so is optimism, looking forward to things, seeing the glass as half full, looking at life through rose colored glasses and all of that other shit that keeps people floating down a river of flotsam dreams and teal colored hopes. If happiness were a beautiful, spotless, perfectly formed bubble that a child had formed, I would pop that mother fucker and walk away laughing... does this even require an explanation? Am I the only person who puts her Ipod on, looks the bathroom door and dances for 30 minutes until I'm sweating just so I can drone out the laughter and joy that my family is experiencing without me? I mean, I do that, but usually it is to drown out the sounds of those little bastards fighting one another. By the way, someone told me that if I want to write a book that I have to blog a whole lot more. It's hard when you have nothing to say but bad things or even just good things for that matter. Who wants to read that shit? But, Ty is watching Madagascar 3 right now and there is about 10 minutes left so that leaves me about 10 minutes, 30 seconds before my second shift begins. Ty wants to play Battleship but there is only one cartridge thing or whatever the hell you call it so we made a makeshift one out of a little box with holes... never mind, Jake called it "ghetto" which I don't like but he also constantly describes things as "Gucci" so what the hell does he know. Ty is naked too which is standard fare around our house in the summer. Not for me, God forbid, but for the little one. The other two were like that when they were little too, but that habit tends to fall by the wayside, for obvious reasons. Although Ty is constantly telling me, habits aside, that his penis is sticking straight up. I have written about that before; I just continue to tell him that it is supposed to do that; it means that it is working. He accepts this as reasonable and he lets it go at that.
I don't generally think of myself as an unhappy person but there are times when I am happy in my unhappiness, in my misery. There are times when it feels good to feel bad. Know what I mean? In this instance, it is not a release of stress or anything like that. I mean, who doesn't love a good cry now and then. No, I mean, it feels good to honk at someone on the road or kick the leg of the couch or scream into a pillow or make fun of some stupid character on television. It feels good to not feel good. And, I don't know if I am the only one who feels that way. I doubt that many people like to admit that or I wonder even if that feel that way at all. Like yesterday for example, we went out to lunch as a family and the meal was great and the server was very good, efficient, friendly, the food came out on time, but, about halfway through the meal, she did it, she went WAY overboard with the friendly. It began to ooze from her pores and at one point I looked at Tim and winced when she started to talk about the different types of chicken in the kitchen. Now, I will be the first to admit, I am not the friendliest of people and I often have a bad attitude, but, conversely, the opposite of that is the Uberhappy, life is wonderful and everything is so beautiful and I love everyone and... Oh God, I can feel my temples begin to pound. I mean, happiness has its place, just like sadness and anger and irritation, but just like some people hate it when I am angry or extremely sad, I hate it when people have sunshine shooting out of their asses. If this is their nature, I would never say anything directly to them or embarrass them, like the server yesterday, I smiled at her, asked her questions about the chickens; she was really impressed by those cooks I guess and then we tipped her 20%. She was a good server, but she didn't know when too much of a good thing is clearly too damn much. By the time the meal ended, I was in a worse mood than before, all because of her extreme happiness. Clearly this is a reflection on me, but I cannot be the only one who feels that way.
I flip people off when I'm driving and if someone cuts me off, I yell, whether they can hear me or not. If someone cuts in front of me in line, I politely say something or if I am shortchanged, I tell the cashier. I don't have to be mean about it, but this whole forced happy thing is starting to really chap my ass. I don't need 6 people behind the counter screaming "WELCOME TO PANDA" every time I go in the fucking door or, if it is obvious that I don't want to join the "club" or get a free "club" card because I've said "No thank you, I don't want a club card" and it is repeated, "but it's free" then please respect that. I don't want someone to ask me three times if they can help me find something when it is obvious that I am looking and browsing and I don't need assistance. I now say, "Thank you, but if I need something, I'll ask." I mean for crying out loud, do I have the word NEEDY tattooed on my forehead. It's like sex I suppose. The therapist told me, if Tim wants to have sex and you don't, try to think about how it will make him happy or make his day or how it will put him in a better mood and because you love him, then it will put you in a better mood. I tried to look at it like that and that works sometimes. I mean I do love Tim and I love sex so there you go, but the thing is, sometimes I just don't want to. I just don't want to go through the motions. Maybe it is because I'm a woman or a psycho or both, but sometimes I just can't. That's just not me; I don't fake it... har har.
I gave a final exam today and it was clear that several students are not going to pass the class, yet there they were, staring at me, hoping through some sort of scientific process that the grade will automatically get transferred from their hopes into the computer. I remember thinking once that the process of grading someone's work is infinitely unfair, even when you have criteria, even when that criteria is objective; there is a supposed amount of power that comes with telling someone that they are or aren't "good" enough based on a curriculum or a class that you helped design. It is a huge responsibility. I know deep down that I am a fair person and that the standards are fair and that, if they fail, it is most likely due to some lapse on their part. However, there is still that moment when I am entering grades and I think about what each of their faces looked like and I realize that I can change the course of their future, even if it is just slight. I have the power to alter the trajectory and I can, in essence, make them happy. And then I sit back and evaluate the situation, the work, the student, the whole process and I know that I can't do that if it isn't warranted and so, I try to soften the blow. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. But as the years have gone on, I have gotten much more efficient at delivering the news so that it is not unexpected or really, all that painful. At least it seems that way to me; the students may tell you otherwise.
I told them today, before class ended, that all I ever wanted to do, besides when I was 8 or 9 for a brief stint and I considered being a brain surgeon, a hairdresser and a flight attendant, was be a teacher. I wanted my life to be about sharing information that I love and that my enthusiasm for that subject matter would somehow seep into their collective consciousness. I also love that I get to start over every term too; it is exciting and new and always a challenge. So, happiness in a nutshell. Maybe not totally overrated, but in tandem with sadness, anger and a need for swift justice, especially when someone tailgates you on the freeway... I'm done. Fuck off.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Parenting 101 x WTF
I often feel as though I am sitting in the middle of a human tornado, body parts flying, noises emitting from every possible surface in the house and a constant hum in my ears that tells me it may be time to hop in the car and get the hell out. More often than not though, I don't do that, because by the time I get back to the house, more chaos has ensued and, secretly, although I will never verbally confirm this, I really enjoy the chaos.
The boys and Tim think I'm in a bad mood and while that may be true some of the time, most of the time, I am internally relishing the arguments, the wrestling, the beach ball making its way through mid air toward the television. I love the smell of pasta cooking and fresh laundry on my bed, even if the pug is rolling around in it, having just emerged from the shower soaking wet. I anticipate the sounds of the kids getting into the car after school and the few minutes that I get them alone without the intrusion of electronics on their brains, when we can actually have a conversation on the way home. I swear, Jake is getting a permanent hunch in his shoulders from staring into his cell phone for long periods of time. But I'm told, this is the new "hunchback" of the electronic generation: Iphones, Ipads, Ipods, I need to read a damn book every once in awhile.
I knew it was coming; I used to teach high school so I knew it, but I still wasn't ready for it. I have a full blown teenage boy in the house. Attitude, "swag," lack of interest that isn't anything "girlfriend, soccer or friend" related, again, I knew it was coming, but it has not been what I expected. Jake is a good hearted and kind boy and I see that in him still, but what I don't like, what I abhor to tell you the God's honest truth is the constant verbal sparring in which he engages me on a daily basis. And the interesting thing is, it doesn't matter WHAT we are discussing, there are moments when he disagrees with me just so he can. Even when his argument is riddled with inconsistencies or is just downright incoherent; he will hold to that argument as if it were a liferaft and he was one word away from drowning. Then again, he'd probably rather drown than admit that he was mistaken. The other funny thing is, sometimes I think he just doesn't realize the stupidity of what he is trying to say; I say trying only because often, it makes no sense. That isn't easy for me to write because Jake is extremely verbal and very bright. He uses vocabulary in a meaningful way in appropriate contexts more often than I would expect a 16 year old to do. However, what doesn't fit is his inability to comprehend the other side of the argument. He just argues his point and flat out disagrees with me, no matter what I say, how I say it or how loud I scream at him while wagging my finger in his face. He doesn't comprehend it because he chooses NOT to and while deep down I realize that this confrontation stage is the beginning of his major PULL toward the independence that he is convinced he will have at 18, I also realize that it is the beginning of the end of my journey of parenting him. And, frankly, it saddens me. I know that I will always be his mother, but the relationship has and will continue to change and, as hard as it is, I cannot fight that, for his sake. I have been the most important female figure in his life and on some level, I'm sure that he will see me as a semblance of that person who once "knew" what the hell she was talking about, but, more than that, I have to accept that that role is limited in scope and that now, soon, in the future, someone will usurp my role. I know that and on some level, I do accept that. I guess what I will have a difficult time with, is letting go of the fact that I won't be the person that Jake comes to when he needs something; that is a role that I have enjoyed. He trusts me and I believe, despite his snarky remarks, that he trusts my judgment, but, let's face it, he is still my son and I am still his mother and that in and of itself leads to conflict. Parenting a budding man, well, physically anyway, emotionally and psychologically he's still 3... sorry Jake, is not easy, but I cannot begin to compare it to the emotional roller coaster that I would be experiencing if there were a teenage girl in the house.
