Category: Marriage and Family

Stories, prayers, and rants about all of the beautiful and not-so-beautiful moments.

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Politics

This post has been brewing for a while. It’s going to be a tough one to write, because I have a tendency to censor myself so as not to offend anyone.

But when you have difficult conversations, somebody’s bound to get offended… that doesn’t mean we should avoid difficult conversations. Just because there will be disagreements and discomfort doesn’t grant us permission to isolate ourselves in little enclaves of support and assume that the rest of the world is evil and malevolent.

I’ve read a few books that have helped me to hone my opinions on this subject… one was Difficult Conversations (Stone, Patton, and Heen), another was We; a Manifesto for Women Everywhere, by Anderson and Nadel, and the most recent was We Need to Talk, by Celeste Headlee.

Reading these books has helped me to shift my awareness of my own conversations, and there is nowhere that impacts me more than within my own marriage.

This political environment has shaken the foundation of my marriage. Does that sound extreme? Good. Because it feels extreme. For 13 years, my husband and I have driven to the polls together, stood in line, provided our shared address, entered our separate booths, and effectively cancelled out each other’s votes. Then we were able to walk out holding hands.

We consistently and respectfully argued and listened and sometimes shouted and often agreed to disagree. But when it came down to it, we agreed on the things that mattered most. We were always able to keep that in perspective.

I’m trying to figure out what changed that. Is it Trump? Is it Facebook? Is it click-bait and media sensationalism? Is it simply because the stakes feel so Goddamned high right now? Is it the environment that changed? Or is it us?

For a while, our fights got bad. Like ‘do we even have anything in common anymore?’ bad. Like ‘why did we even get married in the first place?’ bad.   It felt like I didn’t know this guy all of a sudden, and it was terrifying.

But here’s the thing. He’s the same guy. He’s the same guy I married. He’s the most loyal man I’ve ever met. He’s the guy who ripped down the anti-trans joke posted in the bathroom at work and when his boss asked him about it, he’s the guy who staunchly defended our son to the man who signs his paycheck. He’s the guy who didn’t hesitate when I asked if we could take in a child he barely knew and love her like one of our own. He’s the guy who gives up his Saturday to create a guinea pig habitat in the basement with his kids. He’s the guy who lets a 120 lb dog climb up into his lap because he can’t resist her charms. He’s the guy who is not afraid to rip apart the bathroom because he knows he’ll figure out how to put it back together. He’s the man who freezes his butt off in a hockey rink cheering on his kid, and the one who freezes his butt off in the driveway, fixing that same kid’s truck. He’s the man who makes a mean chicken marsala and serves it up just because he knows it’s my favorite. He’s the man who does the laundry and patiently pairs all the socks because he knows it’s the job I hate the most. He’s the man who holds my hand in church as we pray for the healing of someone we love.

And all of this political angst in our world didn’t change who he is.

There’s all kinds of research about human behavior and communication that fascinates me. There are studies that prove we’re MORE likely to dig in our heels about our beliefs when we learn information that contradicts our original thoughts. We seek out information that confirms what we already believe, while we profess to be educated and open-minded. Overall, as a species, we’re terrible at listening because our brains are always planning what we’re going to say next. Our brains are also hardwired to make snap judgements about our environment, including the people in it. We quickly put people into categories, whether we know it or not. A few key words in a conversation or a post will automatically relegate someone into the category of ‘other’ without our conscious awareness.

Think about the impact of that. It’s insane.

If I only knew my husband peripherally; if I only saw his Facebook posts, for example, I would assume that this guy is an asshole. He’s going to read this… and I’m not writing something he doesn’t know. I worry about how he looks to my friends who don’t know him well. I don’t agree with a lot of what he shares or writes, and I probably have online ‘friends’ who wonder why we’re even together.

But the friends who know us in real life? They see it. They see how we make each other better. They see how we influence each other’s perspective. They see how we learn from each other and force each other to grow instead of shrinking into what we think we already know.

