Dear Readers,
The past 30 odd years have lead me to a strange place where I find myself in the good company of several of my peers experiencing the same problem: we've almost arrived. We've studied, we've worked really hard, we've survived performance reviews, we've been demoted, promoted, yelled at, praised, filled out applications, networked with all of the right people and even more of the wrong people and at long last we have been accepted into grad school. Or are listed on the cover of a book that is certain to be famous. Perhaps a record contract is in the near future. Or maybe it's something as simple as realizing what it is that we want to be when we grow up, have enrolled in school again, and have accepted a new position at work that takes us one step closer to realizing that goal. You'd think this would be exciting, enthralling even. You'd think the general thought would be, "FINALLY!" Surprisingly, you are more likely to hear one (if not all) of us say, "Oh shit. I'm a sham. A fraud. I don't know what I deserve, but it isn't this."
I'm pretty sure this isn't a new experience. As I get older, it becomes clearer and clearer to me that any road I walk down has had it's fair share of foot traffic already. Knowing that, I look up, and I see the people that I have made giants in my mind. My mentors, my teachers, my parents, my heroes. I've asked them some very unassuming questions like, "Have you always been like this?" or "Didn't you ever cry at work?" and the ever popular, "There's no way you've made mistakes, right?" And they laugh at me. They open up their secret little boxes of skeletons and share their humiliating stories, their own doubts, their struggles, and most important, their experience. I appreciate it so much, learning that they're human too.
There are so many different ways to measure success now. It's not limited anymore to just a nice house and a nice car and paying for your kid to go to a nice college. It's making the list as a possible answer to a BuzzFeed quiz. It's headlining at a little known music festival. It's reading the stats of your YouTube video and see that you're being followed by a complete stranger. The achievements of your competitors are posted all over social media and every time you pick up your phone and check your Facebook page another person you know has funded their whatever through Kickstarter, and though you don't want to begrudge their success you can't help but think, "This is what people are paying for? Really? This?"
Is this the American dream?
Maybe. It just might be.
I guess really what it comes down to is this: all of my peers that I've been privileged to know through all of their hard work and studying and networking and highs and lows, they deserve their success, whether or not they receive a crowdsourcing grant. Beyond all belief, I might deserve mine too. And, so I say this:
Draw your comics.
Run Robie Creek.
Climb rocks in Thailand.
Make your incredible music.
Go to grad school.
Burn your rejections letters and keep writing.
Paint beautiful things on skateboard decks.
Do whatever it is you need to do to feel the most satisfied you can with your life. Accept the challenge. You don't feel worthy because it's intimidating and hard and you're out of your league. Don't worry though, it won't always feel like that, and before you know it you'll be bored and looking for the next great step.
Sincerely,
h.
2.22.2014
Sunshine Forever: Our Family Vacation
Dear Readers,
Family vacation, by definition and proven by several different scientific studies, is an experience in which one travels with immediate family to various locations to learn one's ability to cope with anger, frustration, and hatred for their respective kin in a smaller and more expensive environment than home. As with any rule or theory, there is always an exception, and I recently returned home from an exceptional family vacation.
My dear mother-in-law, Paula, decided a few years ago that she wanted to take her family on a dream vacation to Orlando, Florida and all it's attractions. She told Shay, Shay's brother Anthony (or AJ or Tony, depending on the circle you run in), and myself about this trip last spring so that we could secure time off. 12 sunny days in Florida leaving the inversion and suckiness of Idaho winter behind during February: can you just imagine? It was kept a secret from Lucas, Paula's one and only beloved grandson, until Christmas Day. Using the advent calendar that his grandma had made him, Lucas religiously counted down the days to our departure.
On the morning of February 1st, we boarded our flight to the Sunshine State, and hopped onto the Disney World bandwagon. No really, they provide a bus from the airport to your resort, televisions playing the whole time showing you what an amazing time you're going to have and that they do weird things like grow nine pound lemons and talk a lot about little girls becoming princesses at the "Bibbity-Bobbity-Botique" (no mention of the $$$ though). I'm not gonna lie, their propaganda works and I was stoked to get there, even with my initial disappointment of learning they didn't carry my size at the princess makeover shop.