Having grown up with my brothers, Rich and Steve, I was well prepared for what was in store for having teenage boys in the house, but the relationship is clearly different. Having to discipline a teenage boy for not following the rules is very different than drinking beers as a teenager with your dopey brothers. What I have a hard time with is how Jake will turn to the "men" in his life often, now, before he comes to me. I understand it and it makes sense, but, I don't like it. It hurts on a level that only a woman, a mother can understand. He is my little boy and deep down, he is the same as he was when he was on all fours, ten months old, crawling all over the floor, laughing, drooling, looking to me for guidance and more laughter. Maybe we are supposed to have our children when we are young because as we grow and mature, we find it more difficult to let go and start over. I think about a few years from now when I am in my GASP fifties and the kind of transition that will begin to take place as the kids move toward their own lives, their own homes, careers, potential spouses and I suddenly can't breathe. I can't remember those days of holding Jake in my arms and dressing him for Halloween and waving to him as he ran off to baseball practice. Suddenly I've become obsolete. I lay in bed at night thinking these thoughts and they make me very sad sometimes. But you know, I think it is a good thing. Parenting is not all roses and lollipops. It is painful and hard, brutally honest and heartbreaking; parenting is putting all of your love and hope and dreams into these little people who grow as they will, forming their own opinions, having their own experiences and that moment, that one second that you know is coming, when you have to unclasp your hand, reminds you that parenting really isn't forever. They will always be our children, but they will not always need us as parents. As they change, so does the relationship. I am learning to accept that. Maybe by the time Ty is 18, I will have conquered these mixed emotions. But for now, I will look forward to Jake's hugs and his telling me goodnight, I will look forward to Nick still asking me to "tuck him in" and I will cherish the fleeting moments that I have left when Ty lets me put my arms around him and kiss his cheeks. But I know that the day is coming when he will wipe those kisses away...
I can honestly say that if I knew then what I know now, that I would never have opted not to have children. Yeah, it's easy to say that now, because I love them and all that, but what I mean is, if I had any idea what kind of daily challenges were in store for me, the love, the tears, the boredom, the chaos, I DEFINITELY would have had 2 or 3 more. Now if you'll excuse me, I hear the sound of dissent in the bedroom...
The boys and Tim think I'm in a bad mood and while that may be true some of the time, most of the time, I am internally relishing the arguments, the wrestling, the beach ball making its way through mid air toward the television. I love the smell of pasta cooking and fresh laundry on my bed, even if the pug is rolling around in it, having just emerged from the shower soaking wet. I anticipate the sounds of the kids getting into the car after school and the few minutes that I get them alone without the intrusion of electronics on their brains, when we can actually have a conversation on the way home. I swear, Jake is getting a permanent hunch in his shoulders from staring into his cell phone for long periods of time. But I'm told, this is the new "hunchback" of the electronic generation: Iphones, Ipads, Ipods, I need to read a damn book every once in awhile.
I knew it was coming; I used to teach high school so I knew it, but I still wasn't ready for it. I have a full blown teenage boy in the house. Attitude, "swag," lack of interest that isn't anything "girlfriend, soccer or friend" related, again, I knew it was coming, but it has not been what I expected. Jake is a good hearted and kind boy and I see that in him still, but what I don't like, what I abhor to tell you the God's honest truth is the constant verbal sparring in which he engages me on a daily basis. And the interesting thing is, it doesn't matter WHAT we are discussing, there are moments when he disagrees with me just so he can. Even when his argument is riddled with inconsistencies or is just downright incoherent; he will hold to that argument as if it were a liferaft and he was one word away from drowning. Then again, he'd probably rather drown than admit that he was mistaken. The other funny thing is, sometimes I think he just doesn't realize the stupidity of what he is trying to say; I say trying only because often, it makes no sense. That isn't easy for me to write because Jake is extremely verbal and very bright. He uses vocabulary in a meaningful way in appropriate contexts more often than I would expect a 16 year old to do. However, what doesn't fit is his inability to comprehend the other side of the argument. He just argues his point and flat out disagrees with me, no matter what I say, how I say it or how loud I scream at him while wagging my finger in his face. He doesn't comprehend it because he chooses NOT to and while deep down I realize that this confrontation stage is the beginning of his major PULL toward the independence that he is convinced he will have at 18, I also realize that it is the beginning of the end of my journey of parenting him. And, frankly, it saddens me. I know that I will always be his mother, but the relationship has and will continue to change and, as hard as it is, I cannot fight that, for his sake. I have been the most important female figure in his life and on some level, I'm sure that he will see me as a semblance of that person who once "knew" what the hell she was talking about, but, more than that, I have to accept that that role is limited in scope and that now, soon, in the future, someone will usurp my role. I know that and on some level, I do accept that. I guess what I will have a difficult time with, is letting go of the fact that I won't be the person that Jake comes to when he needs something; that is a role that I have enjoyed. He trusts me and I believe, despite his snarky remarks, that he trusts my judgment, but, let's face it, he is still my son and I am still his mother and that in and of itself leads to conflict. Parenting a budding man, well, physically anyway, emotionally and psychologically he's still 3... sorry Jake, is not easy, but I cannot begin to compare it to the emotional roller coaster that I would be experiencing if there were a teenage girl in the house.
Having grown up with my brothers, Rich and Steve, I was well prepared for what was in store for having teenage boys in the house, but the relationship is clearly different. Having to discipline a teenage boy for not following the rules is very different than drinking beers as a teenager with your dopey brothers. What I have a hard time with is how Jake will turn to the "men" in his life often, now, before he comes to me. I understand it and it makes sense, but, I don't like it. It hurts on a level that only a woman, a mother can understand. He is my little boy and deep down, he is the same as he was when he was on all fours, ten months old, crawling all over the floor, laughing, drooling, looking to me for guidance and more laughter. Maybe we are supposed to have our children when we are young because as we grow and mature, we find it more difficult to let go and start over. I think about a few years from now when I am in my GASP fifties and the kind of transition that will begin to take place as the kids move toward their own lives, their own homes, careers, potential spouses and I suddenly can't breathe. I can't remember those days of holding Jake in my arms and dressing him for Halloween and waving to him as he ran off to baseball practice. Suddenly I've become obsolete. I lay in bed at night thinking these thoughts and they make me very sad sometimes. But you know, I think it is a good thing. Parenting is not all roses and lollipops. It is painful and hard, brutally honest and heartbreaking; parenting is putting all of your love and hope and dreams into these little people who grow as they will, forming their own opinions, having their own experiences and that moment, that one second that you know is coming, when you have to unclasp your hand, reminds you that parenting really isn't forever. They will always be our children, but they will not always need us as parents. As they change, so does the relationship. I am learning to accept that. Maybe by the time Ty is 18, I will have conquered these mixed emotions. But for now, I will look forward to Jake's hugs and his telling me goodnight, I will look forward to Nick still asking me to "tuck him in" and I will cherish the fleeting moments that I have left when Ty lets me put my arms around him and kiss his cheeks. But I know that the day is coming when he will wipe those kisses away...
I can honestly say that if I knew then what I know now, that I would never have opted not to have children. Yeah, it's easy to say that now, because I love them and all that, but what I mean is, if I had any idea what kind of daily challenges were in store for me, the love, the tears, the boredom, the chaos, I DEFINITELY would have had 2 or 3 more. Now if you'll excuse me, I hear the sound of dissent in the bedroom...
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Choose...
To some, a choice is simply putting two options side by side and then, deciding which one is "best." That seems relatively simple, but, as my 6 year old often schools me in life's BIG lessons, he tells me, "I just can't decide Mom. It's hard." Acute wisdom in a 52 pound body... It is hard, even when the action is simplistic: two options, three, four - Which path to take? Which road? Robert Frost put it so eloquently years ago, "Two roads diverged in a wood..." and although his poem touches on our decisions in life and how they affect us, what made me think of this topic was the idea of having to make a choice that you may not want to make, maybe, in some cases, not having a choice at all.
I forfeited my guaranteed entry to run the New York marathon this year; the deadline was midnight last night to pay the entry fee once more to run the race that was cancelled last November. And, as much as I wanted to and I still do, I am unable to take on the challenge this year. I did not want to admit that and a year ago, I wouldn't have. But, this past month, I realized that I was going to have to make a choice between events to do and races to run. It was an extremely difficult choice this time around particularly because my sister is going back to run NY as her first marathon and Cyndi is going back to run for Coach Scott and all of those who are able to return are going back to help celebrate one of the greatest cities on the planet. I knew all this, I've known it and, I still had to bow out. Fortunately, I know that somewhere this weekend, there will be someone shouting and happy that he or she gets to go, in my place and I hope for that person that it is every bit as meaningful as my experience was.
My youngest brother and I are not speaking. He asked me to stay out of his business and as much as I have wanted to talk to him, especially on my birthday, I have not. My brother is an alcoholic, a binge drinker who has struggled with addiction in some form or another for most of his adult life. Sadly, maybe because he has a good heart, it is difficult for our family to watch him struggle, especially when he refuses to acknowledge that what he does hurts other people. As much as I think he knows that I want him to be well, I also think that he needs someone to blame because it is often too much to take on that kind of accountability when the bottles are just down the street at the liquor store. I almost called him today, just to see how he is because I miss him. He is friend as much as he is my brother and I love him very much. I had to make a choice to not hold it against him but I also had to choose to not call him or speak to him until he is ready, if he ever is ready.