Guys, I’m going to start saying some uncomfortable things, but please stick with me here. My husband often starts his rants with a phrase like, “Freaking liberals…” and I lose my ever-loving mind. Every time I hear him say that, I know something awful is coming and that he has automatically lumped together a whole group of people as being idiots and that I IDENTIFY MYSELF as part of this group. And I get pissed.

It’s a terrible way to start a conversation. I’m already defensive, he’s already irritated, and there’s no way anybody is listening to anybody else because we’ve already moved to our corners and gotten ready to battle.

But you know what, guys? He’s pointed out the other side of this. He’s shown me a million examples of ‘us liberals’ making broad, sweeping generalizations about him, too.

I know I’m entering into difficult territory here, and I know we all need to check our privilege. I know we all have inherent biases and we all have something to learn. But if I really pay attention, I am able to see all of the ways that conversation in our liberal, left-leaning state makes assumptions about my working class, white, male, conservative husband and his beliefs. And none of those assumptions is favorable.

We could argue about the fact that people of color have dealt with this same sort of bias for centuries. We could point out the fact that he’s got a lot of advantages. We could argue that he’s only experiencing what women and minorities have experienced forever.

But isn’t the goal to move to a place where we are all able to listen and respect each others’ views? Aren’t we trying to make a move toward inclusivity? I know this particular white man, and in the same breath, I am learning more and more about the impact of white privilege and toxic masculinity and institutional racism and sexism. But the way to reach him and share what I know and what I’m learning is to start from a place of mutual respect.

Remember, our human tendency is to dig in our heels, especially when confronted with information that contradicts what we think we already know. So if you want to share your viewpoint with an (uneducated) working-class, (unfeeling) conservative, (toxically) masculine, (racist) white, (oppressive) man, you have to take away the words in parenthesis. You have to check your liberal bias, too.

One of the things I find myself saying most in the heat of an argument is, “You’re not LISTENING.” This is the thing that frustrates me the most. When I feel I’m not being heard, I feel that I’m not being respected. But in the heat of an argument, I’m not listening either. I’m too busy strategizing and trying to recall facts and trying to prove how right I am.

How do we move away from that? In our relationships, in our churches, in our communities, and in our country? I can’t profess to know the answer, but I do know what helps us.

First, be clear about what you support. Don’t hone in on what you’re against. When my husband and I find ourselves arguing about some policy or article or statement, it’s too easy to be anti-whatever the other person is saying. Find what you passionately believe we need, and fight for THAT.

Second, LISTEN. Don’t formulate your argument or tally up all the reasons why the other person is wrong. Actually try to understand their point of view. Assume that people have legitimate reasons for their beliefs, whether you agree with them or not.

Third, ASK QUESTIONS. Stop pretending you know things you don’t. You don’t know another person’s experience. You don’t know what they’ve lived or read or been taught. If you sincerely want to connect with people, you have to accept that they know things that you don’t. And everybody knows something you don’t.

The fourth point is intimately connected to the third, and it’s become a bit of a mantra in my house. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real. I’m going to write that twice. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.

My husband has never experienced crippling anxiety. He doesn’t understand why I can’t just let things go. He wants me to stop worrying. He wants me to feel better and he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it’s not that easy for me. But he believes me. He has to accept that, while this feeling is something he’s never experienced, it exists in a very real way for me.

The same is true for me with his ADD. I don’t understand how he can get sucked into a word game for hours but can’t finish sorting the laundry without being distracted. I don’t understand why it’s hard to stay present in a conversation while the TV news plays in the background. I want him to just be able to focus and I don’t understand how it could possibly be that hard. But I believe him. I accept that his ADD is real for him, even though I don’t understand it.

We both had to come to terms with this when our son confided that he is a transgender boy. We didn’t understand it. We couldn’t imagine the feelings our child was experiencing, and it was hard for us to wrap our minds around his unique experience. But just because we hadn’t experienced it, didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

When the going gets tough, that’s what we fall back on. We’re a pretty strong crew. We’re going to fight for what we believe in. And sometimes we’re going to disagree. But I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever read a vitriolic Facebook comment that made them think, “Oh, my. It looks like I was wrong after all.” Ultimately, you’re only going to change hearts and minds by living a life that honors your own truth, and by trying to truly understand the people who touch your life.