We stayed at Disney World for the first five days of our trip. Initially, I was surprised by the sheer size of the place. It's huge. Miles huge. In Europe, it would be considered it's own country (non-participating in the EU, I'm sure). Because we were staying onsite, we were privy to using their shuttle buses from park to park, and no ride on the shuttle was less than 25 minutes. Disney World consists of four parks: The Magic Kingdom, EPCOT, Disney Hollywood Studios (formally MGM Grand) and The Animal Kingdom. Conveniently, they have developed technology they refer to as "Magic Bands" (yes, you can buy t-shirts in the gift shops that refer to the bands) that are a bracelet with a microchip installed in it (the bracelets, I should say, are ordered in your favorite color and have your name printed on the inside), which you use as your pass into the parks, key to your hotel room, and tender when making a purchase. They connect it to a credit card for you, so you don't have to carry those pesky things around! That way, when you finish your roller coaster and are walking through the associated gift shop at the end of the ride, you can buy that yeti-themed hat with Mickey ears on top without a second thought.
Supposedly we were at Disney during the slowest time of the year, which is strange because a lot of the time it felt as full and chaotic as a Wal-Mart on welfare check day. None-the-less, I'll give it to those Disney folks, they make every single person that walks through their gates feel special. Every little girl is a princess, every little boy is a hero, and every parent there is the best parent in the world, even if they are now officially broke or heavily in debt. The staff, or "cast members" (a very tricky way of getting around equal opportunity laws and paying staff a living wage), were always smiling, always spreading pixie dust, always sweeping the already spotless sidewalks and pavement, and always absolutely thrilled to be at work. One of my favorite things to do was to get a cast member to act like a real person; break away from the smile and the magic and say things like, "...my feet hurt," or "I told them three times to be in row 2 and 3 and look at them, scrambling around like a bunch of idiots. EXCUSE ME, ROWS 2 AND 3! YES, THAT'S RIGHT! All day every day, dealing with them." Those moments of human interaction felt like great accomplishments to me. We loved Disney World though, and thoroughly enjoyed our stay there. We ate so much amazing food, rode so many amazing rides, watched a handful of incredible shows, and walked about 3,000 miles, enjoying every step, Lucas wearing an oversized novelty Goofy hat the whole time.
After Disney World, we checked into a beautiful condo and worked our way over to Universal Studios. If Disney is your rich and fancy aunt that spoils you with too much gourmet ice cream and unlimited swimming in her fancy pool, leaving you feeling entitled and spoiled when you return to your reality, then Universal Studios is your trashy cousin that loves to party and will spend their entire tax return on booze and drugs and concert tickets to make sure that you have the time of your life for your 21st birthday. In essence, it's a smaller, cleaner Las Vegas with roller coasters instead of casinos.
Don't get me wrong about Universal though. If she's your trashy cousin, she works in the highest class strip club there is. Meaning, they know how to do it up there. I know this, not because of my limited theme park experience. Rather, I am a geek for a certain dark haired young man with round glasses and a scar on his forehead. Having read the Harry Potter series of books more times than I can count, not to mention I am the proud owner of the entire set of movies on Blue-Ray (thanks again to Paula), I am nothing short of an expert when it comes to Hogwarts and beyond, and they nailed it in the attraction The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The attention to detail was astounding and I was acting like a 13 year old girl at a One Direction (that's a boy band, right?) concert. We drank butter beer and we toured Hogwarts and we had wands chosen for us and we played in a quidditch match and I was almost taken away enough to blow $40 on a Gryffindor scarf (good try Universal, but I'm not that big of a sucker). Outside of Harry Potter, I had no other expectations of Universal. It ends up, it's a pretty amazing place and the attention to detail is in every part of it from Jurassic Park to The Simpsons. Unlike Disney, the employees there were a little more real life. Upon learning that Lucas was denied access to The Hulk roller coaster, the kid running Dr. Doom's Terrifying Death Drop From Hell (or whatever that awful ride was called) let him cut to the front of the line. AJ even got a free churro from a vendor for no reason. It's the little things that will keep you coming back again and again (even if it costs $20 for parking in addition the cost of entrance and food and human drying machines).