Choosing often implies sacrifice, even if in the most minuscule way. You choose to act a certain way, to say something, to do something, to be something and regret appears when the choice is not well thought out, not always, but often. Choose a college, choose a spouse, choose a job, choose a family - whether or not to have one, choose a church, choose a president... it never ends, and with each choice comes the knowledge, that knowledge that there was always another way to go. Should have and could have become staples in the vocabulary of decision making or decision "not" making.
I gave up my class at Santa Monica College 9 weeks into a 17 week semester. I chose to jeopardize my future at an institution that gave me a chance and then turned that chance into an opportunity and I did it with the knowledge that in all likelihood, I would not be invited back. I understood what I was doing and what it might mean and while I felt that it was the best choice for me and I stand by that, I also feel a deep sense of disappointment in myself for not finishing what I started and for taking an opportunity and turning my back on it. I have to live with that.
I read a lot. Lately, I've been reading research articles on the brain and pieces of non-fiction that have to do with historical events and biographical subjects. While I read, I am ever aware that what I am reading is a direct reflection of what is going on in my life at the time. Sometimes I go through periods of fantasy and science fiction, other times it is romance and historical fiction and often, the material is work related. Right now my reading choices reflect my need for truth. I want to know "things" that are happening in the world, in my body, in societies that I can only imagine. While technology offers me instant access to all subjects worldly, reading allows me to absorb the material at my leisure; it does not inundate me with information, rather it enables me to tread as broadly or as deeply as I choose. I make the choice to read every day and, there are days when I would rather go straight to sleep, or watch television or hang out with the kids, but I know that the years of choosing to crack open that book or to scan an article will continue to enrich my life in a way that choosing something else won't, well, maybe except spending time with my kids...
I have lately been on Jake like flies on shit, about his grades, about his future and about his choices. While I tell him that it is his life and I respect his opinions as a human being, which I do, I also expect him to acknowledge that the choices that he is making now, as a teenager will either afford him more choices as a young adult or they will limit his choices as a graduating 18 year old. As his mother, I want him to have those choices. It is his life and when he turns 18, I will no longer have the kind of hold on him that I do now, but, strangely, I think that the kind of relationship that has developed between us allows for a negotiation process that I never had with my parents. Maybe it is generational or maybe it depends on the family, but I am enjoying the moments of "deliberation" because I can see that it makes Jake feel like he is being heard, and he is, when I give him the chance to explain his side of it. I also think that a lesson self-taught is one that is more ingrained than one that is mother-taught, but don't quote me. My son, who I absolutely adore, is going to be faced with some life-changing decisions in the next few years. Having sex, choosing a college, using alcohol or drugs, getting a job, spending money, letting go of and/or making friends, playing soccer - all of these "issues" and more will be in the forefront of the process of his growth as an adolescent and as an adult. The thing is; I choose to trust my son. I tell him this often and I tell him that I will trust him until he gives me a reason not to, but even if that trust is broken, I will be here for him and I will always defend his choices because he is my son. While that may be faulty circular reasoning, I know that it comes from a place of absolute love. I hope that he is learning to choose based on solid reasoning and that in the challenging moments of his life, he will make solid decisions. Scratch that, I don't hope he will, I know he will.
I look around at my "teacher" friends, who, like me, now have all of their kids in school and they have held on to their tenure and to their jobs. Early on, when Jake was 2 1/2 and Nick was born, I resigned my teaching position at a school that I loved, from a job that I loved, with colleagues who I loved in order to stay home with my boys. I have not, for one day, regretted that choice. Even now, teaching part time and not being able to step right back into a full time job, I don't regret that choice, I mean, how could I? But there are moments when I think about what keeping that job would mean for my family now; the financial stability that would provide for them and I would be lying if I didn't say that every once in a while I wish that I could have done both. I mean, my friends, the aforementioned ones, they did it; they are doing it. I think early on I knew what it might mean, but I also know myself and I cannot give myself wholly to one thing without sacrificing something else. Many people can juggle many things and do a wonderful job at all of them. Unfortunately, I can only do that in my mind. And so I chose...
I am training now for my first "tri" activity, a 1/2 ironman that I will do in October of this year. I woke up on Tuesday morning of this week and I chose. I didn't want to; I wanted to sleep. But, I dragged myself out of bed and I got in the car, drove to the pool and I chose to swim. Last April, our T2 Ragnar team finished the race from Anaheim to Coronado. I thought, at that time, having gotten into probably the best shape that I'd been in for quite some time, that it was the continuation of a lifelong commitment to training. I had been feeling so great and running the strongest that I had in a long time. I promised myself that when I got home, I would continue with that training. I didn't and I allowed myself to sink back into that place of self indulgence and excuses. I knew I was doing it; I chose it. On some level, I didn't want to work that hard anymore, I just wanted to coast, like I did when my metabolism was at its kick-ass most efficient, but I soon learned that wasn't going to happen and a month turned into six turned into a year and 25 pounds later, I am starting over. I look at myself in the mirror and while I don't feel as good as I did a year ago, I still like what I see. I put my body through literal hell and it still works with me and not against me. It wakes me up and pulls me through the pool and it lets me run alongside Ty at the park, it lets me dance with Nick in the kitchen and it allows me to train for events that I never imagined at 44 I would be able to do. So now, I choose to give back to my body by eating better, by training harder and by being kinder to myself than ever before. And when October comes, I will run into the water with a smile on my face knowing that I am saving lives and that I have reinvented mine once again.
I am fairly convinced that I could do another job, have another career, make more money doing something other than teaching, but I choose to continue to teach. Every term, there are a couple of student who verbally thank me, or hug me, or write me a note that tells me that what I've said or done has made them a better reader, a better thinker or a better writer. And while I don't anticipate these outpourings nor do I wait for them, I am always moved by them. When I was young, I don't remember exactly how old, but when I was maybe an adolescent, I felt like I was supposed to do something meaningful with my life. Maybe everybody feels like that, that's why we say it's a "calling," but that's not exactly what I mean here. I felt like my life had specific purpose and because I am a God fearing person, I felt that I had some innate ability to do something special. I didn't know what that was and maybe I still don't, but I feel as though God gave me a gift with people, a sensitivity to their needs and a desire to help them. I feel such a strong need to give. And while I will probably never have the money to do the kind of giving that I would like to, I realized that by choosing to use what skills and talents I have, that even an average kid from Torrance can make a real contribution to the global and even the local efforts of organizations that are changing the way that people live. You don't have to have money or endless resources, you just have to make a choice to do what you can in whatever capacity that is. I mean, I have a group of friends who constantly support my fundraising efforts because, financially, they can. I have other friends who offer to train me, for free, who offer to get up with me in the morning, at the crack of dawn and I have yet others who support me emotionally by giving me a cyber pat on the back or a hug when they see more or by shooting me a message that often brings me to tears. I choose to give because I know, deep in my heart, that I am supposed to and I am trying to pass that message along to my children. I know I will succeed.
Lastly, well, my brain is shutting down now, so lastly for here, I choose to share these thoughts with you, not for your approval nor for your judgment, but, for your consideration. If you are a part of my life, it's because I chose you and I want you to know that was a choice that I will always defend. Don't worry about choosing wisely my friends, just make a choice and stand behind it...
I forfeited my guaranteed entry to run the New York marathon this year; the deadline was midnight last night to pay the entry fee once more to run the race that was cancelled last November. And, as much as I wanted to and I still do, I am unable to take on the challenge this year. I did not want to admit that and a year ago, I wouldn't have. But, this past month, I realized that I was going to have to make a choice between events to do and races to run. It was an extremely difficult choice this time around particularly because my sister is going back to run NY as her first marathon and Cyndi is going back to run for Coach Scott and all of those who are able to return are going back to help celebrate one of the greatest cities on the planet. I knew all this, I've known it and, I still had to bow out. Fortunately, I know that somewhere this weekend, there will be someone shouting and happy that he or she gets to go, in my place and I hope for that person that it is every bit as meaningful as my experience was.
My youngest brother and I are not speaking. He asked me to stay out of his business and as much as I have wanted to talk to him, especially on my birthday, I have not. My brother is an alcoholic, a binge drinker who has struggled with addiction in some form or another for most of his adult life. Sadly, maybe because he has a good heart, it is difficult for our family to watch him struggle, especially when he refuses to acknowledge that what he does hurts other people. As much as I think he knows that I want him to be well, I also think that he needs someone to blame because it is often too much to take on that kind of accountability when the bottles are just down the street at the liquor store. I almost called him today, just to see how he is because I miss him. He is friend as much as he is my brother and I love him very much. I had to make a choice to not hold it against him but I also had to choose to not call him or speak to him until he is ready, if he ever is ready.
Choosing often implies sacrifice, even if in the most minuscule way. You choose to act a certain way, to say something, to do something, to be something and regret appears when the choice is not well thought out, not always, but often. Choose a college, choose a spouse, choose a job, choose a family - whether or not to have one, choose a church, choose a president... it never ends, and with each choice comes the knowledge, that knowledge that there was always another way to go. Should have and could have become staples in the vocabulary of decision making or decision "not" making.
I gave up my class at Santa Monica College 9 weeks into a 17 week semester. I chose to jeopardize my future at an institution that gave me a chance and then turned that chance into an opportunity and I did it with the knowledge that in all likelihood, I would not be invited back. I understood what I was doing and what it might mean and while I felt that it was the best choice for me and I stand by that, I also feel a deep sense of disappointment in myself for not finishing what I started and for taking an opportunity and turning my back on it. I have to live with that.
