let students spend the night with her, or that 8-year-old little girls could be trusted with HOT CURLING IRONS to fix their own hair. (The church part doesn't really shock me, because truly when you live in the Buckle of the Bible Belt in 1983 and you've invited your students to spend the night with you on a Saturday night, what else are you going to do with them on Sunday morning but take them to church?) Yes, I think remembering that curling iron is the kicker for me. It makes me realize that I am way too overprotective of my children. I am so afraid of them getting hurt, I don't let them touch anything. I'm sure that my 8-year-old has never cut anything with a knife. And the thought of him using any implement - even a brush - to fix his hair is ludicrous. He wets it a little so it doesn't stick up, but he surely doesn't brush it. (But that is probably a girl vs. boy thing, rather than a capability thing.) Good grief, I'm fairly certain my father was using large, sharp, rusty farm equipment at the age of 8, so I think I can now entrust my son with a butter knife. Actually, he will earn his whittling chip in Cub Scouts this year, so I think that is a step in the right direction.
Don't worry, mythical reader, I'm not planning on handing over sharp/hot/rusty implements to my children and setting them free, but I think it's high time I started entrusting them with more responsibility. I don't expect my oldest to go out and plow the field, but seeing that he can reach level 42 on his favorite Wii game, I think opening the washer, throwing in some clothes and soap and pushing the on button is not above his capability level. I guess we'll see. I'm so glad I was reminiscing about how things were "back in the day," and I'm sure my children will be thrilled with their new responsibilities. And to think, it's all because I was irresponsible about picking up my child at school. Ironic, huh?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Good Lord willing
and the Creek Don't Rise...
If you are from the South, chances are you've heard this phrase a time or two. I can remember growing up hearing a little old lady making plans, "The Good Lord willing I'll see you at lunch on Friday." I wondered what on earth she was talking about. What did the Good Lord have to do with lunch on Friday? Why would He care if she went to lunch or not? Later when I heard the creek part thrown in a time or two, I really got to thinking. Why would the creek rise, and where is this mysterious creek that that has a mind of its own, and what on earth does it have to do with anything?
Have I mentioned I was a very literal child? Now that I'm a little older, I've come to understand this phrase better than I ever imagined. Being the mother of three young children, every plan I make seems to have an air of "if the creek don't rise" to it.
Friend: "Why don't you guys come over for a playdate next week."
Me: "Sounds great" (assuming of course that no one catches the swine flu, breaks a leg, or develops whooping cough).
Husband: "Let's go to the beach at the end of July."
Me: "Sure!" (unless of course the car breaks down, or the downstairs air conditioning unit finally gives out.)
Don't get me wrong. I am not a pessimist. In fact, I've always been fairly entrenched in the optimists' camp. But, mythical reader, let's be honest. Sometimes the Good Lord is not willing and sometimes the creek does rise, and who am I to say it should be any different. Husbands go out of town for work unexpectedly; children break out in hives for no apparent reason; and babysitters cancel. So, sometimes it's just easier not to make plans lest someone be disappointed. But for me, not making plans because they may be broken has become an excuse, a cop out.
I've been telling myself for years that I should write a blog. In a former life I was a writer (that would be the life I lived pre-children, not an actual previous life for those of you now concerned about the state of my soul.) But every time I would think about finally writing a blog, I'd get swept up in the rising tide: "When do I have time to write?" "My kids will never leave me alone long enough to write." "It's so noisy in hear I can't string two words together, much less two paragraphs."
But what I have finally come to realize is that being a writer isn't just about writing words on paper and having them published. Being a writer is who I am. Even though I haven't been published in years, that doesn't mean I haven't been writing. Even with the screaming, whining, crying and fussing that three children can produce, I've been composing articles, essays, newsletters, blog posts, etc. in my head for years, and it is time, mythical reader, to let them out.
So, I'm making plans. The Good Lord willing, I am going to write! (And I think it might actually be part of His plan, so here I go). I'll admit I'm a little nervous. It's been a while since I've had an audience. It's also been a while since I've had a deadline that did not include turning in permission slips to school. My plan is to write frequently, even though I have three kids who will yell, whine and screech to get my attention while I write. (There's that creek again! You never know when it's going to rear its ugly head.)