We spent one fine day of our vacation at the baby brother of the bigger theme parks, Legoland. My geekdom for Harry Potters pales in comparison to Lucas's obsession with Lego, and there are no shortage of blocks in this park. The rides were mediocre compared to the human blenders at Universal and Disney, but the Lego sculptures were phenomenal and the pace of the park was so nice and relaxed that it was worth the hour drive to get there. One of the attractions in the park is a driving school for kids. Before allowed out on the mini-streets to tote around in cars that look like a Lego version of the Subaru Justy I used to drive, the kids are required to take a driving course complete with video. While the other kids were shuffling around like jackasses, Lucas took this video and the directions given by the teenage ride staff very seriously. Once out on the rode, he followed the rules to the letter, but still ended up rear-ending another driver. "I'm honest, it wasn't my fault!" he said to us the second we found him after the ride. "I'm honest!" If I'm honest, he's already a better driver than me.
One of my favorite things about this vacation was taking Lucas to the ocean for the first time. We had some time to kill earlier in the trip and ended up at Cocoa Beach on a blustery day. That didn't stop Lucas from getting soaked chasing waves, with the biggest smile on his face that I'd ever seen. So we decided to head back to the same beach on our last day. The day was so pretty that I even shaved above the knee (a first time in February that I can remember), and laid in the sun on the beach proudly in my swimsuit with no cover up as if I was a young and hot cast member on 90210. Lucas jumped wave after wave after wave and we got sand in our hair and our treats and all over our clothes and it was nothing short of wonderful. I could have laid on that beach forever.
I'm not going to lie, it was tough to come home. Once we did get home, I actually missed my in-laws. We had such a great time, and got along so well, and things were so stress free I don't know that I can rightfully refer to it as a family vacation. Speaking on behalf of Shay, Lucas, and I, it was the rejuvenating get-away that we needed, and we are so grateful to Paula for making it happen and to Anthony (or Tony or AJ) to be there alongside us. Also, I owe thanks to my Facebook and Instagram followers for putting up with my endless posts, other people's trips can be so annoying. But you just read this horribly long blog, so I guess you don't mind too much. I hope you're not too jealous (though I understand if you are).
Sincerely,
h.
Family vacation, by definition and proven by several different scientific studies, is an experience in which one travels with immediate family to various locations to learn one's ability to cope with anger, frustration, and hatred for their respective kin in a smaller and more expensive environment than home. As with any rule or theory, there is always an exception, and I recently returned home from an exceptional family vacation.
My dear mother-in-law, Paula, decided a few years ago that she wanted to take her family on a dream vacation to Orlando, Florida and all it's attractions. She told Shay, Shay's brother Anthony (or AJ or Tony, depending on the circle you run in), and myself about this trip last spring so that we could secure time off. 12 sunny days in Florida leaving the inversion and suckiness of Idaho winter behind during February: can you just imagine? It was kept a secret from Lucas, Paula's one and only beloved grandson, until Christmas Day. Using the advent calendar that his grandma had made him, Lucas religiously counted down the days to our departure.
On the morning of February 1st, we boarded our flight to the Sunshine State, and hopped onto the Disney World bandwagon. No really, they provide a bus from the airport to your resort, televisions playing the whole time showing you what an amazing time you're going to have and that they do weird things like grow nine pound lemons and talk a lot about little girls becoming princesses at the "Bibbity-Bobbity-Botique" (no mention of the $$$ though). I'm not gonna lie, their propaganda works and I was stoked to get there, even with my initial disappointment of learning they didn't carry my size at the princess makeover shop.
We stayed at Disney World for the first five days of our trip. Initially, I was surprised by the sheer size of the place. It's huge. Miles huge. In Europe, it would be considered it's own country (non-participating in the EU, I'm sure). Because we were staying onsite, we were privy to using their shuttle buses from park to park, and no ride on the shuttle was less than 25 minutes. Disney World consists of four parks: The Magic Kingdom, EPCOT, Disney Hollywood Studios (formally MGM Grand) and The Animal Kingdom. Conveniently, they have developed technology they refer to as "Magic Bands" (yes, you can buy t-shirts in the gift shops that refer to the bands) that are a bracelet with a microchip installed in it (the bracelets, I should say, are ordered in your favorite color and have your name printed on the inside), which you use as your pass into the parks, key to your hotel room, and tender when making a purchase. They connect it to a credit card for you, so you don't have to carry those pesky things around! That way, when you finish your roller coaster and are walking through the associated gift shop at the end of the ride, you can buy that yeti-themed hat with Mickey ears on top without a second thought.
