Ok, let’s see if I can get some hot comment action here. Please share with the whole class just how you happened upon my humble blog. And for everyone’s amusement, edification, whatever, here is the list of phrases that brought people to my doorstep so far this month:
Everyone is OK, that’s the most important thing.
Training is all done and I started my brand-spanking-new official schedule this week. Which means I work Monday, Tuesday, Friday and Saturday nights. Hubby flies solo while I am at work, and he does a great job. And it is a good thing he was on duty Saturday evening, I probably wouldn’t have handled things as well.
My cell phone started ringing off the hook about an hour and a half into my shift. (I keep it on vibrate because I use it as a clock, watches get in the way of the typing.) I had to use the ladies’ room anyway so I decided to check and see where the fire was, turns out it was at my House. I heard a frantic voice mail from Hubby telling me to “come home right now! The House is on FIRE!!!!” I turned right around without making my much-needed pit stop (this is important later), ran to my supervisor’s desk, told her I had to leave and why, took the time to shut off my computer, and ran out.
On my way home, Hubby called again and told me they were out and safe. Then he told me I had to at least pretend to be calm, for the babies’ sake. I resolved to be calm, and my resolve lasted until I saw a half-dozen or so fire engines in front of the House. I parked in the neighbor’s driveway and ran through our yard until I got to our driveway, whereupon I was physically restrained by a giant firefighter lady. I couldn’t see my family, but she told me (yelled at me) that everyone was out of the House. Then the Guy in The Big Red Hat, who was talking to Hubby, came and got me and took me to them.
Our across-the-street neighbors brought out chairs and a blanket for Monkey (who sheds his pants the moment he walks in the door, a practice that is now at its end, by the way) and Hubby, Monkey and Pumpkin were watching the spectacle nestled safely among the Halloween lawn ornaments. I have to admit that while I find the giant bat and fake severed body parts hanging from their tree to be adorable, I was quite startled to find my family right next to an un-dead skeleton creature rising from the earth. Gave me a bit of a start.
Hubby told me that the damage was confined to the garage, but that the whole House was filled with smoke. Some kind of short happened between the circuit breakers and the electric meter, causing the whole mess to blow up and catch fire. Hubby smelled smoke and grabbed a fire extinguisher, thinking he could fix the problem. He decided to leave it to the professionals once he got a good look at the flames shooting up the back of our House. So he grabbed the babies, his phone and called 911, his shoes and ran out the door. He could already hear the sirens when he stepped outside. And by the time he got across the street and had the time to put his shoes on, the fire engines were pulling up in front of the House. That’s when he called me.
By the time I arrived, the fire was mostly put out, but smoke and seemingly endless numbers of firefighters were still pouring out of our darkened garage. After praising Monkey for being such a brave big boy, and comforting Pumpkin who trembled in my arms, I took them over to Nana’s house. The kids happily dumped out toys and Nana’s jewelry box while I called the insurance company. After I finished talking to the adjuster, I realized that I still hadn’t used the ladies’ room and was in a bit of discomfort. One emergency had yielded to another.
In the meantime, the firefighters had cleared the House. The dark, smoky House. The physical damage may be confined to the garage, but the whole House was filled with smoke and even after days of airing out still smells like the inside of a Weber Grill. And since our circuit box is a charred ruin, we have no power. A long time ago, before we had babies, Hubby and I may have roughed it, playing gin rummy by lantern-light and keeping our Dr. Pepper in an ice chest. But alas, we have babies. Babies that I cannot ask to give up Dora The Explorer or climate control or cold chocolate milk. And the House is truly uninhabitable. We spent most of the day mucking out the garage and bagging up stuff that didn’t survive the fire, the smoke, or the fire hoses.
So, our insurance is paying for all of us to stay in one of those hotels for extended stays. It has a queen-size bed in an alcove, a dreadfully uncomfortable pull-out couch, a big closet (bigger than mine at the House), a desk, a tiny bathroom, and a one-butt kitchen with all the comforts of home, just not as big. Here we stay, hopefully for a month or less, while the House gets fixed up.
We meet with the adjuster in the morning. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Warning: Poop alert!
The phrase, “Don’t eat crayons!” sounds pretty straightforward, don’t you think? But apparently to my 3-year old it translates into “Go ahead, eat all the crayons you want!”
