I grew up moving a lot, and many of those years were spent in small towns. But I was born in Washington D.C., and I've lived the last twenty years in Houston. Sometimes I forget what small town is like. I reminded myself today.
It started two days ago when Katie came into my room asking - with absolutely no expectation I would say yes - if I would drive her to Cleburne, TX for a theatre workshop being taught by someone from Glee. With the world reduced to everyone being virtual neighbors, I find she is chatting with people all over the world through Twitter and other social networks. It's both frightening and fascinating to me. I spend so much time telling my kids "no" that it felt good to say, "why not." I'm on vacation, and I used to do spur of the moment things all the time. Being a mom who works, I rarely get to have unplanned fun.
So, we hit the road yesterday afternoon, just the three of us. Elizabeth had her copy of The Hunger Games and her itouch - we barely heard from her all four hours of the ride. I had forgotten how nice it can be to drive through the hill country when you're not in a hurry. Night fell as we rolled down a small state highway, and each town had a central square with a big Christmas tree still lit.
We got to Cleburne late last night, and spent the night in a Comfort Inn - much like every other Comfort Inn I've stayed in over the years. The owner was friendly, so friendly my girls wondered why it took me so long to check in. It was a recurrent theme - everywhere we stopped, things seemed to take longer, and everyone wanted to stop and talk. The exception was last night's dinner, in a small Mexican restaurant recommended by the hotel clerk. At 9:05 we were still eating and we were the only patrons left - Katie said that the waitress and host were chatting in Spanish about how long they thought we'd be, and whether or not they would get home by ten. Oops. I forgot about that part of not being in the city as well - things close down earlier.
After dropping Katie off at her workshop, I was even a little more confused. As thrilled as I was for her, that she was - well, not singing on Glee, but singing with a Warbler, from Glee; about as close as she was going to get - well, I was a little confused. This was a theatre academy for a tiny town, and a miniscule theatre. This was a television and Broadway performer and his wife whose latest project was with Brad Pitt. Why in Cleburne for about 18 kids? I found out later the guy's mom was part owner...ah, it begins to make more sense. And he got his start in that theatre. More sense again. And he'd grown up there - even more. I forgot, if you grow up in a small town, you can't wait to get out. But for most, it's still home and there's a sense of loyalty as well. A good thing, especially in the world we inhabit.
So, Elizabeth and I had a good chunk of the day to kill. I didn't want to get involved in the pre-New Year's traffic around Dallas, so we stuck with Cleburne. Drove the length of it...didn't take long. Got out and walked the length...didn't take much longer. I found there was a historical museum in the old library, so we went. First floor of the old library is filled with one man's private collection. He must have had QUITE a life, if that was his personal collection - dinosaur footprint, mammoth tusk, Kachina dolls, Kit Carson's saddle, General Cleburne's gun, turn of the century clothing, Civil War luggage - you name it, it was crammed on this one floor. Now those who know me know that I'm a history geek, and all it takes are a few artifacts and I'm content just reading and looking. I couldn't speak for hours after I left the tower of London, I had walked on so many pieces of history. This was...well...not the Tower of London, but still full of the history of lives. And there were photographs of the lives represented, letters that had been saved. In one case, there was a letter from a woman in World War 1, saying her son was missing in action and asking her cousins to pray, next to it was the notice of his death, his service photo, and a picture from his funeral. See, you can read all about wars, but until you see the lives touched by war, no one really gets it. The most touching piece was a Civil War Confederate uniform - with a picture of the local man who had worn it, as well as a picture of his wife who had spun, woven and sewn that uniform. He wore it home, only to die from his wounds two days later. I could still see the bullet hole in his jacket. Absolutely amazing.
And more amazing were the two older ladies working in the museum. They're volunteers, not paid, and have lived in Cleburne their entire lives. They hold the true history of the museum, and of the town. They were more than happy to talk - about the museum, the Layland family who donated all the items, about Christmas and Cleburne, and how hard it is to keep up with all the grant paperwork that was due by January 1st. They were in no hurry and happy to talk, to have visitors from outside of town.
After the museum, Elizabeth walked with me into a large antique store. We were greeted at the door by a growling and yipping dog the size of a large hamster. He went from growling to begging when he saw Elizabeth - she has this affect on animals. We were greeted by the owner, who asked us to excuse her son - who had just blown past us - as he wasn't much help and who knew where he thought he was going now (her words, not mine). Linda, who I felt I should have called Miss Linda out of respect, was a good deal older than my mother. She told me she had bought this business in 1981, when her husband passed of the cancer, because she needed something to keep her busy. Now she spends her days, one more piece of the past, crammed in among thousands of other items. What I managed to check out brought back many pieces of the past to me - dishes with the same pattern my grandmother had had, a travel case from the 1960's like my cousin, who was a stewardess, used to carry. Hairdryers from the 1960's, glassware like everyone's grandmother has at home, brassware, baby grand pianos, collector Coca Cola glasses, quilts. It was all thrown into the shop together, with no rhyme or reason. Linda came and found me digging through a pile of coasters, to ask me to fasten a chain of a necklace for her, because her fingers couldn't manage anymore. I did so and she told me that she'd meant to put some of her old jewelry out for sale, but decided to keep this fun piece. It was a beautiful necklace, worthy of a debutante, but didn't go so well with her turtleneck. I kept that thought to myself. Linda repeated herself a lot, and by her own admission was having trouble remembering things these days. She also said how tax laws had changed and she didn't understand all of it, but that she was going to lose half her business this coming year, because she owed money she didn't know she owed. I didn't get to look through even half of the interesting items in Linda's store, because - really - she just wanted someone she could talk with.