Supposedly we were at Disney during the slowest time of the year, which is strange because a lot of the time it felt as full and chaotic as a Wal-Mart on welfare check day. None-the-less, I'll give it to those Disney folks, they make every single person that walks through their gates feel special. Every little girl is a princess, every little boy is a hero, and every parent there is the best parent in the world, even if they are now officially broke or heavily in debt. The staff, or "cast members" (a very tricky way of getting around equal opportunity laws and paying staff a living wage), were always smiling, always spreading pixie dust, always sweeping the already spotless sidewalks and pavement, and always absolutely thrilled to be at work. One of my favorite things to do was to get a cast member to act like a real person; break away from the smile and the magic and say things like, "...my feet hurt," or "I told them three times to be in row 2 and 3 and look at them, scrambling around like a bunch of idiots. EXCUSE ME, ROWS 2 AND 3! YES, THAT'S RIGHT! All day every day, dealing with them." Those moments of human interaction felt like great accomplishments to me. We loved Disney World though, and thoroughly enjoyed our stay there. We ate so much amazing food, rode so many amazing rides, watched a handful of incredible shows, and walked about 3,000 miles, enjoying every step, Lucas wearing an oversized novelty Goofy hat the whole time.
After Disney World, we checked into a beautiful condo and worked our way over to Universal Studios. If Disney is your rich and fancy aunt that spoils you with too much gourmet ice cream and unlimited swimming in her fancy pool, leaving you feeling entitled and spoiled when you return to your reality, then Universal Studios is your trashy cousin that loves to party and will spend their entire tax return on booze and drugs and concert tickets to make sure that you have the time of your life for your 21st birthday. In essence, it's a smaller, cleaner Las Vegas with roller coasters instead of casinos.
Don't get me wrong about Universal though. If she's your trashy cousin, she works in the highest class strip club there is. Meaning, they know how to do it up there. I know this, not because of my limited theme park experience. Rather, I am a geek for a certain dark haired young man with round glasses and a scar on his forehead. Having read the Harry Potter series of books more times than I can count, not to mention I am the proud owner of the entire set of movies on Blue-Ray (thanks again to Paula), I am nothing short of an expert when it comes to Hogwarts and beyond, and they nailed it in the attraction The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The attention to detail was astounding and I was acting like a 13 year old girl at a One Direction (that's a boy band, right?) concert. We drank butter beer and we toured Hogwarts and we had wands chosen for us and we played in a quidditch match and I was almost taken away enough to blow $40 on a Gryffindor scarf (good try Universal, but I'm not that big of a sucker). Outside of Harry Potter, I had no other expectations of Universal. It ends up, it's a pretty amazing place and the attention to detail is in every part of it from Jurassic Park to The Simpsons. Unlike Disney, the employees there were a little more real life. Upon learning that Lucas was denied access to The Hulk roller coaster, the kid running Dr. Doom's Terrifying Death Drop From Hell (or whatever that awful ride was called) let him cut to the front of the line. AJ even got a free churro from a vendor for no reason. It's the little things that will keep you coming back again and again (even if it costs $20 for parking in addition the cost of entrance and food and human drying machines).
We spent one fine day of our vacation at the baby brother of the bigger theme parks, Legoland. My geekdom for Harry Potters pales in comparison to Lucas's obsession with Lego, and there are no shortage of blocks in this park. The rides were mediocre compared to the human blenders at Universal and Disney, but the Lego sculptures were phenomenal and the pace of the park was so nice and relaxed that it was worth the hour drive to get there. One of the attractions in the park is a driving school for kids. Before allowed out on the mini-streets to tote around in cars that look like a Lego version of the Subaru Justy I used to drive, the kids are required to take a driving course complete with video. While the other kids were shuffling around like jackasses, Lucas took this video and the directions given by the teenage ride staff very seriously. Once out on the rode, he followed the rules to the letter, but still ended up rear-ending another driver. "I'm honest, it wasn't my fault!" he said to us the second we found him after the ride. "I'm honest!" If I'm honest, he's already a better driver than me.