As if the fact of crayon-eating weren’t bad enough, I find little damp piles of masticated crayon in odd places, usually with my bare feet. Ew. But obviously she gets enough of the crayons ingested to make her poop colorfully speckled.
The worst part–they aren’t even her crayons, her pitiful victims belong to her brother. Poor little guy, reduced to coloring with ball-point pens and highlighters because his sister eats all his crayons! And this is no case of entrapment, I confiscate all crayons when I find them. I think she has a secret crayon-stash around here somewhere.
So, when I find my little crayon-bandit, evidence on her face, I tell her, “Don’t eat crayons!” I tell her over and over again as if it will make a difference. And every time she looks up at me, so solemn, so resolute, and says, “Ok, Mama.”
I swear this doesn’t happen to anyone else.
Like all parents, we have been stressing the importance of honesty to our children. But every time I told one of them to always tell the truth, I felt like a fraud. And I couldn’t understand why.
In the past two weeks I have had to admit some uncomfortable truths to myself. You see, I haven’t been happy in a very long time. But if you had asked me how I describe myself the answer would’ve been “happy,” until about two weeks ago. I’m not sad or mopey or depressed, and I confused the absence of depression with true happiness. If I had been more honest, I would have described myself as angry, thwarted, dissatisfied.
My husband said that I have been unhappy for as long as he can remember. And he’s right. There are bits and pieces of happiness in my life–Hubby, Monkey, Pumpkin. But running underneath it all is a fetid stream of disappointment and it has been there since I was a teenager.
It seems cliched and too easy to lay the blame on my parents, but they at least got the ball rolling. My parents were two very unhappy people. Dad always seemed happiest in his absence from home. When he wasn’t at work, he was at church, stuffing his life full of other people and crowding us out. He joined a bass fishing club so he could be away on Saturdays as well, free from the thought of all his many obligations.
Mother was an unhappy woman from a long line of unhappy women. My maternal grandmother never was allowed to fulfill her potential and she made damn sure that her daughter wasn’t either. To be fair, both of my parents seem much happier now. They take fun vacations and smile a lot more. Perhaps it was having children that turned them both into such curmudgeons. Now the pressure is off and they can afford to loosen up a little. And they are much better grandparents than parents.
I never felt as if my hopes and dreams carried any weight. Writing was the first thing I really wanted to do. I wrote my first free verse at 12, it wasn’t very good, but I was 12. I read it proudly to my parents who promptly belittled everything about it. They stabbed me right in the dreams.
As I matured, others took notice of my writing and praised me for it. But no amount of outside encouragement could make up for its utter lack in the home-front. Journalism seemed like a good outlet, so I joined the school paper. (And not at my parents’ prompting mind you. My driver’s ed partner encouraged me. Thanks Gina!) But journalism and I weren’t a good fit. And nobody ever informed me that you don’t have to write for the paper to have a career in writing.
I loved to write stories and used the typing practice my parents forced on me to write them. My dad would read the stories to check my typing progress and laugh at me for my ideas. I learned to push my dreams down where no one would laugh at them anymore.
When college time loomed, I quietly sent off for information from Bryn Mawr and Mt. Holyoke. I wanted so badly to go to a women’s college and study writing, but I knew better than to voice those desires. Again and again I silenced my dreams, refusing to give them voice.
Denying myself my hopes and dreams became a kind of survival mechanism. If I didn’t tell anybody what I really wanted, they couldn’t laugh at me, denigrate me, dismiss me. And after a time I forgot who I was and what I wanted. I forgot why I wasn’t happy.
I began looking for other things, outside things to make me happy. If I only do this thing, then I will be happy. But nothing outside of me had the power to make me happy or unhappy.
I always knew I wanted marriage and a family, so I married the love of my life, who loves me, happy or sad, good or bad. Adjusting to married life kept my mind occupied for a long time. Then just the busyness of life took over and I forgot, for a time, about the unhappiness. But then we started trying to have a baby and ran into some difficulties.
Unhappiness threatened to overwhelm me. My body was betraying me daily, steadfastly refusing to get pregnant. I mistakenly believed that my infertility was the cause of my unhappiness and when I finally had a baby, everything would be all right.