I read a lot. Lately, I've been reading research articles on the brain and pieces of non-fiction that have to do with historical events and biographical subjects. While I read, I am ever aware that what I am reading is a direct reflection of what is going on in my life at the time. Sometimes I go through periods of fantasy and science fiction, other times it is romance and historical fiction and often, the material is work related. Right now my reading choices reflect my need for truth. I want to know "things" that are happening in the world, in my body, in societies that I can only imagine. While technology offers me instant access to all subjects worldly, reading allows me to absorb the material at my leisure; it does not inundate me with information, rather it enables me to tread as broadly or as deeply as I choose. I make the choice to read every day and, there are days when I would rather go straight to sleep, or watch television or hang out with the kids, but I know that the years of choosing to crack open that book or to scan an article will continue to enrich my life in a way that choosing something else won't, well, maybe except spending time with my kids...
I have lately been on Jake like flies on shit, about his grades, about his future and about his choices. While I tell him that it is his life and I respect his opinions as a human being, which I do, I also expect him to acknowledge that the choices that he is making now, as a teenager will either afford him more choices as a young adult or they will limit his choices as a graduating 18 year old. As his mother, I want him to have those choices. It is his life and when he turns 18, I will no longer have the kind of hold on him that I do now, but, strangely, I think that the kind of relationship that has developed between us allows for a negotiation process that I never had with my parents. Maybe it is generational or maybe it depends on the family, but I am enjoying the moments of "deliberation" because I can see that it makes Jake feel like he is being heard, and he is, when I give him the chance to explain his side of it. I also think that a lesson self-taught is one that is more ingrained than one that is mother-taught, but don't quote me. My son, who I absolutely adore, is going to be faced with some life-changing decisions in the next few years. Having sex, choosing a college, using alcohol or drugs, getting a job, spending money, letting go of and/or making friends, playing soccer - all of these "issues" and more will be in the forefront of the process of his growth as an adolescent and as an adult. The thing is; I choose to trust my son. I tell him this often and I tell him that I will trust him until he gives me a reason not to, but even if that trust is broken, I will be here for him and I will always defend his choices because he is my son. While that may be faulty circular reasoning, I know that it comes from a place of absolute love. I hope that he is learning to choose based on solid reasoning and that in the challenging moments of his life, he will make solid decisions. Scratch that, I don't hope he will, I know he will.
I look around at my "teacher" friends, who, like me, now have all of their kids in school and they have held on to their tenure and to their jobs. Early on, when Jake was 2 1/2 and Nick was born, I resigned my teaching position at a school that I loved, from a job that I loved, with colleagues who I loved in order to stay home with my boys. I have not, for one day, regretted that choice. Even now, teaching part time and not being able to step right back into a full time job, I don't regret that choice, I mean, how could I? But there are moments when I think about what keeping that job would mean for my family now; the financial stability that would provide for them and I would be lying if I didn't say that every once in a while I wish that I could have done both. I mean, my friends, the aforementioned ones, they did it; they are doing it. I think early on I knew what it might mean, but I also know myself and I cannot give myself wholly to one thing without sacrificing something else. Many people can juggle many things and do a wonderful job at all of them. Unfortunately, I can only do that in my mind. And so I chose...
I am training now for my first "tri" activity, a 1/2 ironman that I will do in October of this year. I woke up on Tuesday morning of this week and I chose. I didn't want to; I wanted to sleep. But, I dragged myself out of bed and I got in the car, drove to the pool and I chose to swim. Last April, our T2 Ragnar team finished the race from Anaheim to Coronado. I thought, at that time, having gotten into probably the best shape that I'd been in for quite some time, that it was the continuation of a lifelong commitment to training. I had been feeling so great and running the strongest that I had in a long time. I promised myself that when I got home, I would continue with that training. I didn't and I allowed myself to sink back into that place of self indulgence and excuses. I knew I was doing it; I chose it. On some level, I didn't want to work that hard anymore, I just wanted to coast, like I did when my metabolism was at its kick-ass most efficient, but I soon learned that wasn't going to happen and a month turned into six turned into a year and 25 pounds later, I am starting over. I look at myself in the mirror and while I don't feel as good as I did a year ago, I still like what I see. I put my body through literal hell and it still works with me and not against me. It wakes me up and pulls me through the pool and it lets me run alongside Ty at the park, it lets me dance with Nick in the kitchen and it allows me to train for events that I never imagined at 44 I would be able to do. So now, I choose to give back to my body by eating better, by training harder and by being kinder to myself than ever before. And when October comes, I will run into the water with a smile on my face knowing that I am saving lives and that I have reinvented mine once again.
I am fairly convinced that I could do another job, have another career, make more money doing something other than teaching, but I choose to continue to teach. Every term, there are a couple of student who verbally thank me, or hug me, or write me a note that tells me that what I've said or done has made them a better reader, a better thinker or a better writer. And while I don't anticipate these outpourings nor do I wait for them, I am always moved by them. When I was young, I don't remember exactly how old, but when I was maybe an adolescent, I felt like I was supposed to do something meaningful with my life. Maybe everybody feels like that, that's why we say it's a "calling," but that's not exactly what I mean here. I felt like my life had specific purpose and because I am a God fearing person, I felt that I had some innate ability to do something special. I didn't know what that was and maybe I still don't, but I feel as though God gave me a gift with people, a sensitivity to their needs and a desire to help them. I feel such a strong need to give. And while I will probably never have the money to do the kind of giving that I would like to, I realized that by choosing to use what skills and talents I have, that even an average kid from Torrance can make a real contribution to the global and even the local efforts of organizations that are changing the way that people live. You don't have to have money or endless resources, you just have to make a choice to do what you can in whatever capacity that is. I mean, I have a group of friends who constantly support my fundraising efforts because, financially, they can. I have other friends who offer to train me, for free, who offer to get up with me in the morning, at the crack of dawn and I have yet others who support me emotionally by giving me a cyber pat on the back or a hug when they see more or by shooting me a message that often brings me to tears. I choose to give because I know, deep in my heart, that I am supposed to and I am trying to pass that message along to my children. I know I will succeed.
Lastly, well, my brain is shutting down now, so lastly for here, I choose to share these thoughts with you, not for your approval nor for your judgment, but, for your consideration. If you are a part of my life, it's because I chose you and I want you to know that was a choice that I will always defend. Don't worry about choosing wisely my friends, just make a choice and stand behind it...
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The chaos factor...
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, or the car you cut me off in, or the phone that you used to hang up on me with or the random, pointless comment that you just made which incited a rage fueled diatribe against ALL social media... including "blogging" and the seemingly endless emails that are building with no end in sight. How in the hell can I have just deleted 96 emails yesterday only to find 342 in my inbox today? How can people have the nerve to send me questions regarding "updates" and "friend requests" and "you didn't comment on that thing I sent you" in an email?????? If you are referring to a facebook post, then I will get to it if and when I want to get to it. AND, if I chose not to comment on it, maybe I just smiled at the sweet photo or the funny comment and kept scrolling. My love for you is not dependant upon whether or not I answer your damn email. Keep it up and I will just keep adding your inane questions and droll remarks to the SPAM folder...
I am tired today and I have PMS and I am in the midst of a crisis; there is no cat food or chocolate in the house and I am already in my pajamas. The cat is meowing outside the bedroom door and my hormones are screaming for Haagen Daaz peanut butter and chocolate ice cream and my children are in the hallway (visualize this) kicking a large plastic ball at each other... as hard as they possibly can. The ball just ricocheted off of Ty's head, hit the light and just landed next to my foot. Nick is laughing and doing some kind of dance that makes it look like he is trying not to shit his pants and Ty has recovered the ball only to turn, kick it and this time, it bounced off the cat's head. Well, he's off and running so I guess I don't have to worry about the cat food for a few minutes. I just reached down to adjust the blanket and I noticed that there is a bottle of white-out on my bedcover, open and spilling out all over the brown material... Now Jake is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, blatantly pissed off because he DVR'd the Kings game and it isn't working, oh, wait, it's working now, he's suddenly happy again. I feel like I am shooting my own reality show, only with words and with no camera. Wait, Nick just told Ty to eat a shit sandwich and Ty is doubled over laughing. "Go to bed Ty" Tim's voice is mellow but serious as he tries to find the right spot to start the Kings game as Ty chants, "I'm not going to bed... ever!" Okay, Tim gave up; they went in the other room to watch the game while Ty continues to roll around on the floor, the ball long forgotten.
The thing about this house is that there is never a predictable moment. Even when I shout, "Let's go" as in, we need to get out of the fucking house, right this fucking minute, something always happens. I can't find my keys, Ty only has one shoe on, Jake needs lunch money, Nick left his P.E. clothes somewhere but nobody knows where, someone forgot to feed the dog, the water is still running in the bathroom, somebody poked somebody, looked at somebody funny, laughed at the wrong time... it is never the same, never predictable and seemingly unstable. Wait, Ty just came in, stuck out his tongue and said, "My tongue is red" and I said "Oh, what from?" and he said, "It's not from popsicles or candy" and I said, "It's not?" and he said, "No, it's from Nick's shirt" and I chuckled "Nick's shirt?" and Ty laughed, cackling, climbing up on the bed with me just now, "Yeah, I just licked Nick's shirt." I didn't even bat an eye, "Ok, come on, get a book and come up under the covers." "Ok Mom. But paper sucks" and then he walked out, hitting every single blind covering the sliding glass door on his way out." There he goes. I'm counting the peaceful seconds until he returns.