One of my favorite things about this vacation was taking Lucas to the ocean for the first time. We had some time to kill earlier in the trip and ended up at Cocoa Beach on a blustery day. That didn't stop Lucas from getting soaked chasing waves, with the biggest smile on his face that I'd ever seen. So we decided to head back to the same beach on our last day. The day was so pretty that I even shaved above the knee (a first time in February that I can remember), and laid in the sun on the beach proudly in my swimsuit with no cover up as if I was a young and hot cast member on 90210. Lucas jumped wave after wave after wave and we got sand in our hair and our treats and all over our clothes and it was nothing short of wonderful. I could have laid on that beach forever.
I'm not going to lie, it was tough to come home. Once we did get home, I actually missed my in-laws. We had such a great time, and got along so well, and things were so stress free I don't know that I can rightfully refer to it as a family vacation. Speaking on behalf of Shay, Lucas, and I, it was the rejuvenating get-away that we needed, and we are so grateful to Paula for making it happen and to Anthony (or Tony or AJ) to be there alongside us. Also, I owe thanks to my Facebook and Instagram followers for putting up with my endless posts, other people's trips can be so annoying. But you just read this horribly long blog, so I guess you don't mind too much. I hope you're not too jealous (though I understand if you are).
Sincerely,
h.
1.11.2014
A Brief and Unworthy Tribute to 2013
Dear Readers,
I've been wanting to write a blog for you all about this past year. About how I've transitioned and have grown into my favorite version of myself. About how Shay and I separated only to find a new way to be closer and better and love each other in a much more realistic and wonderful fashion. I've wanted to tell you that my mistakes may not have been mistakes at all but necessary messy turns on my life's path and though I'm sorry that I caused pain I'm not sorry that I've picked myself up and brushed myself off and found out that I am a pretty okay person. Have I mentioned that I broke the year up into three parts of development? 1) Mental health. 2) Physical health. 3) Financial health. And that by dissecting and disassembling and then finally rebuilding each piece of my life's pie I found my way out of sadness and grief and replaced them with peace of mind? In 2013 my dad was ill and that was scary and awful, but it reminded me how much I love and admire him. In the fall I learned to tap dance and learned that I'm not great at it. In December I found out that something I'd written had been accepted to be published, and I blushed and was excited and mortified at the same time. I learned the art of enjoying my home life and gained a fairly substantial distaste for being out late at night. I hung out with women: gracious, beautiful, smart, successful women, and found that their company is better than I ever imagined it could be with a bunch of girls. I said goodbye to some dear friends and shipped them off all over the country and the world. Really, there is so much I want to tell you about. But I don't know how to write it and I'm not certain that you care anyhow, and to be wholly honest some of it's too personal and some of it's me trying to say I'm sorry to people I have no business apologizing to and a bit of it is a type of therapy for me and maybe I just shouldn't be so open on the World Wide Web.
So instead, here's a piece I wrote at my writing group this morning that I feel pretty okay inside about. It's called "Rain or Dreams or Both".
Walking on the rooftops of barns I am careful to balance and take one step at a time one foot in front of the next. I am up so high and my arms are straight out as if I'm ready for flight. I smell the hay and the wind blows my hair.
The wind blows my hair.
I love my hair long and crazy and being pulled this way and that in your breezy fingers. I feel alive and I feel you. I always feel you in the wind. I hear your whispers and let you kiss me soft and sweet. It's not passionate it never was it's just you brushing your lips on my cheek and saying so quiet (but it screamed in my heart), "I love you so much I wish I could just show you."
You watch as I walk on the rooftops of barns I can't see you but I feel you and I know whether I fall or not you're going to catch me in your waiting arms and we'll embrace as if we haven't seen each other in years - which is the reality my friend. It's been far too long.
I love these days your poem etched into my eyelids as I keep them closed to enhance the smell taste feel of the plip plop rain.
The rain scent from the ground
Who else loves the wind and warmth?
Ending all pendings.
How did I get on top of this barn and why is it vital that I balance my clumsy self across it's roof? I have nothing to prove any more. I'm no longer a know-it-all rather a person of experience. My mistakes are my own and I treasure each and every one of them and pull them out from time to time to remind myself that I am capable of falling but able to fly and I love each and every scar like a child.
The barn is brown and not red and the sky is blue but in reality it's gray and murky and it's brooding and full and so obviously has something on it's mind. It's okay to cry, Sky. My path has led me to empathy and I understand, Sky. Hold my hand Sky and we'll walk across this rooftop together and we'll be wet with your rain and my tear but we won't be alone at these heights and our friend the wind will be there.