So we keep listening and asking questions and making mistakes and disagreeing. And I pray that we never stop learning from each other.

 

 

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Parenting

There is a family that recently left our church. I knew them well enough to feel sad when they went. But then I heard a rumor. I heard that something was said about “the transgender kid” when they decided to leave. I don’t pretend to know the details, and I know how the church rumor mill can churn out dramatic misinformation, so I took all this with a grain of salt… until I recently ran into the mom at the dentist. When I said hello, she barely made eye contact and mumbled her reply, and that was all the confirmation I needed.

I wasn’t friends with these people, per se. Our kids got along. We chatted at coffee hour. She works at the school that my trans son attends, so we had some conversational common ground. She knew about my son’s transition. She had a lot of questions about it, and she wasn’t shy about asking. Maybe that should’ve been a sign, but I didn’t see it.

I’ve said before, when people ask questions and I feel like they’re sincerely trying to understand, I answer. I answer honestly and a little vulnerably and I pray that I’m speaking to someone who truly wants to understand. Today, that makes me feel naïve.

We’ve lived in this amazing bubble of support and encouragement. I’m not ignorant enough to believe that everyone supports our family. I’ve read the ‘comments’ sections on enough advocacy articles to know that there is indescribable vitriol (even, perhaps especially, toward children) around this issue.

So when I hear your comments about a ‘man in a dress’ or see your fear-mongering ‘bathroom bill’ memes with no basis in fact, I know what I’m up against. I can choose whether to educate or disengage. I know what I’m dealing with.

But in the context of friendly, curious conversation at an open and affirming church, I’m not ready. I’m not prepared with my ‘mama bear’ costume and my fierce advocacy. Sadly, I’m learning that I should be.

I’m going to admit something here. As with ALL parenting, none of us is equipped with an answer book. We don’t have the instruction manual for children, and we couldn’t ever develop one because all children are different. Those of us raising transgender children? We’re the same as you.

We have questions and fears and worries. We see our children through their joy and their sorrow. We recognize their beauty and individuality. We worry about them. We celebrate with them. We love them with a love that is fierce and unwavering. We call ourselves ‘mama bears’ and ‘papa bears.’ Those of us who are Christian believe that our children are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.

But there is something different about parenting children such as ours. In the general parenting community, there is room for questioning and doubt. There is room for exploration and uncertainty. Differences in opinion are abundant, but each person’s parenting experience is inherently validated by the conversation.

When you find yourself parenting a gender-variant (gender non-conforming, transgender, agender, non-binary, or any variation on the theme) child, you quickly realize that the validity of your experience as a parent is not assumed. You’re not given the benefit of the doubt, because….

– Maybe they really wanted a girl/boy.

– They must be hippie freaks.

– Someone just needs to lay down the law.

– Kids can’t make these kinds of decisions.

– Who is running things over there, anyway?

– Why can’t they just be gay?

– Biology is biology.

– They’re just trying to push their liberal agenda.

 

I could go on, but you get the point. Those of us parenting these ‘gender diverse’ children aren’t assumed to be competent or sane. Before we can engage in any conversation, we have to prove that we are rational, intelligent people. Then we can move on to explain that no one knows our children like we do. Once we’ve established these two things, we typically have to justify our decision to ‘allow’ our children to transition. Reasons such as, ‘she twice attempted suicide’ or ‘he’s been asking when he’ll get his penis since he could talk’ are generally accepted as valid. ‘She’s always loved dresses’ might convince some. ‘They’ve never identified as a boy or a girl. They prefer neutral pronouns’ will likely be scoffed at.

When parents of transgender children have doubts, we know better than to bring them out with us in public. We know what happens when WE seem uncertain. Our credibility is challenged. Our decisions get discredited. Our fear is exploited, and sometimes, our children are attacked. So we don our bear suits. We fight for our children to be treated with respect. We fiercely and passionately share the reality of loving someone so beautifully vulnerable. We fight and we beg and we demand. We stand by our decisions because NOBODY knows what is best for our children better than we do.