Much has been happening in the Hawley household this past week. It has been an eclectic mix: a Confirmation, a car accident, allergies, 2 complete meltdowns (mom only), loss of income, illness, car trouble, family issues, baseball, students, dog issues and a friendship renewed. I finally am beginning to understand that innate delicacy with which Erma Bombeck and Chris Erskine describe familial moments so well. It is like second nature, like watching a film of events as they are happening but as a part of the whole. Like today, when I was driving Nick and Ty to the doctor and this mother fucker cut me off and I mean CUT ME OFF, with no warning, no blinker, nothing, just swerved right into my lane. Now this kind of thing annoys me but when the kids are in the car, it sets my teeth on edge to the point where I must do something about it. This makes no sense as I push my foot down hard on the gas pedal and gun it, catching up to the Dodge whatever make it is, pulling up alongside to see that it's a kid, not much older than my Jake and he's bouncing his head to whatever music he's listening to and when he looks over and sees me, he nods as if to say "What's up?" I have to pause for a second, trying to reach back to that place of being 16 or 17 and to not giving a shit to what was happening on the road around me, not caring about cutting someone off so long as I didn't hit anyone or anything, I tried really hard to reach back to that moment when driving was still "fun" and not an obligation... and while I didn't quite get there, I did understand, for just a second, right when the light turned green and Ty shouted "GREEN" and the kid sped off, that my life really is no longer what it once was. I'm not the Homecoming Queen anymore, or Rich and Steve's "big" sister, I'm not the little naive waitress or the inexperienced first year teacher, I'm not the new mom or the incompetent pretending to know what the hell she's doing. I've changed. Maybe I didn't want to acknowledge that because although I love change and change implies growth, it also means that the things that I once loved about myself or maybe that I used to define myself are no longer as important as they used to be, at least to me. And maybe that shouldn't bother me as much as it does, well, it does. I mean, I like who I am, who I've become but I really liked who I was, when there wasn't has much "hard" worry about the important things. I always had money and a car, I had fun things to do and to look forward to, my friends were around constantly and we didn't have to plan to be together. I do wish, that on some simple level, that I could have some of that wistfulness back. I do not want to go back nor do I want to be the ages that my kids are at, I mean it when I say that. I got to do it once and that was enough; I enjoyed my turn, but I miss the looking forward without the knowledge of what is already going to happen. I never used to ask myself what will happen if? I usually just jumped or, I worried about jumping so much that the desire to do it just went away altogether, out of fear or a beating to death of the idea. I guess I just miss the "newness" of things and I suppose that is why I am very aware of the chaos that makes up my family and that envelops our home like a fog. I like it, I crave it and, honestly, it makes me feel young, whole, complete.
I am defined by these moments of chaos and anger, of uncertainty and mischief, of pain and hardship, of love... Ty just asked me if I would make him a breakfast burrito, read him a Disney story and play Skylanders with him before school tomorrow. I didn't even hesitate "Sure I will honey" I said simply, already dreading the day when he won't be here to ask anymore. What else is there to say? My life has not belonged to me in a very long time and I wouldn't have it any other way...
I am tired today and I have PMS and I am in the midst of a crisis; there is no cat food or chocolate in the house and I am already in my pajamas. The cat is meowing outside the bedroom door and my hormones are screaming for Haagen Daaz peanut butter and chocolate ice cream and my children are in the hallway (visualize this) kicking a large plastic ball at each other... as hard as they possibly can. The ball just ricocheted off of Ty's head, hit the light and just landed next to my foot. Nick is laughing and doing some kind of dance that makes it look like he is trying not to shit his pants and Ty has recovered the ball only to turn, kick it and this time, it bounced off the cat's head. Well, he's off and running so I guess I don't have to worry about the cat food for a few minutes. I just reached down to adjust the blanket and I noticed that there is a bottle of white-out on my bedcover, open and spilling out all over the brown material... Now Jake is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, blatantly pissed off because he DVR'd the Kings game and it isn't working, oh, wait, it's working now, he's suddenly happy again. I feel like I am shooting my own reality show, only with words and with no camera. Wait, Nick just told Ty to eat a shit sandwich and Ty is doubled over laughing. "Go to bed Ty" Tim's voice is mellow but serious as he tries to find the right spot to start the Kings game as Ty chants, "I'm not going to bed... ever!" Okay, Tim gave up; they went in the other room to watch the game while Ty continues to roll around on the floor, the ball long forgotten.
The thing about this house is that there is never a predictable moment. Even when I shout, "Let's go" as in, we need to get out of the fucking house, right this fucking minute, something always happens. I can't find my keys, Ty only has one shoe on, Jake needs lunch money, Nick left his P.E. clothes somewhere but nobody knows where, someone forgot to feed the dog, the water is still running in the bathroom, somebody poked somebody, looked at somebody funny, laughed at the wrong time... it is never the same, never predictable and seemingly unstable. Wait, Ty just came in, stuck out his tongue and said, "My tongue is red" and I said "Oh, what from?" and he said, "It's not from popsicles or candy" and I said, "It's not?" and he said, "No, it's from Nick's shirt" and I chuckled "Nick's shirt?" and Ty laughed, cackling, climbing up on the bed with me just now, "Yeah, I just licked Nick's shirt." I didn't even bat an eye, "Ok, come on, get a book and come up under the covers." "Ok Mom. But paper sucks" and then he walked out, hitting every single blind covering the sliding glass door on his way out." There he goes. I'm counting the peaceful seconds until he returns.
Much has been happening in the Hawley household this past week. It has been an eclectic mix: a Confirmation, a car accident, allergies, 2 complete meltdowns (mom only), loss of income, illness, car trouble, family issues, baseball, students, dog issues and a friendship renewed. I finally am beginning to understand that innate delicacy with which Erma Bombeck and Chris Erskine describe familial moments so well. It is like second nature, like watching a film of events as they are happening but as a part of the whole. Like today, when I was driving Nick and Ty to the doctor and this mother fucker cut me off and I mean CUT ME OFF, with no warning, no blinker, nothing, just swerved right into my lane. Now this kind of thing annoys me but when the kids are in the car, it sets my teeth on edge to the point where I must do something about it. This makes no sense as I push my foot down hard on the gas pedal and gun it, catching up to the Dodge whatever make it is, pulling up alongside to see that it's a kid, not much older than my Jake and he's bouncing his head to whatever music he's listening to and when he looks over and sees me, he nods as if to say "What's up?" I have to pause for a second, trying to reach back to that place of being 16 or 17 and to not giving a shit to what was happening on the road around me, not caring about cutting someone off so long as I didn't hit anyone or anything, I tried really hard to reach back to that moment when driving was still "fun" and not an obligation... and while I didn't quite get there, I did understand, for just a second, right when the light turned green and Ty shouted "GREEN" and the kid sped off, that my life really is no longer what it once was. I'm not the Homecoming Queen anymore, or Rich and Steve's "big" sister, I'm not the little naive waitress or the inexperienced first year teacher, I'm not the new mom or the incompetent pretending to know what the hell she's doing. I've changed. Maybe I didn't want to acknowledge that because although I love change and change implies growth, it also means that the things that I once loved about myself or maybe that I used to define myself are no longer as important as they used to be, at least to me. And maybe that shouldn't bother me as much as it does, well, it does. I mean, I like who I am, who I've become but I really liked who I was, when there wasn't has much "hard" worry about the important things. I always had money and a car, I had fun things to do and to look forward to, my friends were around constantly and we didn't have to plan to be together. I do wish, that on some simple level, that I could have some of that wistfulness back. I do not want to go back nor do I want to be the ages that my kids are at, I mean it when I say that. I got to do it once and that was enough; I enjoyed my turn, but I miss the looking forward without the knowledge of what is already going to happen. I never used to ask myself what will happen if? I usually just jumped or, I worried about jumping so much that the desire to do it just went away altogether, out of fear or a beating to death of the idea. I guess I just miss the "newness" of things and I suppose that is why I am very aware of the chaos that makes up my family and that envelops our home like a fog. I like it, I crave it and, honestly, it makes me feel young, whole, complete.
I am defined by these moments of chaos and anger, of uncertainty and mischief, of pain and hardship, of love... Ty just asked me if I would make him a breakfast burrito, read him a Disney story and play Skylanders with him before school tomorrow. I didn't even hesitate "Sure I will honey" I said simply, already dreading the day when he won't be here to ask anymore. What else is there to say? My life has not belonged to me in a very long time and I wouldn't have it any other way...
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Beauty...
I sit here, listening to President Obama talk about the tragedy that struck Boston on this past Monday, the tears begin to flow down my face. Although common enough, my response, it is not one to be analyzed or evaluated, it is simply a response to both the lack of humanity and the over abundance of humanity that is shown in moments like these. 9/11, Sandy Hook, Boston...
All of these events and others, have hit us hard; they have hit me hard. "It's personal" President Obama repeated and, as I wipe my eyes and continue to listen, I am struck by how those two words explain it all: my response, my sadness these past few days and the wonder at the people who have stepped forward to help. There have been so many moments, so many stories that have emerged the past few days; the instances of grace, of kindness, of love. It moves me beyond words. I have not been able to articulate how "personal" the bombing at the Boston marathon was this past Monday. I still don't feel as though I can wholly express the sentiment and the pain correctly, but I think, as I scroll through the numerous text messages asking if I was in Boston, that the pain is beginning to dissipate amidst the realization and the recognition that the beauty of humanity that was shown on Monday supercedes the pain and the tragedy and the spirit of the marathon in all of us overpowers any sadness that we most certainly still feel in our hearts.