I love you too.
Sincerely,
h.
I've been wanting to write a blog for you all about this past year. About how I've transitioned and have grown into my favorite version of myself. About how Shay and I separated only to find a new way to be closer and better and love each other in a much more realistic and wonderful fashion. I've wanted to tell you that my mistakes may not have been mistakes at all but necessary messy turns on my life's path and though I'm sorry that I caused pain I'm not sorry that I've picked myself up and brushed myself off and found out that I am a pretty okay person. Have I mentioned that I broke the year up into three parts of development? 1) Mental health. 2) Physical health. 3) Financial health. And that by dissecting and disassembling and then finally rebuilding each piece of my life's pie I found my way out of sadness and grief and replaced them with peace of mind? In 2013 my dad was ill and that was scary and awful, but it reminded me how much I love and admire him. In the fall I learned to tap dance and learned that I'm not great at it. In December I found out that something I'd written had been accepted to be published, and I blushed and was excited and mortified at the same time. I learned the art of enjoying my home life and gained a fairly substantial distaste for being out late at night. I hung out with women: gracious, beautiful, smart, successful women, and found that their company is better than I ever imagined it could be with a bunch of girls. I said goodbye to some dear friends and shipped them off all over the country and the world. Really, there is so much I want to tell you about. But I don't know how to write it and I'm not certain that you care anyhow, and to be wholly honest some of it's too personal and some of it's me trying to say I'm sorry to people I have no business apologizing to and a bit of it is a type of therapy for me and maybe I just shouldn't be so open on the World Wide Web.
So instead, here's a piece I wrote at my writing group this morning that I feel pretty okay inside about. It's called "Rain or Dreams or Both".
Walking on the rooftops of barns I am careful to balance and take one step at a time one foot in front of the next. I am up so high and my arms are straight out as if I'm ready for flight. I smell the hay and the wind blows my hair.
The wind blows my hair.
I love my hair long and crazy and being pulled this way and that in your breezy fingers. I feel alive and I feel you. I always feel you in the wind. I hear your whispers and let you kiss me soft and sweet. It's not passionate it never was it's just you brushing your lips on my cheek and saying so quiet (but it screamed in my heart), "I love you so much I wish I could just show you."
You watch as I walk on the rooftops of barns I can't see you but I feel you and I know whether I fall or not you're going to catch me in your waiting arms and we'll embrace as if we haven't seen each other in years - which is the reality my friend. It's been far too long.
I love these days your poem etched into my eyelids as I keep them closed to enhance the smell taste feel of the plip plop rain.
The rain scent from the ground
Who else loves the wind and warmth?
Ending all pendings.
How did I get on top of this barn and why is it vital that I balance my clumsy self across it's roof? I have nothing to prove any more. I'm no longer a know-it-all rather a person of experience. My mistakes are my own and I treasure each and every one of them and pull them out from time to time to remind myself that I am capable of falling but able to fly and I love each and every scar like a child.
The barn is brown and not red and the sky is blue but in reality it's gray and murky and it's brooding and full and so obviously has something on it's mind. It's okay to cry, Sky. My path has led me to empathy and I understand, Sky. Hold my hand Sky and we'll walk across this rooftop together and we'll be wet with your rain and my tear but we won't be alone at these heights and our friend the wind will be there.
I love you too.
Sincerely,
h.
11.20.2013
A Thanksgiving Meal for the Books
Dear Readers,
For years I've been stiffing Lucas on attending his school's annual Thanksgiving meal. Usually with good reason (ie meetings, doctor's appointments, napping, etc.), but this year having run out of excuses and unable to handle his giant puppy dog eyes fraught with the disappointment of having the worst mom ever, I sent in my $3.25 along with my RSVP last week. With much excitement and anticipation, the day finally arrived!
The flyer said this would be a fancy affair, so Lucas selected his finest polyester clip on tie for the occasion. I wore a classic black dress, professional high heel shoes, and a jacket reminiscent of my doppelganger, Jackie O. Frankly, it seems to me that everyone else at the lunch missed the memo. There were a few dresses here and there, but most kids looked like they rolled out of bed and were simply rushed to school by hurried parents, can you imagine? Regardless of the poorly attired masses, Lucas and I stood smugly in line, trays in hand.
