My bestie, Susie, turned 46 yesterday, and I think the idea of aging is beginning to get to her. Okay, really, freak her out a bit. So that, plus my upcoming 41st, has got me thinking about this whole business.
All in all, I don't feel old; I mean, sure my body is a bit creaky and stiff now, and I've had all these fab life experiences that make me a subtly, and sometimes significantly, different person than I was at 21 and 31, but old I do not feel.
For instance, I look in the mirror, and sure, there are those increasing numbers of natural gray highlights, and the occasional new smile line, and the thicker waist, but my psyche is so much healthier now than ever before. I mostly like who I'm becoming. Physically, I think I'm the most beautiful I've ever been (does that sound a bit full of my self? not the intent). Emotionally, I getting closer to finding the place where I'm comfortable. Professionally, I'm beginning to feel some confidence and success in what I do. As a daughter, I'm getting closer to acceptance, and as a mom - jeez, i can't tell you how proud I am of my success in that.
None of these are places I could be without being 40+. So what's the big deal, right?
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
A New Generation
Okay - here's me being a bit judgmental - it's an ugly, but honest, part of who I am.
Does anyone else find something immensely disturbing about filling a baby's bottle with Pepsi? Granted, the kid was more of a toddler than a baby, but, I mean, we are in the midst - possibly only the very beginnings - of an obesity epidemic here in our Grand Old States, and parents, those people who are nearly fully responsible for their child's eating habits, are ensuring that said epidemic won't end with their babies. Insane.
I'm not advocating that every child eat only fresh fruit and whole grains (though, that might be a nice fantasy) just that we use a little forethought, acknowledge in what ways our actions are going to screw up our kid''s futures, and at least try to give them an honest chance at success. Pepsi that they have to suck from a rubber nipple doesn't seem to meet that criteria.
Yowza.
Does anyone else find something immensely disturbing about filling a baby's bottle with Pepsi? Granted, the kid was more of a toddler than a baby, but, I mean, we are in the midst - possibly only the very beginnings - of an obesity epidemic here in our Grand Old States, and parents, those people who are nearly fully responsible for their child's eating habits, are ensuring that said epidemic won't end with their babies. Insane.
I'm not advocating that every child eat only fresh fruit and whole grains (though, that might be a nice fantasy) just that we use a little forethought, acknowledge in what ways our actions are going to screw up our kid''s futures, and at least try to give them an honest chance at success. Pepsi that they have to suck from a rubber nipple doesn't seem to meet that criteria.
Yowza.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Everyone comes from somewhere.
Most of us come from our mom and dad, or at least our mom. But some of us come from somewhere else. Sometimes we know where that somewhere else is - maybe our mother's sister who died young, or even sometimes our parent's daughter - but some of us lucky ones, we get to guess.
I have a birthday - just like my brother does, just like you do - but I also have a Gotcha Day. I came into the world on August 11, 1968, but I came into my family on September 13 that same year - Gotcha Day.
I've heard some stories as to how I came to be - the woman who I came from may have actually been a girl - 16 or so. She may have been from North (or South?) Dakota. She may have had an aunt (or cousin?) in Southeastern Michigan who she stayed with till I got where I was going. The man (or boy?) who helped her make me may have been French Canadian. I may have first been called Ruth.
But, if you know anything about my mom, you know that her words can't be trusted. It's not so much that she lies - I think that to be called a lie, it has to not be believed by the teller. It's more that she thinks something, and then it becomes true - at least for her. So, though Mom has told me these things, the only part I'm certain of is my birthday, and that's only because I have seen my birth certificate.
Mom and Dad have been together a crazy long time. Forty-five years and counting. Seems impossible, not only because of my own shattered marriage, but because I lived with them for a good part of that time and saw a relationship that still baffles me.
Mom is mean to Dad - really mean. They live in a house with pathways - there was never a sale she didn't feel compelled to attack. Dad escapes in a bottle with the TV as his backdrop. But, Dad always gets Mom undies for Christmas - even now. It's just a normal part of our holiday - Mom opens up the box, holds up some increasingly less skimpy and lacy panties for us all to see, and says something like, "Ooh - these are sexy!" He's always patting her on the butt, or telling her how beautiful she is. As I said, I'm baffled.
Andy, my little bro, does not have a Gotcha Day; somehow Mom and Dad managed to get him on their own. He doesn't much like to read, and isn't very good at it. But, he knows things that are pretty useful, like about cars and building stuff. He's a great liar, and is fully aware that he's doing it - usually to get me riled up.
My firm belief in nurture over nature is always called into question when presented with evidence concerning my self. I am nothing like them.
This is not bad. I love them. I know they love me.
I will likely never find where I came from, and the possibility of discovering I came from a place where things are different - where moms tell the real truth, dads give cozy slippers for Christmas, and little brothers look up to their sisters - is enough to keep me away.