What a terrible burden to put on a baby. Then post-partum depression hit. I was in the deepest, blackest pit in the dungeon. Alone, unnourished, with only the dank, stony walls of my prison to comfort me. Even after I came out of PPD, I still had a load of anger and resentment to carry around.
No matter what I tried, I couldn’t off-load that anger and resentment. Too often they would come bubbling up to the surface, spilling over onto my poor family. I thought going to nursing school would “fix” me. But I don’t really want to be a nurse. I’m certainly capable of being a nurse, but I’m not suited to it. Maybe I was trying to curry favor with my impossible-to-please mother.
Finally I couldn’t take anymore denial–I had to admit to my husband and to myself just how I really felt. I had to admit that I am not the basically happy person that I fancied myself to be. I am not a happy person, there I admitted it. I was honest.
Then I had to figure out why. It felt like there was something missing inside, but what? What is this shape in my heart? The one that I can trace with my mind, the way you can trace a missing tooth with your tongue. Oh yes, that is the shape of my dreams, my hopes, the thing I really want but have been unable to say aloud in too many years.
I want to be a writer! An author, the kind that gets recognized and paid for her words. The kind whose thoughts are valued and whose ideas see the light of day in the printed word. I want my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my fine sharp mind, to be set down in print.
With a boldness I have never expressed before, I claim my dreams. Never again will I allow any thought of my parents to dictate what I do and do not write.So, to all my readers–I am now open for business as a writer. If you know anyone who needs a writer be sure to let me know and let them know, too.
When did my baby boy become a big boy?
Today was Monkey’s first full day of Kindergarten. He’s got his own locker and a brand-new lunch bag. And a mama who just can’t believe he’s growing up so fast. Monkey was so excited that he barely even acknowledged me when I said goodbye. I made it half-way back to the main doors before I started crying.
When Pumpkin and I picked him up, he just seemed like it was no big deal! But he had a lot of fun and got to eat his lunch in the cafeteria like a big kid, so he was happy about that. So far, I think lunch is his favorite subject.
As you probably know, Saturday was my 40th birthday. When pressed about what I wanted for my birthday I had a very hard time thinking of things, objects that I wanted. Let’s see, I already have a computer (obviously), I got an iPod for Mother’s Day, I don’t really need a lot of clothes (I’ll be wearing scrubs in Clinicals), a new Coach purse, while nice, would be useless right now. So, after much thought, I asked for and got what I wanted: time. Time without the kids, time to browse in a bookstore, time to do things for me instead of for someone else. My folks kept the kids while Hubby and I went to a nice, sedate, quiet, grown-up lunch at P.F. Chang’s, then we went to a bookstore where I didn’t have to spend the entire time ensconced in the children’s section. After I picked out three books and three magazines, we went to see the Sex and The City movie.
I thoroughly loved this movie and, except for some mild camera-operator pilot errors, could find no flaws. I realize that not everyone was a fan of the series, but I was an ardent fan, nay, devoted fan, ok both. A couple of years ago Hubby even bought me the full boxed set, in the attractive hot pink velveteen binder protected with a Plexiglas box. Trust me, SATC is a pleasant change from all the children’s programming I am forced to watch.
Lots of people have had problems with this movie for various and sundry reasons, too many to really go indepth about. But I’ll try to offer rebuttals as I go along. O.K., this is a chick flick, attractive only to women and gay men, hm? Well, my husband used to watch the series with me and enjoyed as much as I did. And there were other men in the theater, seemingly with their wives and not a single one looked bored or angry or resentful to be there. To address the despicable “chick flick” label, the four main characters are indeed women and the stories being told are from their points of view, but the men in their lives are no mere accessories, pawns for the playing. All the male characters are presented as complex people with good sides and bad, with lives and motivations of their own. Much like real people.
Of course, in many movies with male leads, the women are afterthoughts, arm candy, distractions, trophies. One-dimensional, universally blandly pretty and unchallenging, pliant and intellectually inferior. Unless of course they are bad. Bad women are allowed to be real. In Sex and The City, real women are allowed to be bad or good or marginal or selfish or petty or vain or forgiving or unselfish or heroic or loyal or depressed or weepy or poopy or tired or desirable or desiring or smart or foolish. Much like real people.