We crossed the street and looked through a tiny boutique that boasted salon as well, which turned out to be in the back. It was truly a full-service stop - they sell jewelry, do hair and nails, give pedicures, and have a full massage program. Elizabeth got her nails done while she was there - black with blue glitter. Me, I felt somewhat like I had drifted into an upscale version of Truvy's in Steel Magnolias. I was offered a drink, which I turned down the first time, but accepted a diet Dr. Pepper the second time through. They also offered us food, as the owner also owns two of the restaurants in town. As one of the stylists said, "no one leaves us hungry." Their regular customers sat in upscale chairs looking into wrought iron edged mirrors, sipping cokes and gossiping. One older lady was trying to walk one of the stylists through finding a picture in google, so they could style her hair to match. No lie, it was from the cover of 1952 movie. Another customer walked in and asked if the ipad being used was the stylist's Christmas present, and she replied, "oh, heck no, I got a leaf blower." Another one said, "that's better than me." Through it all, the ladies in the salon asked Elizabeth about her school, and asked both of us why we were in town. I felt like a novelty.
No one was in a hurry. Everyone had time to talk, on this day before a holiday. Everyone was still in a Christmas spirit, and there was a pace of life that just felt different. Now, don't think this means I'm ready to throw away where I live and move to small town Texas. Not even close, but it's good to visit, to find things that are out of the way, and remind myself of the parts of other lives I do like. Some qualities I need to nurture in my own life. Leaving the planned path and doing something different is good for all of us. Katie was ecstatic when I picked her up, and Elizabeth and I had an adventure of our own in the small town. Still, it's good to be home in my own bed tonight....
Friday, December 30, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Geekdom and Other Reasons My Kids Need Counseling
Spring Break is drawing to a close, and it's been a nice week. I was overjoyed to start the week celebrating 3.14 - Pi Day to those who don't recognize it. It's a double celebration, because that day also happens to be Albert Einstein's birthday. I feel it is my duty to celebrate all things round and brilliant on that day. My kids humor me, because the torture is just that much worse if they fight the tide. Katie got into the spirit by making a festive "Happy Pi Day" banner for the dining room. Elizabeth drew circles on the driveway and blew bubbles. We had quiche and chocolate pie for dinner - which we didn't eat until the area and volume had been calculated. It was good fun.
So, it was just a couple of days later when they asked me if I had always been this big of a geek. Sadly, the answer is, "no." I was a closet geek in high school. I balanced the A+ test grades by not doing homework. I pretended to be irritated when my boyfriend wanted to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, instead of making out, and told him I only tolerated it because Wesley Crusher was cute. But, in truth, I enjoyed it. I partied with my friends, and told no one that I liked writing poetry and enjoyed playing Dungeons and Dragons. Serious closet geek. I was much older before I realized the true joy in my geeky friends - they knew what they liked and didn't give a darn how other people felt about it. I married a geek. Every guy I dated before him was a geek. I should have realized when I spent Halloween my 17th year, in a graveyard, taking pictures with infrared film. Cute classmate was just an excuse - the pictures were awesome. Photoshop has nothing on properly handled infrared film.
So, if I have advice to my daughter, who worries sometimes about being on the outs, it would be to let the "geek flag" fly...everyone her age is floundering for who they are. At least embracing your differences frees you up to enjoy the moment. Second word of advice - embrace the inner geek, but dress the outer geek with style and grace. People still form opinions based on what they see in the first few minutes. Third piece of advice, whether you are solving complex equations, writing poetry, beating a high score on xbox, tap dancing, or singing opera - OWN your art...geek and all. Whatever your interest, embrace and and find what makes you passionate. Oh yeah, and back to advice #2 - try to look nice while you do it. Really, there's a fine line between geek at heart and geek with pocket protector. Don't cross the line.
So, my kids are going back to school on Monday. They'll embrace history papers and Shakespeare, and well...maybe they won't embrace Shakespeare, but they'll accept it as a fact of life. Pi Day is behind us for another 360 days, and already I'm planning ahead. The good news - Katie told me that we can celebrate 22/7 day on July 22nd....22/7 is a nome de plume for Pi, you know. And she cared enough to point it out to me.
Embrace your inner geek. And hug the geeks closest to your heart.
So, it was just a couple of days later when they asked me if I had always been this big of a geek. Sadly, the answer is, "no." I was a closet geek in high school. I balanced the A+ test grades by not doing homework. I pretended to be irritated when my boyfriend wanted to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, instead of making out, and told him I only tolerated it because Wesley Crusher was cute. But, in truth, I enjoyed it. I partied with my friends, and told no one that I liked writing poetry and enjoyed playing Dungeons and Dragons. Serious closet geek. I was much older before I realized the true joy in my geeky friends - they knew what they liked and didn't give a darn how other people felt about it. I married a geek. Every guy I dated before him was a geek. I should have realized when I spent Halloween my 17th year, in a graveyard, taking pictures with infrared film. Cute classmate was just an excuse - the pictures were awesome. Photoshop has nothing on properly handled infrared film.