We are lucky enough to live in the age of the internet, and we’ve connected with each other. We know we are not alone. So we bring our fears and doubts, our ‘inappropriate’ questions, our grief, and our uncertainty to support groups- both online and in real life. In those spaces, we ask our hard questions and share our vulnerability. We share the science and question the research and pass along resources. We console the grieving and advise the questioning and generally help each other through this unique parenting experience. In those spaces, we’re assumed be sane, loving parents who just want the best for our children. Just like everyone else.

Our children are not a threat. Not in school, not in church, and not in a public restroom. Our children are beautiful, vulnerable, and unique. Just like yours.

 

 

 

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Organized

I have no fewer than seven ‘junk drawers’ in my house. That’s not counting the 4 cabinets and six baskets where I shove things when I’m frantically trying to make my house presentable. I can’t be the only one. I USED to be a neat freak; it was the defining characteristic of my childhood. I say this as if it might redeem me in some way. Maybe you’ll judge a little less harshly if you know that I was once an expert at organizing.  But things have changed.

I can never find a freaking pair of scissors. They belong in a cup of writing utensils in the game room of my house. But I’ll be damned if I can ever locate them when they’re needed. They’re in my kids’ room. They’re in the dining room. They’re with the wrapping paper. They’re in any one of my seven junk drawers. So, this Christmas, I bought three pairs of scissors at the dollar store. I was NOT going to be searching my house for scissors on top of everything else.

When you go out and buy something you KNOW you already have in your home, just so you don’t have to look for it, that’s a sign that there might be a problem. This chaos in my home is a source of embarrassment. I might even call it shame, which seems likely to be an overstatement, but it’s not.  The feeling is intense.

Rationally, I know that a drawer full of crap doesn’t make me any less valuable as a human, but people judge.  People judge appearances; the appearance of my home is (unfairly) a reflection upon me (not my husband- don’t get me started on that).

Then it makes sense that I want it to LOOK organized, even if ‘organized’ isn’t something I’m capable of at the moment. So I shove things in drawers.

I can’t even blame the kids for this. It’s their junk, yes. But I’m the one who shoves it into drawers and baskets and cabinets. I’m the one who takes all of these innocuous items and crams them into unseeable spaces to be forgotten.

The point of this story is that I finally went through all of these catch-all spaces in my house. Yesterday, I emptied the three baskets of random crap in my bedroom. I picked through all of the tchotchkes in the coffee table drawers. I cleaned out the junk drawer(s). I cleaned out the desk. I rearranged furniture and cleared out a bookshelf. The evidence of my hard work can mostly be found in three huge trash bags in the garage.

Today, my son was able to locate an envelope, stamp, and scissors without blinking and said, “I like this new ‘organized’ thing you’re doing mom.” For now, it feels pretty good. But I’ve been at this long enough to know that it won’t last forever. So when the drawers get full and the scissors are missing AGAIN, I will remind myself that the cleanliness of my house is not a measure of my worth.

But for now, I’m going to enjoy the fact that all 13 pairs of scissors reside in one drawer.

 

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Christmas Shopping

It is December 21st, and I keep hearing about ‘last minute shopping’ on the radio and TV commercials. For the record, my idea of ‘last minute shopping’ is driving around on Christmas morning trying to find an open gas station that sells gift cards. Until I reach that point, I am not conceding to the ‘last minute’ message. I am not succumbing to panic. I have DAYS. To be exact, I have 4 days. 96 hours. 5,760 minutes. I have PLENTY of time.

On my way home from work, I will get to CVS for stocking stuffers. Later tonight, I will email gift cards to out-of-state relatives while I sip a glass of wine. Sometime tomorrow, I will stop at Walmart for underwear and socks. OF COURSE it’s a busy time of year. OF COURSE the budget is stretched thin. OF COURSE I feel pressured to get a million things done.

In the past weeks, I have missed the fundraiser deadline, skipped the football banquet, forgotten the electric bill, and lost important meeting notes. I have been too lax about screen time and too angry about dirty laundry. I skipped Christmas cards entirely, and I still haven’t made the goddamned cheesecake.