See how nicely that works out, men and women are portrayed as real people. And for fans of the show, we care about these characters because we can project ourselves onto them. While I identified with the writer aspect of Carrie, it was Charlotte’s struggle with fertility and miscarriage that carried particular weight with me, as I too experienced those very things.
A large portion of people (my parents among them) are aghast at the very notion of single women even having sex lives. When I told Mom which movie Hubby was taking me to, she practically got the vapors. “Ohhhh!” she said, like I’d told her I planning on visiting a bordello or maybe taking a few spins around a stripper pole. So I teased her. “‘Ohhhh!’ What does that even mean?!” I said back to her. Then when I called my dad to tell him we had to go to the later show he asked me. So told him, “Sex and The City“, you know like it was no big deal, because it’s no big deal. He said the same damn thing, “Oh.” but really clipped, like he didn’t approve of my free-wheelin’ ways. That’s me, shameless hussy.
But this movie is NOT porn, the word “sex” may be in the title but it is a good, old-fashioned love story. With boobies. Seriously, it doesn’t matter if the love is for a spouse, a child, friends, or one’s self. I gather that is another thing that makes a different segment of the population uncomfortable. The notion that love is important, maybe all-important.
I have actually seen some opinions castigating the characters for being interested only in marriage and family. And shoes. Relationships are the things that make life better or even tolerable. Because honestly, at the end of your life, what will you count most important? A job or friends and family? My mother-in-law had a dear friend who never married or had children, but she had friends who stayed by her side. She was a lovely woman who came to my baby shower and got to meet my son. Because she cultivated her relationships, I will always speak well of her, and tell my children about her.
That search for relationships is just human nature. We seek connections. And SATC was about connections. Maybe those connections will be romantic, sexual, marital, maternal, or platonic, but they are still connections and we still crave them. The world is a cold, nasty, bitter place with dark scary corners and creatures that howl in the night, but having a hand to hold has the power to give us courage. To light the dark corners and vanquish the monsters. What poor things we become when we deny ourselves that hand to hold, and insist that no, I’m fine on my own, I can do it by myself.
And that brings me to another point–the apparent absence of the characters’ families of origin. But Carrie once mentions that her dad left and Miranda’s mom dies in the course of the show, so it’s not like they sprang, fully formed, from the earth, wearing the latest fashions. And I think the point is that the four friends are each others families. In fact, Carrie-as-narrator said something to the effect that sometimes the families we make are more important than the ones we happen to be born into. I’m currently re-watching the whole series and when I find the exact quote I’m looking for, I’ll post it here.
And don’t know about how other moms feel about it, but one of the funnest parts of the show, and movie, is the fashion. I live in capris or jeans and t-shirts, so I get a kind of vicarious thrill from seeing the kind of clothes I would never wear. But I absolutely swoon over Carrie’s impossible shoes. With my bum hip and, you know, my life, I can’t wear high heels but I love to see them on Carrie. Seems like a lot of reviewers who should know better are positively offended that the characters spend money, time, and effort on fashion. But I think it’s kind of affirming: they have the desire and disposable income to spend on things that are solely for themselves. Because, honestly, most straight men don’t care what women wear. They know when we look nice, but that’s about it. The specifics of fashion escape them.
And because of the frivolity of fashion, some reviewers are upset that the Sex and The City movie is frivolous. Seriously. Did they think that they were going to see An Inconvenient Truth? Or maybe a Michael Moore movie? Or possibly Gandhi? And another point, is it trivial and frivolous simply because the lives of women, single or married, are assumed to be trivial and frivolous? If a woman cares about it, clothes, shoes, love, whatever, it’s by definition less important than the things men care about. Like fantasy football and motorcycles and comic-book superheroes. Please. If men, en masse, started passionately caring about fashion you better believe that, all of a sudden, fashion would be afforded more gravitas.