Beauty is everywhere, that is true. But for me, beauty is found most in purity. Selfless acts of random kindness, smiles and that indomitable strength that picks us up and shows the best of who we are after these horrific events. We pick ourselves up and we move forward, despite the pain, despite the hatred, despite the loss; we are resilient, we are one. What makes humanity and Americans truly great is this strength. In the moment when we want to turn away so as not to see the horror, instead we turn toward, to see if we can help. We move toward what hurts us most. And that, to me, is beauty. That is what a marathon and those who run, those who volunteer, those who cheer... is all about.
All of these events and others, have hit us hard; they have hit me hard. "It's personal" President Obama repeated and, as I wipe my eyes and continue to listen, I am struck by how those two words explain it all: my response, my sadness these past few days and the wonder at the people who have stepped forward to help. There have been so many moments, so many stories that have emerged the past few days; the instances of grace, of kindness, of love. It moves me beyond words. I have not been able to articulate how "personal" the bombing at the Boston marathon was this past Monday. I still don't feel as though I can wholly express the sentiment and the pain correctly, but I think, as I scroll through the numerous text messages asking if I was in Boston, that the pain is beginning to dissipate amidst the realization and the recognition that the beauty of humanity that was shown on Monday supercedes the pain and the tragedy and the spirit of the marathon in all of us overpowers any sadness that we most certainly still feel in our hearts.
Beauty is everywhere, that is true. But for me, beauty is found most in purity. Selfless acts of random kindness, smiles and that indomitable strength that picks us up and shows the best of who we are after these horrific events. We pick ourselves up and we move forward, despite the pain, despite the hatred, despite the loss; we are resilient, we are one. What makes humanity and Americans truly great is this strength. In the moment when we want to turn away so as not to see the horror, instead we turn toward, to see if we can help. We move toward what hurts us most. And that, to me, is beauty. That is what a marathon and those who run, those who volunteer, those who cheer... is all about.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Why Not?
I've had millions, no thousands, no, well, maybe a few people ask me or say to me, "Hey Yvette, why don't you write a book?" or, sometimes, it has been, "Why don't you blog every day?" To which I simply reply, "I don't know," but really, I do know. I don't do either for the same reason that I don't lose the last of the perpetual baby weight or why I don't run every day or, why I don't take the laundry out of the washing machine before it dries in there and sticks and then I have to wash it all over again. I don't because I don't fucking feel like it. I know, can you hear the quarter drop? Swear jar...
Get ready for a shocker, well, for those of you who know me, you are already nodding as your eyes move left to right, I am an unmotivated person. Shocking, I told you, not so much. When I want to do something or if I am inspired to do so, I often kick ass at it. I mean, I'm not the best, but I get that mother fucker done (Quarter #2, hang on). Most people could and do say the same, but the thing is, for me, it really doesn't make sense because to do something that you LOVE to do and then to get better at it, as in, maybe to do it professionally, requires discipline and, of all of the things that I am NOT, disciplined ranks right up there with tactful.
I don't like boundaries, I don't like parameters and I definitely don't like being told what to do. I have an extremely difficult time with people for whom I lack respect or admiration and if one of those happens to be an authority figure to whom I have to report, I really have a problem. I liken my approach to life, work, family, hobbies and all of the other minutiae of daily life in much the same way; if I feel like doing it, it gets done and if I don't, then the machine grinds to a halt. You can clearly see how this philosophy interferes with the possibility of success or, basically, for having a clean car, a walked dog and graded papers returned on time. For these, I refuse to blame ADD or some other "diagnosis" of which I have yet to be made aware. But, I do acknowledge that as much inspiration that is needed to write, there is even more discipline required. Therefore, sometimes the blog takes a vacation...
I have, over the last two years, written several "pieces" of which I would never allow another human being to peruse. I have written these for me, for my own peace of mind and, I think I would violate every tenet of every philosophical ideology that has ever meant anything to me by putting them out into the universe for other people to judge. And for those of you who say, "I'm not judgemental, I won't judge you," excuse me for a second and let me just call Royal Bullshit (#3) to that. In my experience, however brief and unimportant, I have learned that when people tell you they "aren't" something, you can probably look on the tag and find that they not only came from that department but that they were the "top of the line" model. If that makes not sense, think of the axiom about the worst chefs always screaming the loudest that their food isn't cooked properly when they go out. AND if that doesn't make sense then... well, I got nothing else.
I would like to write a book and I have some ideas but I'm not so good with the follow through. I like to drown myself in an idea until only the tips of my bleached blonde hair sticks up through the quicksand and THEN, I move on to the next thing. It may be a bag of opened Cheetohs or watering the already browning lawn or it may be wrestling with the 6 year old and then, the idea gets tossed aside and I wait for another one to strike and then another and then another and so on. It's pretty non-productive but it generally suits the blog format so there you go. Writing, as I tell my students frequently and, as I've stated before, is so very personal, so intimate. Even when I read fiction, I find myself asking so many questions about the writer and during the reading of a novel process, I almost always start doing research on the author. It fascinates me to think that a writer like Shel Silverstein could simultaneously write killer children's books and write for Playboy at the same time. I love that the muse comes in all shapes and forms and that it strikes when it will, well, when she will. It makes writing new and fresh, creative, provocative and worth waiting for.
I always told myself that if I ever did write a book and publish it, if possible, that it would be for some reason other than just to do it. Not so much as a bucket list thing, or a money thing, or a success thing. Those "things" don't interest me; instead, I like to think that writing a book and publishing it could make another ripple in the pond, you know, add something to the universe that is worth saying. I wouldn't want to be just another "spine" on the multiple virtual shelves that line bookstores everywhere. I'd want to write something that made my children proud to have me as their mother, something that wouldn't embarrass them or make them misunderstand my intent. Until I can do that, until I come up with a story that best represents the way of thinking that spins around inside my head, I'll pass... I love the idea, I just don't always know how to make it become a reality, other than to slave away at the keyboard and that, I'm not willing to do, yet...
I had an amazing 5th grade teacher; actually, I was very lucky to have had many excellent teachers, especially in Elementary school, but this particular teacher, Carol Holdsworth served as an inspiration to me throughout my college years and even now. She was just starting to teach when she came in as a long term "sub" for the teacher who had gone out that year and she would continue to teach for many years. Actually, I believe that she was still teaching up until a few years ago. Regardless, the thing that struck me about Carol then was that she always seemed to come up with interesting and fun activities for us to do, both in and out of the classroom. We made tee pees and had international pen pals, we had an awards ceremony where we were recognized for the quirky and silly characteristics about each of us that most people wouldn't consider "unique," maybe more of an annoyance really. I received one for being the "most talkative girl with the funniest laugh." 33 years later and that little piece of paper is still taped into my scrapbook. We played games of Nation that lasted as long as we could and she NEVER, not once that I could remember, ever told us that we had to stop when we were in the middle of something. We worked at each activity with fervor and she gave us the time and space to grow in that intensity, in that joy of the moment. I dug our class picture out last week; it was buried in a plastic bin with a ton of other mementos from elementary school and as I was glancing at the photos and the names, another fascinating fact came to mind. Out of all of the kids in that class, I STILL actually speak to 14 of them, either through every day contact, email, facebook, Christmas Cards, phone calls... and, one of them has remained a very close friend to this day. That says a great deal about the bonding process that year, about the inspiration and the motivation that came from the joy and love of learning that Carol fostered in each of us. I use that example because it reminds me of what happens when I get on the computer to add another post to this blog. I never plan it out. Sometimes something struck me that day and when I begin to strike the keys, the idea just takes over. Other times, there are multiple ideas that overlap and sometimes, it is a struggle to say what I really mean, think, feel without sounding like a bumbling idiot.
I guess what it really comes down to is akin to the notion that sometimes you just don't feel like talking. Sometimes I just don't want to have that conversation, even if it is with a close friend or a family member and although it is perceived as rude or insensitive, I can't help it and I just won't do it. I love to write because there are things in life that are hard for me to say out loud. I have no problem saying them if need be, but it can be excruciating for me. Again, for those who know me, this may not SEEM to be the case, but it is. There is so much that I would like to say, both positive and negative, about so many things and people, about events and even, about myself, but, like certain parts of our lives, some ideas have to be kept private, stored in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind and of my heart. When the muse strikes, I will share and sometimes it may be incoherent and sometimes, there may be a glimpse of what could eventually become more. Whichever way the writing continues to take me, one thing that I know for sure, it has given me wings. Thanks Carol and wherever you are today and for the rest of your life, I hope that you know that those wings were first cut from the mold that you helped design... Goodnight.
Get ready for a shocker, well, for those of you who know me, you are already nodding as your eyes move left to right, I am an unmotivated person. Shocking, I told you, not so much. When I want to do something or if I am inspired to do so, I often kick ass at it. I mean, I'm not the best, but I get that mother fucker done (Quarter #2, hang on). Most people could and do say the same, but the thing is, for me, it really doesn't make sense because to do something that you LOVE to do and then to get better at it, as in, maybe to do it professionally, requires discipline and, of all of the things that I am NOT, disciplined ranks right up there with tactful.