So, if I have advice to my daughter, who worries sometimes about being on the outs, it would be to let the "geek flag" fly...everyone her age is floundering for who they are. At least embracing your differences frees you up to enjoy the moment. Second word of advice - embrace the inner geek, but dress the outer geek with style and grace. People still form opinions based on what they see in the first few minutes. Third piece of advice, whether you are solving complex equations, writing poetry, beating a high score on xbox, tap dancing, or singing opera - OWN your art...geek and all. Whatever your interest, embrace and and find what makes you passionate. Oh yeah, and back to advice #2 - try to look nice while you do it. Really, there's a fine line between geek at heart and geek with pocket protector. Don't cross the line.
So, my kids are going back to school on Monday. They'll embrace history papers and Shakespeare, and well...maybe they won't embrace Shakespeare, but they'll accept it as a fact of life. Pi Day is behind us for another 360 days, and already I'm planning ahead. The good news - Katie told me that we can celebrate 22/7 day on July 22nd....22/7 is a nome de plume for Pi, you know. And she cared enough to point it out to me.
Embrace your inner geek. And hug the geeks closest to your heart.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
If At First You Don't Succeed....Pick Your Butt Up Off the Floor and Do It Again
Tonight I watched my oldest daughter struggle through something new. Her regular dance class was canceled, so she tried out an adult contemporary class down the street. She's never danced contemporary. She is twelve - the youngest age allowed in the studio in the evenings. And somehow she was shocked that it wasn't an automatic success. I didn't stay for the whole class, because I knew she was self-conscious enough, but what I saw didn't look so bad to me. She mostly kept up, and some of her lines looked quite nice. Contemporary is nothing like ballet, nothing like jazz, and on a different planet from tap. She was learning new lingo, new combinations, and new ways of holding her body - to an eight count that moved at a speed faster than middle school gossip. In other words, it was hard. Katie doesn't like hard. Or rather, she doesn't like hard when anyone else is watching.
One of my daughter's teachers recently told me that she thinks Katie might be afraid to make mistakes. Hmm...noticed that, did she? Well, not so much afraid to make them, but afraid that someone else might notice. I'm not a soft-sell kind of mom - I'm not afraid to say, "you're not perfect, big deal, move on." But really, how DO you teach persistence? I worry that, because so many things have come quickly and easily to my eldest child, she won't see the value in working for the things that don't come as easy.
I admit that I am guilty of the same so many times in my life. But it's gotten easier since I've had my girls - for once, I am held accountable, because their eyes notice everything. When I was thirty years old, I had an expired driver's license. I had to retake my driver's test, in my own car, with my own kids in tow. And I failed. Miserably failed, at parallel parking. I was absolutely horrified. I wanted nothing so much as to go home and get into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. As an adult, I had failed at a basic life skill, and my kids had seen me do it. One of the hardest things I've done in my adult life was to go back to the DPS office that next morning, and do it all over again. I passed...barely...I think they felt sorry for me. Now I drive an SUV...and I really can't parallel park the thing. I get through life just fine without that skill. Admitting that I'm bad at it hasn't killed me.
Growing up, I had a love/hate relationship with my piano. I loved the idea of playing, and I was pretty good at what I knew....but I didn't much care for the time and the learning curve. No way to learn to play an instrument without making a whole lot of mistakes.
Making mistakes is an art. Learning from them is real intelligence. See, I figure if I make a mistake once, I'm pretty smart - because I have an opportunity to learn something. If I keep making the same mistake, however, then I must be pretty dumb. Sometimes I'm dumber than dirt, because I repeat those mistakes again and again.
And some of the proudest moments in my life have come from the little things that were hard won, after lots of mistakes, and picking myself up painfully and doing it all over again. Generally these were things that were worthwhile.
So, Katie tried two new things this week. She took a self-defense course last night, and she kicked some serious butt (and I have the bruises to prove it). And she tried a new style of dance, and she's not sure that she wants to go back. But I've seen how happy she is when she dances, and I think it's worth a little pain and maybe some embarrassment on her part, if she gets half as excited about it as she did the first time she got the hang of sweeps or twelve-steps in tap (yeah, I don't really know what those are either, but it sounded neat).
When my kids tell me something is hard, I say, "awesome." Something to view as a goal. Something to sweat over, and a sense of accomplishment looming in their future. You can sit on your butt and watch the world go by, or you can get up and dance again. I prefer to dance. Well...figuratively, anyway.
One of my daughter's teachers recently told me that she thinks Katie might be afraid to make mistakes. Hmm...noticed that, did she? Well, not so much afraid to make them, but afraid that someone else might notice. I'm not a soft-sell kind of mom - I'm not afraid to say, "you're not perfect, big deal, move on." But really, how DO you teach persistence? I worry that, because so many things have come quickly and easily to my eldest child, she won't see the value in working for the things that don't come as easy.
I admit that I am guilty of the same so many times in my life. But it's gotten easier since I've had my girls - for once, I am held accountable, because their eyes notice everything. When I was thirty years old, I had an expired driver's license. I had to retake my driver's test, in my own car, with my own kids in tow. And I failed. Miserably failed, at parallel parking. I was absolutely horrified. I wanted nothing so much as to go home and get into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. As an adult, I had failed at a basic life skill, and my kids had seen me do it. One of the hardest things I've done in my adult life was to go back to the DPS office that next morning, and do it all over again. I passed...barely...I think they felt sorry for me. Now I drive an SUV...and I really can't parallel park the thing. I get through life just fine without that skill. Admitting that I'm bad at it hasn't killed me.