I know less than nothing about NYC real estate, but it doesn’t seem improbable to me that four successful women with no children (at the beginning of the series) should be able to afford apartments. Let’s see: Charlotte is a successful art dealer, then she marries a congenitally rich guy and then a successful lawyer; Miranda is a successful lawyer, all on her little lonesome; Samantha is described as a successful public relations executive; and Carrie is a successful writer. Maybe it’s that word “successful” that makes some people uncomfortable. These women are successful at things outside of marriage, so since they’ve got that covered why not focus on the personal relationship aspects of their lives? And to those that think a free-lance writer like Carrie can’t possibly afford that apartment–dude, it’s a dinky place. It’s totally unlike the impossible apartments in “Friends” and did I mention that whole successful writer thing. Free-lancers don’t have just one gig, that would be foolhardy. The series even addresses one of her other jobs: Vogue. And then later, she becomes a published author. And by the time the movie rolls around, she has published three books and has another on the way. There’s that whole successful thing.
And another way a lot of women identify with SATC is the manner and timing with which the characters order their lives. Lots of women are delaying marriage and childbearing to establish careers, identities, lives beyond what has traditionally been afforded to women. Increasingly, women are no longer allowing themselves to be defined only by marriage and children. And Sex and The City beautifully illustrates this, even while looking for love these characters remain true to themselves.
One last thing, I really, really, really like seeing women my age in movies. Attention Hollywood: more, please. More women with lines and character in their faces, more women without breast implants, more female characters who can string more than a couple of words together cogently, more gutsy dames, more women who are challenging, more women who are vital and sexy even in their dotage (that would be in their 40’s in Hollywood years), more women who refuse to be defined on a man’s terms, give me more of what I want and I will gladly give you more of my entertainment dollars. And are you listening, Hollywood? I am the one who pushes us to go see movies at the theater. If it were up to Hubby, we’d never leave the house. So if you want my, our money, you better pony up with the goods.
Shorter me: Sex and The City was a great movie, it totally did what all good movies are supposed to do–drew me in and made me forget about the passing of time in the outside world. The last movie that did that for me was Big Fish. What an awesome way to spend my 40th birthday! Anyone know where I can send my Thank You card to Sarah Jessica Parker?
Me, that’s who. Today, Saturday June 7, is my 40th birthday. (This is being written before Saturday because I don’t want to spend my birthday doing this.) I was born in 1968, one of the most turbulent years in recent history. The Vietnam War, the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy (who died the day before my birth), protests and riots, the Chicago Convention, Nixon. “Sympathy for the Devil” and 2001: A Space Odyssey were both released that year. Those two pieces of popular culture neatly encapsulate both the darkness and the hope of the year of my birth.
Hope was abundant that year in the Apollo Space Program. Apollo 7, in October, was the first manned Apollo flight and a welcome success after the tragedy of Apollo 1. Apollo 8, in December, was the first mission to leave Earth orbit and travel to the moon. Humans left the relative safety of Earth’s orbit and traveled to another world!
I decided to look up other people who share my birthday. Here are some of my favorites:
Thanks to Brainy History for some of the dates.
I grew up in Claremore so I was literally steeped in Will Rogers lore. The Will Rogers Memorial Museum was not far from my house and every time we had out-of-town visitors, we’d drag them there. Heck, I even had my formal wedding portrait shot on the museum’s wide veranda. I don’t think I’ve seen any more of Will’s movies than the snippets they played in the exhibits, but the title of one really stuck with me–Life Begins At Forty. I remember thinking how impossibly old forty seemed even as my parents neared (and passed) forty themselves. How could life begin at such an advanced and decrepit age?
Well, now that I’m here, forty doesn’t seem so advanced, maybe just a tad decrepit. But I get the title, I finally get it. At the time that movie was made (1935) people tended to marry and have kids fairly young. My own great-grandmother got married at 13 and had my grandmother at 15. So if you get married, say, at 18 and have kids in your early 20’s, then by the time you turn 40, the kids are grown and gone or nearly so. The next phase of your life (one sans kids) would indeed start at 40. Now more people are holding off on having kids, waiting until their mid-30’s to mid-40’s, much like I did.
Even though I got married at 23, Monkey wasn’t born until I was 34, then Pumpkin came along right before I turned 37. I had plenty of time to live one sort of life, one sans kids, and get thoroughly set in my ways. Parenting infants can feel like a kind of timeless limbo, but things start to pick up once they become toddlers and preschoolers. So it does feel like a different phase of life is beginning. Plus, I’ve only got two more years of school then I will re-enter the working world. I finally feel like I have a concrete direction for my life, not just nebulous wishes.