I don't like boundaries, I don't like parameters and I definitely don't like being told what to do. I have an extremely difficult time with people for whom I lack respect or admiration and if one of those happens to be an authority figure to whom I have to report, I really have a problem. I liken my approach to life, work, family, hobbies and all of the other minutiae of daily life in much the same way; if I feel like doing it, it gets done and if I don't, then the machine grinds to a halt. You can clearly see how this philosophy interferes with the possibility of success or, basically, for having a clean car, a walked dog and graded papers returned on time. For these, I refuse to blame ADD or some other "diagnosis" of which I have yet to be made aware. But, I do acknowledge that as much inspiration that is needed to write, there is even more discipline required. Therefore, sometimes the blog takes a vacation...
I have, over the last two years, written several "pieces" of which I would never allow another human being to peruse. I have written these for me, for my own peace of mind and, I think I would violate every tenet of every philosophical ideology that has ever meant anything to me by putting them out into the universe for other people to judge. And for those of you who say, "I'm not judgemental, I won't judge you," excuse me for a second and let me just call Royal Bullshit (#3) to that. In my experience, however brief and unimportant, I have learned that when people tell you they "aren't" something, you can probably look on the tag and find that they not only came from that department but that they were the "top of the line" model. If that makes not sense, think of the axiom about the worst chefs always screaming the loudest that their food isn't cooked properly when they go out. AND if that doesn't make sense then... well, I got nothing else.
I would like to write a book and I have some ideas but I'm not so good with the follow through. I like to drown myself in an idea until only the tips of my bleached blonde hair sticks up through the quicksand and THEN, I move on to the next thing. It may be a bag of opened Cheetohs or watering the already browning lawn or it may be wrestling with the 6 year old and then, the idea gets tossed aside and I wait for another one to strike and then another and then another and so on. It's pretty non-productive but it generally suits the blog format so there you go. Writing, as I tell my students frequently and, as I've stated before, is so very personal, so intimate. Even when I read fiction, I find myself asking so many questions about the writer and during the reading of a novel process, I almost always start doing research on the author. It fascinates me to think that a writer like Shel Silverstein could simultaneously write killer children's books and write for Playboy at the same time. I love that the muse comes in all shapes and forms and that it strikes when it will, well, when she will. It makes writing new and fresh, creative, provocative and worth waiting for.
I always told myself that if I ever did write a book and publish it, if possible, that it would be for some reason other than just to do it. Not so much as a bucket list thing, or a money thing, or a success thing. Those "things" don't interest me; instead, I like to think that writing a book and publishing it could make another ripple in the pond, you know, add something to the universe that is worth saying. I wouldn't want to be just another "spine" on the multiple virtual shelves that line bookstores everywhere. I'd want to write something that made my children proud to have me as their mother, something that wouldn't embarrass them or make them misunderstand my intent. Until I can do that, until I come up with a story that best represents the way of thinking that spins around inside my head, I'll pass... I love the idea, I just don't always know how to make it become a reality, other than to slave away at the keyboard and that, I'm not willing to do, yet...
I had an amazing 5th grade teacher; actually, I was very lucky to have had many excellent teachers, especially in Elementary school, but this particular teacher, Carol Holdsworth served as an inspiration to me throughout my college years and even now. She was just starting to teach when she came in as a long term "sub" for the teacher who had gone out that year and she would continue to teach for many years. Actually, I believe that she was still teaching up until a few years ago. Regardless, the thing that struck me about Carol then was that she always seemed to come up with interesting and fun activities for us to do, both in and out of the classroom. We made tee pees and had international pen pals, we had an awards ceremony where we were recognized for the quirky and silly characteristics about each of us that most people wouldn't consider "unique," maybe more of an annoyance really. I received one for being the "most talkative girl with the funniest laugh." 33 years later and that little piece of paper is still taped into my scrapbook. We played games of Nation that lasted as long as we could and she NEVER, not once that I could remember, ever told us that we had to stop when we were in the middle of something. We worked at each activity with fervor and she gave us the time and space to grow in that intensity, in that joy of the moment. I dug our class picture out last week; it was buried in a plastic bin with a ton of other mementos from elementary school and as I was glancing at the photos and the names, another fascinating fact came to mind. Out of all of the kids in that class, I STILL actually speak to 14 of them, either through every day contact, email, facebook, Christmas Cards, phone calls... and, one of them has remained a very close friend to this day. That says a great deal about the bonding process that year, about the inspiration and the motivation that came from the joy and love of learning that Carol fostered in each of us. I use that example because it reminds me of what happens when I get on the computer to add another post to this blog. I never plan it out. Sometimes something struck me that day and when I begin to strike the keys, the idea just takes over. Other times, there are multiple ideas that overlap and sometimes, it is a struggle to say what I really mean, think, feel without sounding like a bumbling idiot.
I guess what it really comes down to is akin to the notion that sometimes you just don't feel like talking. Sometimes I just don't want to have that conversation, even if it is with a close friend or a family member and although it is perceived as rude or insensitive, I can't help it and I just won't do it. I love to write because there are things in life that are hard for me to say out loud. I have no problem saying them if need be, but it can be excruciating for me. Again, for those who know me, this may not SEEM to be the case, but it is. There is so much that I would like to say, both positive and negative, about so many things and people, about events and even, about myself, but, like certain parts of our lives, some ideas have to be kept private, stored in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind and of my heart. When the muse strikes, I will share and sometimes it may be incoherent and sometimes, there may be a glimpse of what could eventually become more. Whichever way the writing continues to take me, one thing that I know for sure, it has given me wings. Thanks Carol and wherever you are today and for the rest of your life, I hope that you know that those wings were first cut from the mold that you helped design... Goodnight.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
ADDepression...
My children are hilarious, at least that's what they tell me. Although we often tell children to speak nicely to one another, I often tell mine to "Shut the hell up." To which they laugh and smile and tell me, "Mom, put a quarter in the swear jar." To which I then reply, "Where's the fucking swear jar?" and then, they continue to laugh...
This marks the eighth week of Marriage counseling for Tim and I and, based on my aggression towards my children, it is apparently not helping. As I write this, my two teenagers are offering up suggestions as to what might be appropriate blogging material and this is what they've come up with. Needless to say, I will not be asking for their advice again. So "Shut the hell up and do your fucking homework." They are laughing again... another needless to say.
The therapist told me, getting back to my initial "report," that I need to hold myself accountable for my own actions. This is why he makes 150 dollars an hour I guess, to tell me things that I already knew. Hence, the swear jar. I guess if I don't want my children to swear, then I have to stop swearing also. Jake just walked by, out the blue and yelled "Shit," just to make Nick and I laugh. I could write a whole research paper on the joys of profanity and why it's important to swear in front of your children and at them on a regular basis. However, social services may show up immediately following the publication of said material. I don't know, when I drop something heavy on my toe, "Dang it" just doesn't cut it. So, back to my accountability... clearly this concept applies to more than just profanity. In the midst of this thought explosion, my teenagers are doing impressions of different characters from various movies interspersed with bouts of the Harlem Shake. Life is never, ever dull... Again, one more time, accountability, in my language, in my life, in my parenting and in my marriage. So, week 8.
I like the therapist. He is an interesting person although I don't really know anything about him other than he isn't married which, I don't know is relevant or, maybe it is. Tim told me that I shouldn't have asked him, but I had my own reasons for asking. I still like him and I value his insights. He is well educated, articulate, a teacher, hey, maybe I should date HIM, then again, he's divorced, not a good track record and he's even older than Tim so I guess that's out. I was sitting on campus the other day, drinking my coffee outside, it was such a beautiful morning and I was listening to the conversation of the girl sitting across from me, well the conversation between her and her cell phone which clearly had a guy on the other line with whom she was engaged in a tumultuous relationship. She was attempting to explain "abcout the other night," but she wasn't being successful because her explanation was punctuated by words like "Nuh uh" and "Wait, I never said that." I sat, and I immediately thought to myself, "Thank God I'm no longer dating..." The energy that it would take to re-invent myself and then to throw myself back into the dating pool, hell, it's easier to go to marriage counseling. It's probably just the fact that I haven't "dated" in so long; I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Having said that, well, having written that, not to split hairs, I must confess that I look forward to going to the sessions every week; I have begun to learn some interesting and useful things about Tim and about myself, although the three of us have spent the last two sessions laughing about our idiosyncratic behaviors "She uses my towel even when I tell her not to" or "There should be a DEFCON sign outside the door of the house so I know what kind of mood she's in." Mainly, he leaves it up to us to determine what we will say and how we will say it and then we leave it open ended for the next session. There is still MUCH to discuss in the weeks to come, but I think it's working; so far, I am despising Tim much less. The kids are laughing again as I say this out loud.