The lunch offerings for today were, as you can see, the classic Thanksgiving choices:
The menu was somewhat deceiving. For one thing, the "veggie bag" only contained carrots, where I feel that the name alludes to a variety of veggies. Also, there was no fruit that I can see, unless they were counting the weak looking sliced radishes on the "salad" bar as fruit. Before any of you ask, "Harvest Cake" appeared to be a brown colored spongy food item with a thin layer of white on top.
Lucas has very discerning tastes when it comes to his food. I know this, because he always likes what I make and often refers to me as the best cooker he knows. For that reason, I was a bit surprised that he went for the green beans over the veg bag, but I guess we all have our quirks. Here is he, anxiously awaiting his place at the kitchen window to pick up the rest of his grub:
Finally, after waiting for what seemed like minutes, it was our turn to get our meal. "Corn dogs or Turkey?" Asked the polite smiling woman in a hairnet. "Turkey please," said Lucas. "But no gravy please. That is gravy right? Sorry, I wasn't sure." Also opting for the turkey (with gravy), we both received a healthy plop of mashed potato product, a whole wheat roll, the highly anticipated Harvest Cake, and in Lucas' case, a slop of applesauce. Obviously we both selected chocolate milk to drink (does anyone drink white milk on purpose?). Here is my lunch tray, in all it's Thanksgiving glory:
The food aside, what really nailed down the holiday spirit of the occasion were the decorations:
At this point, I would like to just add a side note as a parent, as I feel like this might be a common occurrence. I have carried a hefty pile of guilt over the years for my lack of presence in Lucas' school life. I'm not/never will be the president of the PTA, I absolutely do not volunteer for classroom duties, I have a record of attending zero field trips, and to be honest it's a wonder that I remember to send treats for Lucas' birthday. There are a couple reasons for my lack of interests: other parents, and other children. There aren't many that I'm fond of. And I'm certain there are many that aren't fond of me. I swear a lot. I let Lucas play violent video games. I've already discussed sex and periods and the finer aspects of existentialism with my son. I even let him drink caffeinated soda from time to time. I find that because of these reasons (plus a gazillion others), there are only a handful of parents that I have common ground with. So all of that nonsense aside, me entering Lucas' school is me entering unknown territory. As mentioned earlier though, those puppy dog eyes kill me, so I said yes. Knowing how excited he was to have me join him, I was very much looking forward to the lunch! So I was very surprised at how much he ignored me once I was there. Apparently he wasn't expecting his worlds colliding to be such a weird thing. So rather than talk (thank goodness for his buddy Mason, keeping up the table's conversation for us!), he just shoveled his food in, Harvest Cake first.
A few quick spoonfuls of grub later, and he was ready to go out to recess and forget that this awkward encounter had ever happened. I was still "eating" (is there a word for pushing food items around on a tray?) when he said, "So, uh, you gonna stick around here for a while? Or maybe you should get back to work?" Which I took as a cue that our lunch date had come to an end. We handed our trays to the kitchen helper, who took one look at my messy swirl of uneaten food and said, "What, you on a diet or something?" and that was that. I did manage to get one last shot of my date though, much to his dismay ("No one else's parents are taking pictures!"):
Handsome, isn't he?
All joking aside, Roosevelt is an awesome school, and I love that they put this fancy day together. I am sorry that I chose the turkey over the corndogs though, and so for my own Thanksgiving meal will be preparing those instead. With a healthy plop of potatoes and veggie bag on the side.
Sincerely,
h.
For years I've been stiffing Lucas on attending his school's annual Thanksgiving meal. Usually with good reason (ie meetings, doctor's appointments, napping, etc.), but this year having run out of excuses and unable to handle his giant puppy dog eyes fraught with the disappointment of having the worst mom ever, I sent in my $3.25 along with my RSVP last week. With much excitement and anticipation, the day finally arrived!
The flyer said this would be a fancy affair, so Lucas selected his finest polyester clip on tie for the occasion. I wore a classic black dress, professional high heel shoes, and a jacket reminiscent of my doppelganger, Jackie O. Frankly, it seems to me that everyone else at the lunch missed the memo. There were a few dresses here and there, but most kids looked like they rolled out of bed and were simply rushed to school by hurried parents, can you imagine? Regardless of the poorly attired masses, Lucas and I stood smugly in line, trays in hand.