Growing up, I had a love/hate relationship with my piano. I loved the idea of playing, and I was pretty good at what I knew....but I didn't much care for the time and the learning curve. No way to learn to play an instrument without making a whole lot of mistakes.
Making mistakes is an art. Learning from them is real intelligence. See, I figure if I make a mistake once, I'm pretty smart - because I have an opportunity to learn something. If I keep making the same mistake, however, then I must be pretty dumb. Sometimes I'm dumber than dirt, because I repeat those mistakes again and again.
And some of the proudest moments in my life have come from the little things that were hard won, after lots of mistakes, and picking myself up painfully and doing it all over again. Generally these were things that were worthwhile.
- riding a bike
- rollerblading
- knitting
- playing instruments
- swing dancing
- baking a souffle
- casting clay on a wheel
So, Katie tried two new things this week. She took a self-defense course last night, and she kicked some serious butt (and I have the bruises to prove it). And she tried a new style of dance, and she's not sure that she wants to go back. But I've seen how happy she is when she dances, and I think it's worth a little pain and maybe some embarrassment on her part, if she gets half as excited about it as she did the first time she got the hang of sweeps or twelve-steps in tap (yeah, I don't really know what those are either, but it sounded neat).
When my kids tell me something is hard, I say, "awesome." Something to view as a goal. Something to sweat over, and a sense of accomplishment looming in their future. You can sit on your butt and watch the world go by, or you can get up and dance again. I prefer to dance. Well...figuratively, anyway.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Barbie's Dream House, Perky Plastic Boobs, and Other Fantasies
My quick run to the grocery store tonight turned into an hour - fifteen minutes to find what I wanted, and more than thirty minutes waiting in line. I had plenty of time to look through my purse, people watch, file my nails, rotate my tires, whatever....and I ended up reading the covers on the magazines at the check out stand. I never buy those, because, well....they're too fluffy even for me. But I like to read the headlines...who are these articles addressing? All of them are aimed women, or at least at the women we're supposed to want to be. Sixteen different magazines, and all the featured articles were aimed at four basic female interest groups: weight loss, how to be better in bed, what celebrity was breaking up/getting together/having kids/adopting kids/buying a house/selling a house, and how to get rid of cellulite. According to the newstand, cellulite is the new cold war era Russia - quietly creeping into our society in droves, and preparing to wreck homes and marriages across the country if we don't all fight it with beauty products and Thighmasters.
The so-called women's magazines at the checkout had hints for matching my haircut to my face, how to buy fashion shoes on a budget, and a million and one low-fat recipes for lasagna (which is not meant to be low-fat, just save it for special occasions...). Or, maybe if I just stay away from the lasagna, I wouldn't NEED the Thighmaster. Not one of the magazine covers elaborated on why I spent nearly $60 to fill up my gas tank this morning, or what's going on in the world of astralphysics, or about cancer research, the troops in the Gulf, or any one of a million questions that would cross my mind before I'd worry about what fashion don't Vanessa Hudgins committed last week.
Now, I'm not saying that all magazines are fluff, but that's what is sitting at the check out stand. Because women do most of the grocery shopping, and fluff is what is sitting there waiting for us to make our impulse purchases. I never see Mensa puzzles at the check out stand.
Again, who buys this crap? I'm sure in the perfect world of Barbie and Ken, this is all a women needs to feel fulfilled. Me, I'm a little more pessimistic. First of all, my dream house doesn't clean itself, and unlike the Barbie version, mine has a toilet. That doesn't clean itself either. My thighs aren't plastic perfection, and ok, yes, they've got a little bit of cellulite. In fact, according to a three year old, I should work out more because my leg tops are getting just a little bit jiggly. Wait, I'm pretty sure I saw an article on that this evening....
See, I'm raising two girls of my own, and I don't want them to grow up in a world where they think that thirty days to thinner thighs is a high reaching goal, or that they should care too much about what the plastic people in Hollywood are doing in their dream house lives. Barbie never had kids to worry about influencing. Of course she didn't, since Ken was never anatomically correct. Maybe she should have hooked up with GI Joe instead, but of course, in the Barbie world, war doesn't fit one of women's four basic areas of interest. So, no soldier boys for Barbie the Banal.
Don't get me wrong, I grew up on Barbie, and I loved her little plastic world. I loved her dreamhouse, and loved playing dress up - especially the little pink, impossibly high heels. But I knew the difference - I wanted to play with Barbie, not be her. Well, OK, I might have wanted the pink convertible. There's a reason why they named it her DREAM house, and her DREAM wedding, and her DREAM yacht....they're fantasies.
In my fantasy, Barbie has a kick-ass career and Ken stays home with the kids. The back rooms in the dream house are looking a little worn, because Ken can never manage to get the crayon off the walls or the bubble gum off the pink sofa. My fantasy Barbie likes walking barefoot and finally manages to walk on flat feet, instead of on her tip toes.