I have a birthday - just like my brother does, just like you do - but I also have a Gotcha Day. I came into the world on August 11, 1968, but I came into my family on September 13 that same year - Gotcha Day.
I've heard some stories as to how I came to be - the woman who I came from may have actually been a girl - 16 or so. She may have been from North (or South?) Dakota. She may have had an aunt (or cousin?) in Southeastern Michigan who she stayed with till I got where I was going. The man (or boy?) who helped her make me may have been French Canadian. I may have first been called Ruth.
But, if you know anything about my mom, you know that her words can't be trusted. It's not so much that she lies - I think that to be called a lie, it has to not be believed by the teller. It's more that she thinks something, and then it becomes true - at least for her. So, though Mom has told me these things, the only part I'm certain of is my birthday, and that's only because I have seen my birth certificate.
Mom and Dad have been together a crazy long time. Forty-five years and counting. Seems impossible, not only because of my own shattered marriage, but because I lived with them for a good part of that time and saw a relationship that still baffles me.
Mom is mean to Dad - really mean. They live in a house with pathways - there was never a sale she didn't feel compelled to attack. Dad escapes in a bottle with the TV as his backdrop. But, Dad always gets Mom undies for Christmas - even now. It's just a normal part of our holiday - Mom opens up the box, holds up some increasingly less skimpy and lacy panties for us all to see, and says something like, "Ooh - these are sexy!" He's always patting her on the butt, or telling her how beautiful she is. As I said, I'm baffled.
Andy, my little bro, does not have a Gotcha Day; somehow Mom and Dad managed to get him on their own. He doesn't much like to read, and isn't very good at it. But, he knows things that are pretty useful, like about cars and building stuff. He's a great liar, and is fully aware that he's doing it - usually to get me riled up.
My firm belief in nurture over nature is always called into question when presented with evidence concerning my self. I am nothing like them.
This is not bad. I love them. I know they love me.
I will likely never find where I came from, and the possibility of discovering I came from a place where things are different - where moms tell the real truth, dads give cozy slippers for Christmas, and little brothers look up to their sisters - is enough to keep me away.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Pronouns Revisited
A few subtle changes that I think help better get at my point:
Pronouns
by Penny Lew
She
was bringing another baby
into this world.
into this family.
As things eventually fell apart,
hindsight told her that they
were trying to glue things together
long before understanding
that anything was broken. They
were rationalizing her choices,
justifying his,
fooling themselves,
pretending,
believing all was well.
She
was bringing another baby
into this world.
into this family.
she.
Not they.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Ah - maybe I am a writer!
So - as I write this, I don't want it to sound as if I am assigning blame. because no one is to blame. Just an understanding of when the marriage really made a turn. Does it work?
Pronouns
She
was bringing another baby
into this world.
into this family.
As things eventually fell apart,
hindsight told her that she
was trying to glue things together
long before understanding
that they were broken. She
was rationalizing her choices,
justifying his,
fooling herself,
pretending,
believing all was well.
believing all was well.
She
was bringing another baby
into this world.
into this family.
she.
Not they.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Books, books, and more books
I started reading in 1st grade. This didn't exactly begin my love affair with books - that began before I can remember, back when Mom and Dad actually took time to spend with us kids - but the magic became all mine in Mrs. Hurst's 1st grade.
Things started simple, "See Wiggles run. Run Wiggles, run!" But simple and wonderful need not be mutually exclusive ideas. I devoured these primers; eager to see what Bill or Nancy would do next. Sally and Kitty and Larry all became an enormous part of my life, and their adventures were mine.
Soon, I had graduated to "chapter books" and by the end of 2nd grade, again with Mrs. Hurst I had become intimate with the Ingalls family, and imagined my own life on the prairie. Always since then, whenever asked to define or describe myself or my interests, my first response, still even before Mother, is Reader.
Books have so shaped who I am today; I own my last name because of Lois Lowery's A Summer to Die; I found the strength to leave an unsatisfying relationship thanks to Alice Walker's Temple of my Familiar. I'm not afraid of the dark thanks to Stephan King.
I am a teacher because I wanted to pass this amazing gift on to others.
Things started simple, "See Wiggles run. Run Wiggles, run!" But simple and wonderful need not be mutually exclusive ideas. I devoured these primers; eager to see what Bill or Nancy would do next. Sally and Kitty and Larry all became an enormous part of my life, and their adventures were mine.
Soon, I had graduated to "chapter books" and by the end of 2nd grade, again with Mrs. Hurst I had become intimate with the Ingalls family, and imagined my own life on the prairie. Always since then, whenever asked to define or describe myself or my interests, my first response, still even before Mother, is Reader.
Books have so shaped who I am today; I own my last name because of Lois Lowery's A Summer to Die; I found the strength to leave an unsatisfying relationship thanks to Alice Walker's Temple of my Familiar. I'm not afraid of the dark thanks to Stephan King.
I am a teacher because I wanted to pass this amazing gift on to others.
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