But last night I taught my boys to play blackjack. It was fun and silly and totally enjoyable. My husband and Bea went to church to rehearse a song that they’re singing together at the Christmas Pageant.  I heard it was beautiful, and great for the two of them to have some time to connect.  Once everyone was in bed, my husband and I met some friends for a few drinks and an impromptu double date. There were both tears and laughter, and for a little while, I forgot about the endless tasks and the lengthy shopping list and the jam-packed calendar.   I let go of the pressures of the holiday season.

And I realized that, ultimately, I get to decide whether these things are the center of my holidays or just the frame.   I can choose whether I am frantic or focused. I can decide what my priorities are. I can choose whether I contribute napkins or elaborate reindeer-faced cupcakes to the class party. I can decide whether dinner is home made or takeout. I get to determine if my gifts will be elaborately wrapped or stuffed into gift bags. I can choose whether to perceive scarcity or abundance. I can choose to focus on my failures or celebrate my successes.

Today, I’m choosing to celebrate. Most likely with takeout and wine, and who knows…. Maybe even with cheesecake.  🙂

 

 

 

 

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Hostess

I’m totally in my element when I’m hosting a party. Whether it’s cocktails and crudité, football and chili, or pizza and piñatas, I get geared up to be the hostess.

When I was in college, my friends would come to visit me in my little rented cottage on the lake. I’d host dinner parties with lasagna and chicken parmesan and red wine, which was a huge step up from the ramen and cheap vodka we were so used to, and my friends exclaimed, “Girl, you’re so… domestic!” I still get together with those girls and our gaggle of kids and I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

After college, I rented an apartment on my own, just outside of Boston. It was a beautiful apartment, but I was living on my own in a new city and I didn’t know a soul. I was five weeks into my first year of teaching (and my first year of adulting), and I didn’t really have any friends yet. It was time for parent-teacher conferences, and my new apartment was less than a mile from the school where I worked. So I decided to host a dinner party for my colleagues, between 3:00 when school got out, and 5:00 when conferences started. I set up a buffet table, complete with foil pans and sterno burners. Over ziti and meatballs, I made lifelong friends.

At that same apartment, I began the short-lived tradition of the “End of the Year Luau.” The luau was definitely NOT a dinner party. It was a full-on boozy bash replete with cheap inflatable decorations and plastic ‘coconut’ bras from the Oriental Trading Company. There were cheesy party games that nobody wanted to do but everybody enjoyed; in the morning there were people passed out on every soft surface and my potato chip bowl was halfway down the block in the middle of the street. The second year I hosted this, my landlord stopped by. I was terrified. He laughed at the look of panic on my face and asked for a margarita. The third year, I was pregnant, and my friends repurposed all of my cheap decorations. The Luau took the form of a baby shower. Times they were a-changin’.

There have been so many parties since; first birthdays, housewarming parties, New Year’s bashes, Superbowl parties. Some guests appear in each and every memory; old friends who have moved with me from tequila shots to chicken nuggets. Some of the faces were cherished for a season; friends who were close for a time and then lost touch. Some have been tragically lost, through accidents or illness. Some of the faces have evolved from children to adults; the time passes so quickly.

But these memories help me to hold each of these people in my heart. I can hear their laughter and remember their stories and revel in the fact that we experienced joy together.

That’s what hosting a party is for me. Sure, there’s the frantic cleaning and cooking. There might be some shouting at the kids to clean up the dog doo in the yard and get their laundry out of the bathroom. I’m lucky to be married to a rockstar host who busts his butt to make sure that the house looks great and there’s plenty of food and our guests feel at home.

But there comes a point when people arrive and there’s no time left to clean or cook. Friends offer a hand and the drinks get poured and the food gets served and the party begins. The laughter reverberates. The kids begin to run and shout and spill and crash and the adults dish up pasta and referee arguments and sip on wine and tell stories. And those moments are reserved for enjoyment. There are no bills to be paid or calls to be made or papers to be graded. There will be no vacuuming or folding or dusting. There is a simple objective in that moment- to enjoy each other. We appreciate the talents and quirks and passing stages of our friends and family. We remember that we are loved and we have people to love.