During our sixth session, the therapist was listening to something that I was saying and when I was finished, he turned to me and said, "Yvette, have you ever thought that you might have ADD?" Now, I joke about this regularly with everyone who is close to me and especially with my students. Yes, I have thought about it, but in a frantic, papers flying everywhere, hands flailing, "schizophrenic" kind of way. I had not really given it "serious" thought. So, the therapist and I discussed it, I took the DSM IV and Bam! Who knew? I have it or, more accurately, it has me. I'm usually the person who skips the self help aisle at the bookstore and, unless someone recommends a title that is specifically related to me, to my children or to our existence as a family, I skip it. I am not moved by other people telling me what to do and how to live and who to be, instead I am interested in looking at the situation from multiple perspectives and then deciding on what is applicable for me. I guess that sums up the purpose of marriage counseling. Tim and I don't fight, we don't generally yell at one another, we tend to use laughter and sarcasm to hide the deeper issues that, now, after 20 years together are seeping through the fabric that should "bind" us together. I don't like that word bind, but it seemed appropriate, so, there you go. As we move into the next month of weekly meetings, we have agreed that it is time to pull out the big guns and to examine some of the reasons why we don't communicate in a "better" way, I mean, if you still LIKE someone after 20 years together and you know that you love them, then, self help crap aside, communication is key and can make things better. I am in the process of remembering what I liked the most about Tim early on and simultaneously I am reminded of what irritates me the most as well.
So, back to my ADD. The official diagnosis has explained a great deal and it has left me in a tailspin. While I understand Jake a LOT more now, I am also at a loss as to what this means for my children, collectively speaking. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if my children would be more successful in all of their endeavors with a mother that was more organized, kinder, not as impulsive, one who grocery shops. Jake just went to the refrigerator, looked inside, and yelled, "Why are there no dranks?" "There is only Ketchup and Maple Syrup." Then Tim said, "There's Margarita Mix" so Jake grabbed and swallowed a huge gulp, then spit it out while Tim laughed. Maybe that's poor parenting on Tim's part, but it was as funny as hell. Maybe that's not ADD related, but social services might come knocking anyway.
So many people have a diagnosis that I can't really throw myself a pity party; that's not my purpose here anyway, but lately, I haven't been feeling like myself. The past six months or so, I've felt different, less motivated, less willing to "try" and I don't know what to attribute it to. I've also felt extraordinarily overwhelmed by everything, so much so, that instead of starting, I just don't do it at all. The therapist suggested making a daily list, but every time I look at the list, my heart starts to race and I feel overwhelmed again. So, I continue to deal with missed appointments, stacks of paper lying around the house, laundry that gets washed three times before it goes in the dryer because I can't remember if I washed it for the first time, no groceries in the house, split tires on my car and a deep seeded lack of drive to complete the things that are most, or have been, most important in my life up until now. I feel exhausted and sad, deeply at risk so to speak. I know it's not "ADD," that, truly, it is a process of looking at the big picture and taking in the things that make me happy and that make me sad, of accepting "the things that I cannot change," but ultimately, it's about recognizing that for which I am most grateful and maybe all that can be said is that I am as fucked up as the next person.
My students asked me the other day if they could make a video with me doing the Harlem Shake and, after they explained what it is, I said, "Sure." I'm positive that it will show up on Youtube any day now. If it does, remember that I disclosed my diagnosis and I plead "Couldn't remember" when I actually took it on and agreed.
The therapist has a sign above his bookshelf that reads, "The best thing that a father can do for his children is to love their mother." Maybe it should be simpler, "The best thing that a mother can do for her children is to love herself." And, to put a quarter in the swear jar...
This marks the eighth week of Marriage counseling for Tim and I and, based on my aggression towards my children, it is apparently not helping. As I write this, my two teenagers are offering up suggestions as to what might be appropriate blogging material and this is what they've come up with. Needless to say, I will not be asking for their advice again. So "Shut the hell up and do your fucking homework." They are laughing again... another needless to say.
The therapist told me, getting back to my initial "report," that I need to hold myself accountable for my own actions. This is why he makes 150 dollars an hour I guess, to tell me things that I already knew. Hence, the swear jar. I guess if I don't want my children to swear, then I have to stop swearing also. Jake just walked by, out the blue and yelled "Shit," just to make Nick and I laugh. I could write a whole research paper on the joys of profanity and why it's important to swear in front of your children and at them on a regular basis. However, social services may show up immediately following the publication of said material. I don't know, when I drop something heavy on my toe, "Dang it" just doesn't cut it. So, back to my accountability... clearly this concept applies to more than just profanity. In the midst of this thought explosion, my teenagers are doing impressions of different characters from various movies interspersed with bouts of the Harlem Shake. Life is never, ever dull... Again, one more time, accountability, in my language, in my life, in my parenting and in my marriage. So, week 8.
I like the therapist. He is an interesting person although I don't really know anything about him other than he isn't married which, I don't know is relevant or, maybe it is. Tim told me that I shouldn't have asked him, but I had my own reasons for asking. I still like him and I value his insights. He is well educated, articulate, a teacher, hey, maybe I should date HIM, then again, he's divorced, not a good track record and he's even older than Tim so I guess that's out. I was sitting on campus the other day, drinking my coffee outside, it was such a beautiful morning and I was listening to the conversation of the girl sitting across from me, well the conversation between her and her cell phone which clearly had a guy on the other line with whom she was engaged in a tumultuous relationship. She was attempting to explain "abcout the other night," but she wasn't being successful because her explanation was punctuated by words like "Nuh uh" and "Wait, I never said that." I sat, and I immediately thought to myself, "Thank God I'm no longer dating..." The energy that it would take to re-invent myself and then to throw myself back into the dating pool, hell, it's easier to go to marriage counseling. It's probably just the fact that I haven't "dated" in so long; I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Having said that, well, having written that, not to split hairs, I must confess that I look forward to going to the sessions every week; I have begun to learn some interesting and useful things about Tim and about myself, although the three of us have spent the last two sessions laughing about our idiosyncratic behaviors "She uses my towel even when I tell her not to" or "There should be a DEFCON sign outside the door of the house so I know what kind of mood she's in." Mainly, he leaves it up to us to determine what we will say and how we will say it and then we leave it open ended for the next session. There is still MUCH to discuss in the weeks to come, but I think it's working; so far, I am despising Tim much less. The kids are laughing again as I say this out loud.
During our sixth session, the therapist was listening to something that I was saying and when I was finished, he turned to me and said, "Yvette, have you ever thought that you might have ADD?" Now, I joke about this regularly with everyone who is close to me and especially with my students. Yes, I have thought about it, but in a frantic, papers flying everywhere, hands flailing, "schizophrenic" kind of way. I had not really given it "serious" thought. So, the therapist and I discussed it, I took the DSM IV and Bam! Who knew? I have it or, more accurately, it has me. I'm usually the person who skips the self help aisle at the bookstore and, unless someone recommends a title that is specifically related to me, to my children or to our existence as a family, I skip it. I am not moved by other people telling me what to do and how to live and who to be, instead I am interested in looking at the situation from multiple perspectives and then deciding on what is applicable for me. I guess that sums up the purpose of marriage counseling. Tim and I don't fight, we don't generally yell at one another, we tend to use laughter and sarcasm to hide the deeper issues that, now, after 20 years together are seeping through the fabric that should "bind" us together. I don't like that word bind, but it seemed appropriate, so, there you go. As we move into the next month of weekly meetings, we have agreed that it is time to pull out the big guns and to examine some of the reasons why we don't communicate in a "better" way, I mean, if you still LIKE someone after 20 years together and you know that you love them, then, self help crap aside, communication is key and can make things better. I am in the process of remembering what I liked the most about Tim early on and simultaneously I am reminded of what irritates me the most as well.
So, back to my ADD. The official diagnosis has explained a great deal and it has left me in a tailspin. While I understand Jake a LOT more now, I am also at a loss as to what this means for my children, collectively speaking. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if my children would be more successful in all of their endeavors with a mother that was more organized, kinder, not as impulsive, one who grocery shops. Jake just went to the refrigerator, looked inside, and yelled, "Why are there no dranks?" "There is only Ketchup and Maple Syrup." Then Tim said, "There's Margarita Mix" so Jake grabbed and swallowed a huge gulp, then spit it out while Tim laughed. Maybe that's poor parenting on Tim's part, but it was as funny as hell. Maybe that's not ADD related, but social services might come knocking anyway.
So many people have a diagnosis that I can't really throw myself a pity party; that's not my purpose here anyway, but lately, I haven't been feeling like myself. The past six months or so, I've felt different, less motivated, less willing to "try" and I don't know what to attribute it to. I've also felt extraordinarily overwhelmed by everything, so much so, that instead of starting, I just don't do it at all. The therapist suggested making a daily list, but every time I look at the list, my heart starts to race and I feel overwhelmed again. So, I continue to deal with missed appointments, stacks of paper lying around the house, laundry that gets washed three times before it goes in the dryer because I can't remember if I washed it for the first time, no groceries in the house, split tires on my car and a deep seeded lack of drive to complete the things that are most, or have been, most important in my life up until now. I feel exhausted and sad, deeply at risk so to speak. I know it's not "ADD," that, truly, it is a process of looking at the big picture and taking in the things that make me happy and that make me sad, of accepting "the things that I cannot change," but ultimately, it's about recognizing that for which I am most grateful and maybe all that can be said is that I am as fucked up as the next person.
My students asked me the other day if they could make a video with me doing the Harlem Shake and, after they explained what it is, I said, "Sure." I'm positive that it will show up on Youtube any day now. If it does, remember that I disclosed my diagnosis and I plead "Couldn't remember" when I actually took it on and agreed.
The therapist has a sign above his bookshelf that reads, "The best thing that a father can do for his children is to love their mother." Maybe it should be simpler, "The best thing that a mother can do for her children is to love herself." And, to put a quarter in the swear jar...
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