In my fantasy magazine rack, I find helpful information, and things that women really want to know. The top ten places to vacation with kids, without scary sized cartoon characters, gimmicky theme rides or exploited animals. How to talk tech with your auto mechanic, so you don't get fleeced. How to juggle kids, a job, and grad school. How about why you should keep in touch with friends, and how sad you'll be in later life if you don't. How about real issues for women - forget fad diets, how about someone writing about what it's like to try and maintain a healthy lifestyle with no time, no money and no energy.
In my fantasy, those marketing at our impulse to buy shiny magazines will look beyond the two dimensional people on the pages, and realize we're real human beings with complex thoughts and better ways to spend our time - even in an endless check out line. Next time, I'm bringing a book.
The so-called women's magazines at the checkout had hints for matching my haircut to my face, how to buy fashion shoes on a budget, and a million and one low-fat recipes for lasagna (which is not meant to be low-fat, just save it for special occasions...). Or, maybe if I just stay away from the lasagna, I wouldn't NEED the Thighmaster. Not one of the magazine covers elaborated on why I spent nearly $60 to fill up my gas tank this morning, or what's going on in the world of astralphysics, or about cancer research, the troops in the Gulf, or any one of a million questions that would cross my mind before I'd worry about what fashion don't Vanessa Hudgins committed last week.
Now, I'm not saying that all magazines are fluff, but that's what is sitting at the check out stand. Because women do most of the grocery shopping, and fluff is what is sitting there waiting for us to make our impulse purchases. I never see Mensa puzzles at the check out stand.
Again, who buys this crap? I'm sure in the perfect world of Barbie and Ken, this is all a women needs to feel fulfilled. Me, I'm a little more pessimistic. First of all, my dream house doesn't clean itself, and unlike the Barbie version, mine has a toilet. That doesn't clean itself either. My thighs aren't plastic perfection, and ok, yes, they've got a little bit of cellulite. In fact, according to a three year old, I should work out more because my leg tops are getting just a little bit jiggly. Wait, I'm pretty sure I saw an article on that this evening....
See, I'm raising two girls of my own, and I don't want them to grow up in a world where they think that thirty days to thinner thighs is a high reaching goal, or that they should care too much about what the plastic people in Hollywood are doing in their dream house lives. Barbie never had kids to worry about influencing. Of course she didn't, since Ken was never anatomically correct. Maybe she should have hooked up with GI Joe instead, but of course, in the Barbie world, war doesn't fit one of women's four basic areas of interest. So, no soldier boys for Barbie the Banal.
Don't get me wrong, I grew up on Barbie, and I loved her little plastic world. I loved her dreamhouse, and loved playing dress up - especially the little pink, impossibly high heels. But I knew the difference - I wanted to play with Barbie, not be her. Well, OK, I might have wanted the pink convertible. There's a reason why they named it her DREAM house, and her DREAM wedding, and her DREAM yacht....they're fantasies.
In my fantasy, Barbie has a kick-ass career and Ken stays home with the kids. The back rooms in the dream house are looking a little worn, because Ken can never manage to get the crayon off the walls or the bubble gum off the pink sofa. My fantasy Barbie likes walking barefoot and finally manages to walk on flat feet, instead of on her tip toes.
In my fantasy magazine rack, I find helpful information, and things that women really want to know. The top ten places to vacation with kids, without scary sized cartoon characters, gimmicky theme rides or exploited animals. How to talk tech with your auto mechanic, so you don't get fleeced. How to juggle kids, a job, and grad school. How about why you should keep in touch with friends, and how sad you'll be in later life if you don't. How about real issues for women - forget fad diets, how about someone writing about what it's like to try and maintain a healthy lifestyle with no time, no money and no energy.
In my fantasy, those marketing at our impulse to buy shiny magazines will look beyond the two dimensional people on the pages, and realize we're real human beings with complex thoughts and better ways to spend our time - even in an endless check out line. Next time, I'm bringing a book.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Feels Like Home
I spent the whole day at home today, in my pajamas, and I'm not even sick. Try that on for size. I read once that, "home is the place they have to take you back, when you have nowhere else to go." Right now, home is the place where (generally) I go to shower and collapse for a few hours before the next flurry of activity. My particular home is small and messy, and when I'm not in it for long periods of time, I tend to not notice just how messy it really is. I prefer to blame the cats partying while I'm out than to think I'm just careless when I'm tired.
When I first married and moved to Houston, "home" was still back East. Home was still my parents' home. Home growing up was often wherever I was at the time - because we never stayed there for very long. Home base was Washington DC, because my family inevitably moved back to that area, like homing pigeons coming back to roost, before venturing out again. Home might have been a house, an apartment, a hotel room, or a townhouse. Within our dwelling, home was my bedroom - no matter where it was at the time. Home was where I kept my stuff. Home base was the old brown, oversized couch covered in plushy velour. Home smelled like my mom's burned cooking and my dad's Aquavelva.
Going home to visit after I moved out of my parents' house had mixed feelings. Nostalgic senses enjoyed that the same smells were there, the same throw pillows on the couch, the same figurines on the shelves. But the same tension and fighting were there at home, so it felt good to return to my new home and my new life, just the same.
Home now is the house where we live, but it's also wherever my children might be. Just as always, home is rooted to my family. I started to say it wouldn't matter if we lived in a cardboard box, but I'm not quite that altruistic. It would matter. But, yeah, it doesn't matter where we call home so much, as that home is when we are together. Home is supposed to equal safe, comfortable, warm.