In my mind, that’s the purpose of a party. It reminds us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and to be grateful for our abundant gifts. It reminds us to pause and be joyful.

 

 

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Grateful

My heart is bursting today. It’s full of gratitude and love but also an achiness. As always, there’s a niggling feeling. It rests in the base of my right shoulder blade and emanates from my gut. I know this feeling all too well. It’s fear. Anxiety. Worry. It’s my lizard brain, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even as I try to relax into the contentment of this day, it doesn’t go away.

I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday, by far. There’s the obvious; the family, the food, the pie…  But I also love this day for its focus; a whole day centered around gratitude. And gratitude is the only thing that ever makes the worry go away. A warm shower, a long walk, a good book, a cup of tea, a glass of wine, even the Ativan; those things help me to soothe myself, but they don’t get at the source of the fear.

The most repeated phrase in the bible is, “Be not afraid.” The good book addresses our human tendency toward fear and worry over and over and over again. I know that I’m not alone in my anxiety… all of humankind knows the feeling. Love and fear wage battle in our hearts and minds, in our relationships, in our politics. No one is immune.

But maybe not all of us know the same degree of worry and fear. I can only assume some of us are naturally more anxious than others, in the same way that some of us are naturally taller or more eloquent or artistic or handy. And as I’ve gotten older, something amazing has happened. I’ve actually become grateful for the anxiety. It is one of my many God-given gifts. The anxiety is part of my core, and when it’s not consuming me, it fuels me. This fear has taught me gratitude. It has taught me patience and compassion. It has taught me the skill of self-care and frequently reminds me of its importance. It has opened my eyes to the vast range of human experience and has helped me to adjust my perception of others’ pain.

So this year, instead of fighting the anxiety, I’m embracing it. I’m surrounding it with gratitude and love. I’m bringing it to our celebration, along with my husband’s amazing voice, my son’s sense of humor, my other son’s gentle heart… I’m offering it to be shared with those who love me. On this Thanksgiving day, I am grateful to have loved ones with whom to share my blessings and my burdens. I am thankful to be able to bring my whole self to the table, and I wish the same for all of you.

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Coyote Food

Today got off to a less-than-stellar start. The Hubs wakes up before me, and one of my least favorite things (besides waking up to blaring ACDC while he’s in the shower because he hit snooze instead of turning off the alarm) is when he wakes me up with a morning rant. You see; he has had time to get his day going. He thinks in the shower (…for like 30 minutes. The man doesn’t even have hair. What do you do in the shower for 30 minutes?) Then he’s off and running. Sometimes he’s ranting about work. Other times it’s politics. Sometimes it’s the kids and the mess and the chaos. And so he walks into the bedroom, flicks on the light (kindly shouting “Lights!” first, so I don’t accidentally burn my retinas), and begins to rant…

We’ve been having this conversation for years. I have begged him to please just say “Good morning” and maybe give me a little peck on the cheek, so my day starts with some small pleasantry instead of an angry rant. This may have backfired, because now, when he kisses me and says “Good morning,” I know he’s given a lot of thought to this particular issue; enough to realize he needs to butter me up because shit is about to get real.

This morning, he was justified in his rant. The whole thing involves a poorly planned pet experiment and guinea pig pee on the rug. The man has a definite point. I just need a cup of coffee before I’m capable of formulating a coherent response. Because he wants to feed the guinea pigs to the coyotes in our backyard. I try to support him in all parenting decisions, but this one ain’t gonna fly. Deep down, I know he won’t follow through with this threat, so I’m left with a choice. Do I let him make his empty threats and scare the bejesus out of our kids? Or do I try to talk him down before they wake up? Again, I need coffee for this shit.

When you’ve been married for a little bit, you start to predict your spouse’s behavior. Maybe this is good. Maybe it isn’t. But it’s true. You make an educated guess based on your past experience, and once you’ve been together long enough, your odds of predicting correctly increase exponentially. This morning, I calculated the odds.