Even though I live in same old ghost-ridden house, I am still married to my best friend after all these years, and I’ve decided to keep at this whole motherhood-thing, I feel like I’ve been given a fresh start, a do-over. Maybe life really does begin at forty after all.
O.K., I have two shows to review today, both fall into the inexplicable category for me, but the kids seem to like them.
Caillou-I despise this show, no, that’s not a strong enough word. I hate this show with the heat of a thousand suns, the fiery quality of my utter loathing and active hatred of this show is powerful enough to melt the paint off the walls. The star of the animated show is an extraordinarily whiny, melon-headed little punk. He’s supposed to be four years old, but exhibits a maturity level far lower than that of his barely-verbal baby sister, Rosie. Caillou’s mother and father are so preternaturally patient and kind and loving and mealy-mouthed that their resemblance to real parents is cursory at best. There’s a cat and some stuffed animals that have their own puppet show thing between the excruciating animated segments. The theme song is terrible, the parents seem like they are on tranquilizers, those grandparents are the most boring grandparents on the planet, there’s a creepy next-door neighbor with a gold tooth and no visible means of support, and did I mention the whining? Caillou is a terrible influence on children, at least on mine. One half-hour of Caillou leads, hop-skip-and-jump, to a week of emulating his atrocious whiny-toned voice. I think the kid gets away with being so whiny all the time because those cartoon parents of his are zonked out on Quaaludes all the time. I find no redeeming qualities in this show except that the kids seem to like it, thank heavens it’s not one of the favorites.
Then there is Yo Gabba Gabba, a children’s show/rave that boasts some very cool guests and artists. Guests like Elijah Woods and Biz Markie and Mark Mothersbaugh. This show is a cross between The Banana Splits, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, and Dee Lite. And can I just say that I am utterly confused by DJ Lancerock’s hat? During my sophomore year of high school, before we got the new band uniforms, that hats we had to wear were these white, itchy towers of fake fur. DJ Lancerock’s hat looks just like those except in orange. To me, Yo Gabba Gabba just seems like a bunch of hipper-than-thou parents or wanna-bes got together and decided to make a “cool” children’s program. I can’t fault them for this, as much children’s programming is absolute garbage. But sometimes it comes off as self-congratulatory and pretentious in its efforts to not be Barney.
When I get tired of modern children’s programming I just turn the T.V. over to Boomerang, watch Yogi Bear, and relive the innocent T.V.-viewing of my childhood. And, seriously, children’s-programming-people, why work so hard at being “cool” when we can just turn over to The Jetsons or Scooby Do, Where Are You?
Yesterday was Pumpkin’s 3rd birthday! Here she is wearing one birthday present (Mama said “no” to wearing it to bed) and watching another. What do you wanna make a bet she wears the backpack all day today.
I was never much of a diarist. Even as a self-absorbed teenager, I was no Pepys. Well-meaning people would buy me those little locking daily diaries as birthday presents. They all held such promise, and with each new one would come a resolution to write in it every day. Their pink or red or blue covers, their gilt-edged dated pages, and shiny brass locks with the minuscule keys beckoned me, “Write me, write me!” And I would dutifully answer, “Of course, of course!” I would pop the clasp and open the book, the sharp tang of vinyl newness filling my nose. The pages were so white and crisp with the barest hint of roughness at the edges. But I could never fulfill the promise of each new day, a fresh new page. And what to write? At 12 years old, there was precious little to write about. Nothing I cared to set down for posterity anyway.
I still occasionally find these pathetic relics, discarded like half-chewed bones. I read through them, hoping to find some kind of keen insight into the child I was, but they are void of any meaning. At 12, and 13, and 14, well, pretty much every year of my life ending in -teen, I was a sad specimen. Tiny, pasty, weird, clumsy (but you knew that), adolescence was hell. And I sure didn’t want to write any of that crap down. What was there to say, “Got tied to the jungle gym by my shoelaces, again.” “Told a really funny joke, nobody laughed because I was the one who told it.” “Got picked on for being me, again.” “Ate lunch with the pathetic little band of other outsiders that have become my one refuge in an increasingly hostile environment.” “Mom told me how awful my skin is, again.” (I wish to state for the record, Mother, that I have always had nice skin, teenagers get zits. I still get complements on my skin to this very day, little thanks to you. Yes, I’m bitter much.) “Dad gave me another book on how evil everything I want to do is.” “Am considering a descent into madness to stave off the rising tide of desperation.”