So, what is home now? I've spent the whole day here, doing nothing but small chores and enjoying not getting in my car. So, home:
When I first married and moved to Houston, "home" was still back East. Home was still my parents' home. Home growing up was often wherever I was at the time - because we never stayed there for very long. Home base was Washington DC, because my family inevitably moved back to that area, like homing pigeons coming back to roost, before venturing out again. Home might have been a house, an apartment, a hotel room, or a townhouse. Within our dwelling, home was my bedroom - no matter where it was at the time. Home was where I kept my stuff. Home base was the old brown, oversized couch covered in plushy velour. Home smelled like my mom's burned cooking and my dad's Aquavelva.
Going home to visit after I moved out of my parents' house had mixed feelings. Nostalgic senses enjoyed that the same smells were there, the same throw pillows on the couch, the same figurines on the shelves. But the same tension and fighting were there at home, so it felt good to return to my new home and my new life, just the same.
Home now is the house where we live, but it's also wherever my children might be. Just as always, home is rooted to my family. I started to say it wouldn't matter if we lived in a cardboard box, but I'm not quite that altruistic. It would matter. But, yeah, it doesn't matter where we call home so much, as that home is when we are together. Home is supposed to equal safe, comfortable, warm.
So, what is home now? I've spent the whole day here, doing nothing but small chores and enjoying not getting in my car. So, home:
- Home is where I can go barefoot all the time
- Home is where I can sing outloud and not worry what anyone thinks (oh, Katie comments, but I don't pay attention to her)
- Home is where I can drop polite at the door and generally say exactly what I'm thinking
- Home is where I can wear the ratty old nightgown that feels so nice
- Home is where I can take long baths
- Home is where I keep my kitties
- Home is where I can lie in bed and do absolutely nothing for a while
- Home is where I can rollerblade in the driveway
- Home is where my family can roll around in the grass
- Home is where I can shriek like a girl when a Texas size roach gets inside
- Home is where I can have my hissy fits
- Home is where I can cry
- Home is where my children still hug me without checking to see who might be looking
- Home is where we still read outloud and snuggle after dinner
- Home is where I can play my harp and no one pays any attention
- Home is where I can leave my stuff in a heap and know it'll be there in the morning, without recriminations
- Home is where I can cuss while I'm cleaning the bathroom
- Home is where I can cuss pretty much any time I feel like it
- Home is where I can drink a second glass of wine and not worry about who is driving home
- Home is where I feel a sense of pride when I DO have the bathroom clean and neat
- Home is where I can ignore the phone, my e-mail, and any knocks at the door
- Home is better than Calgon. Better than any vacation. Home is better than chocolate.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The Best Medicine
So, tonight I got downright stupid with laughter, for no apparent reason. I mean, there was a reason, but it was just a dumb joke...it involved smurfs, a misunderstanding...and it resulted in my having an attack of laughter that scared my oldest daughter. The hysterical kind of laughter you can't stop - maniacal, hysterical, holding your stomach because it hurts, tears streaming down your face and snot coming out of your nose kind of laughter. Katie didn't understand what was so funny. Neither did I, really. What made me laugh to start, doesn't really matter. I must have needed that, and with every whooping breath, I just started all over again, completely helpless to spasms of mirth. For a while I started to wonder if you could be humored to death. But then, it ended, as suddenly as it had started, leaving my daughter more bewildered than before it had begun.
Afterward, I was breathless and dizzy, and feeling better than I have in days. It's been a long couple of weeks around here. I've been sick and I've been stressed. What started as a small but irritating cold evolved into an annoying and lingering case of bronchitis. I've coughed at work, I've coughed at home, I have coughed in my sleep - until I have broken blood vessels in my face, my ribs hurt, and I have thrown up from coughing. It has, in the words of my daughter, sucked. There is never a good time to get sick, but I really couldn't afford it right now. Information for summer brochures is due and I need to get proof reading. Employees at work are sick, and I am needed to cover for them. I was strong armed into being a Girl Scout cookie mom, and I was needed to taxi cookies around town. No time to sit around and cough....and not much time to feel sorry for myself.
So, I've just sort of plowed on this week, trying to ignore the coughing and getting grumpier and grumpier because I wasn't sleeping at night. After a few nights of next to no sleep, I become less pleasant. My kids will attest to this. My coworkers will quietly second the motion, though perhaps not to my face. Case in point - I went ballistic yesterday because someone forgot to clean up after themselves. It wasn't the end of the world, and it only took me five minutes to correct, but it followed a scare involving someone else's child, and was the straw that broke my camel's back....and I took it out on hapless dishes and, well, maybe a loaf of french bread that got in my way might have accidentally been bludgeoned twenty or thirty times, with a pitcher that had been left out....it's all a blur, and I'm sticking to that story.
When I got home last night, I realized that we were out of diet coke...anyone who knows me knows this is not good, anyone who knows me and saw the place where I was last night knows that this was an omen of ugly to come....I went back out to the store to buy caffeine magic in a bottle, and picked up something for the kids to eat, because I was NOT cooking at that point....and I sat in the parking lot and cried - really bawled - for absolutely no good reason. And it didn't help at all....didn't make me feel any better.