The odds of him actually feeding the guinea pigs to coyotes: approximately 0.3%

The odds of him disposing of the guinea pigs in some other inhumane fashion: 0.8%

The odds of him insisting on finding a new home for guinea pigs: 40%

The odds of him following up and actually locating said home: 7%

The odds of him continuing to yell and bitch about the guinea pigs until they die of natural causes: somewhere between 80 and 99%.

So I whisper-yelled at our oldest and told him that he needed to take care of the problem. I may have made him cry a little. I am unashamed of this. I might even be a little proud. Don’t tell anyone. I get him to vacuum and cry at the same time, and it seems like the morning might be looking up. Hubs leaves for work and all the pets (and kids) are still breathing.

On my way to work, he calls me. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. I play dumb, “What are you sorry about?” He explains that he’s sorry for waking me up like that (again), and I (of course) reiterate that I HATE waking up like that and then (of course) forgive him. And then we talk about “THE PLAN.” This is where we become parenting rock stars. “So what’s THE PLAN?”

We’re going to make him vacuum every day. Hubs is going to help him redesign the guinea pig play space. It’ll be father-son bonding over Gorilla Glue and 2 x 4s. We’re going to work together to help our son feel successful and valued and learn some responsibility. We’re probably going to make some empty threats about selling the guinea pigs. But I promise, there will be no coyotes involved.

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Badass

Nothing makes me feel sexier than shooting pool. The hubs and I went out last weekend. We went to a nice restaurant for appetizers, and then we found our way to our favorite dive bar for hot wings and billiards. We shot some pool and listened to a lot of country music and a little bit of really bad karaoke. This is my favorite kind of date.

I started playing pool when I was about 16. The local pool hall was the closest thing to a bar that we could legally frequent, and it made us feel all grown up. We didn’t really know what we were doing, but we were enthusiastic.

Later, in college, I dated a guy who played for money. He taught me how to shoot a decent long shot and put a little English on the cue. I thought I was hot shit. I never really got good, but I played well enough to surprise people. And, God, how I love that feeling. You know; when somebody underestimates you and then you prove them wrong and you get to gloat a little while they rearrange their preconceived notions of who you are? That’s a freaking awesome feeling.

Throughout college, I had a few other little tricks that made me feel kinda badass. I could tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. I could throw back tequila shots with the best of them. And after college, I acquired my favorite bad-ass accouterment, in the form of a Suzuki Marauder 800. I was officially a biker.

My motorcycle is still my favorite claim to badassery. Just last week, someone saw it in the garage and started asking my husband about “his bike.” To be fair, my husband is the super sexy, muscular, tattooed, shaved head stereotype of a biker. And I LOVED it when he looked at this guy and said, “Actually, that’s HER bike.” Don’t get me wrong. My husband rides. But first he has to ask to borrow my bike.

But I digress. I don’t get a lot of opportunities to feel like a badass anymore. I make a pretty mean chicken pot pie and I’ve been known to kick ass on a Principal’s observation, but it’s not quite the same. I’m a mom and a wife and a teacher. I crochet and go to book club once a month. Granted, I’d probably still be voted, “Most likely to drop an F-bomb at bible study,” but I love my comfortable suburban life, and I think I’m doing things that contribute to my community in a positive way. I’m officially a grown-up. Nowadays, I mostly rock my Honda Odyssey around town. When I’m feeling really risqué, I’ll blast a little Eminem or Pink from the stereo… with the windows down.

And when I really want to feel like hot shit, I challenge my husband to a game of pool.

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Redefined

Who am I? Each of us works our whole lives to cultivate the answer to this question. We want to define ourselves in the context of the world in which we live. We want to separate from some and unify with others. We yearn to be unique, yet are comforted by similarity.

We read books, we travel, we study, we experience, we try new and unfamiliar things; all in an attempt to “find ourselves.” This process of discovery, this becoming, compels us toward a definition of self.

Some of these identities are tried on and discarded. In my younger years, I was a flutist, a hackey-sack player, a choir member. These were dismissed readily and with cause.