What I ended up writing were things like: what kind of underpants I had on, and how I wished I could be taller. Or the elaborate fantasies I built up about the incredible, graceful, beautiful girl that I wasn’t. As I got older, I would fill little notebooks with pieces of the real me. I realized the diaries were too obvious, too cliched. And as a writer, I despise cliche. And my mother was not to be trusted. She could’ve searched my room for contraband all she liked and I wouldn’t have cared, but there was no way I was going to expose my thoughts to her. The notebooks were nondescript, no one could’ve guessed the tortured thoughts they contained. Just the usual teenage angst, I suppose, but as negative emotions on my part were not tolerated, doubtless those writings would’ve gotten me a visit with a doctor. And to be honest, I was pretty harsh on my parents in those notebooks. These blogs of mine, these are now my little notebooks. But now, I don’t care if my parents read my writings, not that I think they do.
I have said before that my parents made many mistakes with me, all parents do. It’s truly unavoidable. The only thing we can do for our kids is try to learn from the past and not make the same mistakes our parents made. We need to make all new ones. My father was stern and scary and not very involved in my activities. He was, however, overly-involved with the church (and as scary as Daddy seemed, I was jealous of that stupid church!). So I joined in a lot of church activities myself, thinking that maybe he’d find some worth in me. That is a mistake I will not make; if you put religion before your children, you’re doing it wrong.
My mother, a captive of her own miserable upbringing, could not bring herself to be supportive on a day-to-day basis. I can count on one hand the times that I felt she was actually “in my corner”. I think it all goes back to my great-grandfather. He died well before I was born, but by all accounts, he was a vicious, brutal man-at least to my grandmother. My grandmother, in turn, married perhaps unwisely to escape. There weren’t many options for poor women, during the 30’s and 40’s, in rural Oklahoma. Maybe she shouldn’t have married, maybe she wasn’t particularly suited to mothering. Whatever it was, my mother never learned how to be nurturing or supportive.
After she finished high school, my mother wanted to go on to nursing school but my grandmother wouldn’t hear of it. Gammie didn’t have a very high opinion of nurses; actually, she didn’t have a very high opinion of anyone. At her mother’s insistence, my own mom went through some kind of clerical training, which she hated. When I was younger, there were two possible tracks I wanted to take for my future: writer or doctor. My parents never took my writing seriously, never encouraged that talent. When I wanted to go into journalism, my mother insisted that I take typing class, because I would never be able to support myself as a writer.
So, when I wished to pursue my other main interest, science, and go into medicine, my mother informed me that my high school grades weren’t good enough. I would never get into medical school. Because my high school GPA was only 3.2. The sad thing is, I listened to them, to her. I let them affect my future by believing in their low opinion of me. After years of feeling like a constant source of disappointment to them, I managed to disappoint myself.
I get it now, my grandmother signed up for a life she didn’t want to escape her childhood. Maybe to punish my mother for that life, Gammie thwarted her hopes for the future. My mother, having never been taught how to be a supportive parent, and having never gotten over what Gammie did to her, thwarted my hopes for my future. I do not, for one minute, believe that she did this on purpose. But, since she had never been encouraged in any way, she didn’t know how to encourage me. Perhaps she thought her words would spur me on to do better in school, but they didn’t. I gave up on what I wanted and sort of drifted through my first attempt at college.
Now, here I am, finishing college at nearly 40. I will have achieved my goals by the time my children are old enough to begin exploring their own futures. My mother could not reach beyond the mistakes her mother made and be supportive of me. I will not repeat that mistake, I will not drag this grievous error into yet another generation. My children will have my full support in whatever careers they choose to pursue. Oddly enough, it was having children myself that helped heal some of the dings to my psyche.
By the way, my mother went back to college when she was older than I am now. She’s a successful R.N. and I couldn’t be prouder of her. Way to go, Mom!