I worked all day today with a stiff neck and a small grey cloud hanging over my head, for no one reason. Katie was studying for a science test last night and wrangled me into quizzing her...so I had the terms point-source and non-point-source pollution buzzing around in my brain. It was a non-point source pollution kind of day - no one clear cause, they just all got together and wrecked my day and soured my attitude.
It was with that same attitude, I climbed into my car and headed home...still not in a good mood, but at least with caffeine to hand, should I require it.
So, when I started my crazy lady laughter tonight, I'm sure Katie really did think that I was losing it for good this time. It probably looked even nuttier than it seemed from my point of view, and yet I felt better, and I felt relaxed, when the laughter had finally died off. I will never be able to understand all the mysteries of how our human brains work, or how God might have designed us to work in these strange ways, but I fully believe this was my own body saving me from a massive stress break. I was at a point earlier today, for no one single reason, that I couldn't have coped with even one more thing. My whole body was wound as tight as a human being can get. Who would have thought - laughter, xanax for the terminally type-A. A whole lot cheaper than a massage and a lot easier to come by than pharmaceuticals. No prescription required. My body, and maybe some higher power, knew what I needed better than I did.
They say that laughter is the best medicine. OK. Lesson learned - lighten up. See, every day I get a little bit less dumb....I figure I've got a lot of life left before me, as these lessons don't come easy to the hard headed.
For those who are feeling a little stressed themselves, give me a call, I'll tell you the joke about the smurf.
Afterward, I was breathless and dizzy, and feeling better than I have in days. It's been a long couple of weeks around here. I've been sick and I've been stressed. What started as a small but irritating cold evolved into an annoying and lingering case of bronchitis. I've coughed at work, I've coughed at home, I have coughed in my sleep - until I have broken blood vessels in my face, my ribs hurt, and I have thrown up from coughing. It has, in the words of my daughter, sucked. There is never a good time to get sick, but I really couldn't afford it right now. Information for summer brochures is due and I need to get proof reading. Employees at work are sick, and I am needed to cover for them. I was strong armed into being a Girl Scout cookie mom, and I was needed to taxi cookies around town. No time to sit around and cough....and not much time to feel sorry for myself.
So, I've just sort of plowed on this week, trying to ignore the coughing and getting grumpier and grumpier because I wasn't sleeping at night. After a few nights of next to no sleep, I become less pleasant. My kids will attest to this. My coworkers will quietly second the motion, though perhaps not to my face. Case in point - I went ballistic yesterday because someone forgot to clean up after themselves. It wasn't the end of the world, and it only took me five minutes to correct, but it followed a scare involving someone else's child, and was the straw that broke my camel's back....and I took it out on hapless dishes and, well, maybe a loaf of french bread that got in my way might have accidentally been bludgeoned twenty or thirty times, with a pitcher that had been left out....it's all a blur, and I'm sticking to that story.
When I got home last night, I realized that we were out of diet coke...anyone who knows me knows this is not good, anyone who knows me and saw the place where I was last night knows that this was an omen of ugly to come....I went back out to the store to buy caffeine magic in a bottle, and picked up something for the kids to eat, because I was NOT cooking at that point....and I sat in the parking lot and cried - really bawled - for absolutely no good reason. And it didn't help at all....didn't make me feel any better.
I worked all day today with a stiff neck and a small grey cloud hanging over my head, for no one reason. Katie was studying for a science test last night and wrangled me into quizzing her...so I had the terms point-source and non-point-source pollution buzzing around in my brain. It was a non-point source pollution kind of day - no one clear cause, they just all got together and wrecked my day and soured my attitude.
It was with that same attitude, I climbed into my car and headed home...still not in a good mood, but at least with caffeine to hand, should I require it.
So, when I started my crazy lady laughter tonight, I'm sure Katie really did think that I was losing it for good this time. It probably looked even nuttier than it seemed from my point of view, and yet I felt better, and I felt relaxed, when the laughter had finally died off. I will never be able to understand all the mysteries of how our human brains work, or how God might have designed us to work in these strange ways, but I fully believe this was my own body saving me from a massive stress break. I was at a point earlier today, for no one single reason, that I couldn't have coped with even one more thing. My whole body was wound as tight as a human being can get. Who would have thought - laughter, xanax for the terminally type-A. A whole lot cheaper than a massage and a lot easier to come by than pharmaceuticals. No prescription required. My body, and maybe some higher power, knew what I needed better than I did.
They say that laughter is the best medicine. OK. Lesson learned - lighten up. See, every day I get a little bit less dumb....I figure I've got a lot of life left before me, as these lessons don't come easy to the hard headed.
For those who are feeling a little stressed themselves, give me a call, I'll tell you the joke about the smurf.
Monday, January 3, 2011
On Being Human - and a woman
Why do we, as a gender, think so little of ourselves? That might sound like such a pessimistic statement, but I really think that women in general have conditioned ourselves to do much and expect little in return. Some days I feel like I'm running a race - the lady who finishes with the most accomplishments, wearing the cleanest heels and pearls, and does it with the least amount of sleep or real food...wins. I'm not sure what we win, besides a few more wrinkles and maybe some hammer toes. We've been conditioned to believe that being a good wife and mother, and female in general, means to be nurturing and taking care of anyone and everyone, except ourselves. I have come to realize that I feel guilty if I sleep more than a few hours a night. Read that again - I feel GUILTY for being human.