My thought is that maybe if I do start writing again (outside of my head, that is) I will feel a little more like myself, a grown-up, accomplished woman, and not just like my kids' mom. Please don't misunderstand. I love being my kids' mom, but what I don't love is overhearing my son say, "my dad's an engineer, but my mom's just a mom." (That could be a whole blog post in and of itself, but we'll just leave it at "it bothers me" for now.) I think maybe it's time for me to be more than "just a mom" to keep from going completely insane! So, read me if you want or don't. I don't care (actually I care way more than I should, mythical reader, but I'm trying to be blase' about the whole thing). I'll be posting here either way.
If you are from the South, chances are you've heard this phrase a time or two. I can remember growing up hearing a little old lady making plans, "The Good Lord willing I'll see you at lunch on Friday." I wondered what on earth she was talking about. What did the Good Lord have to do with lunch on Friday? Why would He care if she went to lunch or not? Later when I heard the creek part thrown in a time or two, I really got to thinking. Why would the creek rise, and where is this mysterious creek that that has a mind of its own, and what on earth does it have to do with anything?
Have I mentioned I was a very literal child? Now that I'm a little older, I've come to understand this phrase better than I ever imagined. Being the mother of three young children, every plan I make seems to have an air of "if the creek don't rise" to it.
Friend: "Why don't you guys come over for a playdate next week."
Me: "Sounds great" (assuming of course that no one catches the swine flu, breaks a leg, or develops whooping cough).
Husband: "Let's go to the beach at the end of July."
Me: "Sure!" (unless of course the car breaks down, or the downstairs air conditioning unit finally gives out.)
Don't get me wrong. I am not a pessimist. In fact, I've always been fairly entrenched in the optimists' camp. But, mythical reader, let's be honest. Sometimes the Good Lord is not willing and sometimes the creek does rise, and who am I to say it should be any different. Husbands go out of town for work unexpectedly; children break out in hives for no apparent reason; and babysitters cancel. So, sometimes it's just easier not to make plans lest someone be disappointed. But for me, not making plans because they may be broken has become an excuse, a cop out.
I've been telling myself for years that I should write a blog. In a former life I was a writer (that would be the life I lived pre-children, not an actual previous life for those of you now concerned about the state of my soul.) But every time I would think about finally writing a blog, I'd get swept up in the rising tide: "When do I have time to write?" "My kids will never leave me alone long enough to write." "It's so noisy in hear I can't string two words together, much less two paragraphs."
But what I have finally come to realize is that being a writer isn't just about writing words on paper and having them published. Being a writer is who I am. Even though I haven't been published in years, that doesn't mean I haven't been writing. Even with the screaming, whining, crying and fussing that three children can produce, I've been composing articles, essays, newsletters, blog posts, etc. in my head for years, and it is time, mythical reader, to let them out.
So, I'm making plans. The Good Lord willing, I am going to write! (And I think it might actually be part of His plan, so here I go). I'll admit I'm a little nervous. It's been a while since I've had an audience. It's also been a while since I've had a deadline that did not include turning in permission slips to school. My plan is to write frequently, even though I have three kids who will yell, whine and screech to get my attention while I write. (There's that creek again! You never know when it's going to rear its ugly head.)
My thought is that maybe if I do start writing again (outside of my head, that is) I will feel a little more like myself, a grown-up, accomplished woman, and not just like my kids' mom. Please don't misunderstand. I love being my kids' mom, but what I don't love is overhearing my son say, "my dad's an engineer, but my mom's just a mom." (That could be a whole blog post in and of itself, but we'll just leave it at "it bothers me" for now.) I think maybe it's time for me to be more than "just a mom" to keep from going completely insane! So, read me if you want or don't. I don't care (actually I care way more than I should, mythical reader, but I'm trying to be blase' about the whole thing). I'll be posting here either way.
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