Some definitions are worn for a season. Disney fan. Soccer player. College student. Newlywed. We anticipate their passing, even as we reluctantly let them go.

As we grow into ourselves, we develop our personal style; a sense of self that begins to become inseparable with how we present ourselves to the world. I am an intellectual. I am a Christian. I am a mother. I am a teacher.

What about those definitions that we’re not proud of? I am an addict. A victim. A failure. Can we integrate these into our definitions? Or do we bury them and deny them until they become a festering wound?

Regardless of our process, we are defined by our own perceptions of self.   We invest countless hours and days and years into becoming a person, and we cling desperately to our own perceptions. We spend our lives cultivating a persona.

So it’s no wonder that our psyche starts to crumble when faced with cognitive dissonance about our very being. What happens when the very thing we used to define ourselves ceases to be true? What of the executive who loses his job? What of the child who finds himself without parents? What of the parent faced with an empty nest? The devoted wife in the throes of divorce? We all go through a period of cognitive dissonance when we’re forced to redefine ourselves. If you haven’t, don’t worry. You will.

Perhaps equally difficult is the task of revising our perceptions of those closest to us.

How do we resolve the cognitive dissonance of an unfaithful spouse? A Priest accused of the unthinkable? A transgender child?

Do you know what research tells us about people’s responses when confronted with evidence contrary to what they believe? We dig in our heels. We become more adamantly entrenched in our beliefs! We consider ourselves to be rational beings; however, our personal beliefs and opinions are so emotionally powerful that they have the ability to hijack all rational thought. We only begin to shift our perceptions when we can no longer bend the truth to fit our own patterns of thought.

When it finally happens, the shift is seismic.   These types of thought revisions can create immeasurable spiritual pain. How do we move on when we discover a flaw in what we believed to be fundamental truth?

I have to believe that, as we change and evolve, we never go backward. We can’t lose pieces of who we are… those lost definitions and past phases all get rolled into this great big jumbled ball of humanity that is each unique individual. We don’t ever become less… we become more, for better or for worse. We become greater.

So even those traits we’d like to deny; even those mistakes we hate to admit; even those trials we wish we hadn’t faced; each of those becomes a thread in our fabric. The weave becomes stronger and more beautiful. The snags and the pulls and the missed stitches still hold strong together.

And perhaps the most beautiful thing is that each day presents a chance to redefine our selves. Each morning is an opportunity for evolution; for one’s own REvolution. That’s what keeps us growing. That’s what keeps us going. That’s what gives us hope.

 

 

 

 

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Rockstar

It is 3:40 pm. I’m out of my work clothes, into my yoga pants and drinking my first glass of wine. Don’t judge. It’s been a rough week. Here are the highlights:

– Broken oil burner. No hot water. Luckily I know a guy, so this one could’ve been worse.

– Progress reports come home. At least one kid is an asshole. Others are questionable.

– Parent teacher conferences. This is different from any other evening because I have to continue working late into the evening WITHOUT wine and yoga pants.

– Mom wants me to pay her back the money I owe her. (I know you’re reading this… I’m working on it, Ma.)

– My kid showered without prompting… because the other kids told him he stinks. I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed that I have the smelly kid, or relieved that someone finally got through to him.

– The underwire broke on my favorite bra. Only the ladies will understand the enormity of this.

– Hubs’ truck has no brakes, no air conditioning, no tread on the tires, no power steering, and basically no value. Time to finance a new truck we can’t afford.

– Halloween is four days away. Children have planned costumes that require wigs. Need I say more?

– The kids were told to clean their room. They rearranged instead (I am blaming Nana for this gene). For three days, it’s been a disaster area in there. Last night, their dad threatened to give away all the pets if it’s not cleaned by the time he gets home. Tears have given way to frantic cleaning, and I’m hopeful….

– I tore my last contact lens and I’ve been in glasses for two days. I trip every time I walk down stairs.

 

I realize we’re not dealing with any sort of tragedy here.   But I’m going to gripe and sip chardonnay for a little while. Then I’m going to meet up with my friends for pot luck and movie night. And wine. Duh.