I'm lying like a beached beluga across my bed, as I type this, thinking about where I might have picked up this idea that I should martyr myself for cleaner carpets, and wondering when it all started. The June Cleaver ideal was born out of the post World War II Cold War fear, when being a good American meant fighting communism with apple pie and 409 - the more domesticated the household, the less red your family. Along came the 60's and 70's, and women wanted to show that they could do anything men could do. The problem was that we weren't stepping out on equal ground, because we just took on more. Women showed they could work as hard as men, but kept up all the traditional maternal roles as well. It's not like our pioneering ancestors worked any less, but now women are recognized in the work place. But while men look on in awe at times, and yes I believe they often do, we don't see the value in ourselves.
I've been left a double legacy - I'm a female, and I come from hard working parents. My father's work ethic is stronger than just about anyone I've ever met, and he instilled that into his children. I'm the younger sibling of a drama queen of a brother, and I am expected to be stoic. I succeed a lot of the time...to the point where I have ignored illnesses, pain, fever, and physical exhaustion, because I didn't want to be 'weak." I am driven by a need to be right, all the time, and to do the right thing, whether it's what is best for me personally, or not. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, but when a friend recently asked me if I would want to see my children living at the same pace that I do...my answer was, "not really." Except...they're already starting down that path. I feel like I am failing them as a role model sometimes.
I am not Martha Stewart. My house is going to get dirty. I have a whole family who can help me clean it...this is not a disaster. If only I believed that more. I am not Einstein. I am going to be wrong sometimes. This is easier, as no matter how much I want to be right all the time, I never totally believe that I am ever right at all. I am human. I am allowed to be hungry, tired, thirsty, and selfish about having time to myself. It is not wrong to let my kids eat peanut butter and jelly, so I can fit in some exercise. Except I still have a hard time believing that.
So...what keeps us wanna be android women from completely falling apart? Our equally driven and wonderful friends...my friends are my cheerleaders, my therapists, and the women who are strong enough to give me a good slap and tell me to stop acting like a crazy woman. It takes a true friend to tell you that you are having a "no more wire hangers" moment.
I rarely set resolutions for a new year, other than resolving to give my all, as much as I can. This year I am resolving to give myself permission to be a human mess, because I need my children to learn this lesson. I am going to stay in bed the next time I get sick. I am going to read a book instead of doing housework - and not feel guilty (because I already skip housework sometimes, but it makes me feel like I've broken a law). I resolve to make myself laugh when I make a mistake, instead of turning red and looking to see if anyone notices. And, just once, I'm going to oversleep. Well, maybe not...one step at a time.
Oh, yes, and I resolve to tell more of my friends to let the small stuff go - life is too short for us to worry about getting our pearls dirty.
I'm lying like a beached beluga across my bed, as I type this, thinking about where I might have picked up this idea that I should martyr myself for cleaner carpets, and wondering when it all started. The June Cleaver ideal was born out of the post World War II Cold War fear, when being a good American meant fighting communism with apple pie and 409 - the more domesticated the household, the less red your family. Along came the 60's and 70's, and women wanted to show that they could do anything men could do. The problem was that we weren't stepping out on equal ground, because we just took on more. Women showed they could work as hard as men, but kept up all the traditional maternal roles as well. It's not like our pioneering ancestors worked any less, but now women are recognized in the work place. But while men look on in awe at times, and yes I believe they often do, we don't see the value in ourselves.
I've been left a double legacy - I'm a female, and I come from hard working parents. My father's work ethic is stronger than just about anyone I've ever met, and he instilled that into his children. I'm the younger sibling of a drama queen of a brother, and I am expected to be stoic. I succeed a lot of the time...to the point where I have ignored illnesses, pain, fever, and physical exhaustion, because I didn't want to be 'weak." I am driven by a need to be right, all the time, and to do the right thing, whether it's what is best for me personally, or not. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, but when a friend recently asked me if I would want to see my children living at the same pace that I do...my answer was, "not really." Except...they're already starting down that path. I feel like I am failing them as a role model sometimes.
I am not Martha Stewart. My house is going to get dirty. I have a whole family who can help me clean it...this is not a disaster. If only I believed that more. I am not Einstein. I am going to be wrong sometimes. This is easier, as no matter how much I want to be right all the time, I never totally believe that I am ever right at all. I am human. I am allowed to be hungry, tired, thirsty, and selfish about having time to myself. It is not wrong to let my kids eat peanut butter and jelly, so I can fit in some exercise. Except I still have a hard time believing that.
So...what keeps us wanna be android women from completely falling apart? Our equally driven and wonderful friends...my friends are my cheerleaders, my therapists, and the women who are strong enough to give me a good slap and tell me to stop acting like a crazy woman. It takes a true friend to tell you that you are having a "no more wire hangers" moment.
I rarely set resolutions for a new year, other than resolving to give my all, as much as I can. This year I am resolving to give myself permission to be a human mess, because I need my children to learn this lesson. I am going to stay in bed the next time I get sick. I am going to read a book instead of doing housework - and not feel guilty (because I already skip housework sometimes, but it makes me feel like I've broken a law). I resolve to make myself laugh when I make a mistake, instead of turning red and looking to see if anyone notices. And, just once, I'm going to oversleep. Well, maybe not...one step at a time.
Oh, yes, and I resolve to tell more of my friends to let the small stuff go - life is too short for us to worry about getting our pearls dirty.
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