The lunch offerings for today were, as you can see, the classic Thanksgiving choices:
The menu was somewhat deceiving. For one thing, the "veggie bag" only contained carrots, where I feel that the name alludes to a variety of veggies. Also, there was no fruit that I can see, unless they were counting the weak looking sliced radishes on the "salad" bar as fruit. Before any of you ask, "Harvest Cake" appeared to be a brown colored spongy food item with a thin layer of white on top.
Lucas has very discerning tastes when it comes to his food. I know this, because he always likes what I make and often refers to me as the best cooker he knows. For that reason, I was a bit surprised that he went for the green beans over the veg bag, but I guess we all have our quirks. Here is he, anxiously awaiting his place at the kitchen window to pick up the rest of his grub:
Finally, after waiting for what seemed like minutes, it was our turn to get our meal. "Corn dogs or Turkey?" Asked the polite smiling woman in a hairnet. "Turkey please," said Lucas. "But no gravy please. That is gravy right? Sorry, I wasn't sure." Also opting for the turkey (with gravy), we both received a healthy plop of mashed potato product, a whole wheat roll, the highly anticipated Harvest Cake, and in Lucas' case, a slop of applesauce. Obviously we both selected chocolate milk to drink (does anyone drink white milk on purpose?). Here is my lunch tray, in all it's Thanksgiving glory:
The food aside, what really nailed down the holiday spirit of the occasion were the decorations:
At this point, I would like to just add a side note as a parent, as I feel like this might be a common occurrence. I have carried a hefty pile of guilt over the years for my lack of presence in Lucas' school life. I'm not/never will be the president of the PTA, I absolutely do not volunteer for classroom duties, I have a record of attending zero field trips, and to be honest it's a wonder that I remember to send treats for Lucas' birthday. There are a couple reasons for my lack of interests: other parents, and other children. There aren't many that I'm fond of. And I'm certain there are many that aren't fond of me. I swear a lot. I let Lucas play violent video games. I've already discussed sex and periods and the finer aspects of existentialism with my son. I even let him drink caffeinated soda from time to time. I find that because of these reasons (plus a gazillion others), there are only a handful of parents that I have common ground with. So all of that nonsense aside, me entering Lucas' school is me entering unknown territory. As mentioned earlier though, those puppy dog eyes kill me, so I said yes. Knowing how excited he was to have me join him, I was very much looking forward to the lunch! So I was very surprised at how much he ignored me once I was there. Apparently he wasn't expecting his worlds colliding to be such a weird thing. So rather than talk (thank goodness for his buddy Mason, keeping up the table's conversation for us!), he just shoveled his food in, Harvest Cake first.
A few quick spoonfuls of grub later, and he was ready to go out to recess and forget that this awkward encounter had ever happened. I was still "eating" (is there a word for pushing food items around on a tray?) when he said, "So, uh, you gonna stick around here for a while? Or maybe you should get back to work?" Which I took as a cue that our lunch date had come to an end. We handed our trays to the kitchen helper, who took one look at my messy swirl of uneaten food and said, "What, you on a diet or something?" and that was that. I did manage to get one last shot of my date though, much to his dismay ("No one else's parents are taking pictures!"):
Handsome, isn't he?
All joking aside, Roosevelt is an awesome school, and I love that they put this fancy day together. I am sorry that I chose the turkey over the corndogs though, and so for my own Thanksgiving meal will be preparing those instead. With a healthy plop of potatoes and veggie bag on the side.
Sincerely,
h.
10.28.2013
And That is the Breast of the Story
Dear Readers,
First off, let's just get this out of the way: if you're offended by things like breasts and hilarity, this blog post is not for you. Stop reading now, Google "baby animals" and enjoy the images. Otherwise, allow me to welcome you to the story of my morning.
Several years and at least three lifetimes ago when I was a young and dainty 16 years old, I was inducted into a study with the Huntsman Cancer Institute because my family carries the BRCA1 among many other renown gene mutations (ie the "Jackass Gene", "Relief Society Arm Gene", and the "Braegger Bug Eye Gene"). For those of you unfamiliar with BRCA1, it's the high risk breast cancer gene. You may recall Angeline Jolie having a mastectomy not long ago because she too has the mutation (we have so many things in common!). Anyhow, out of the three Badger girls, I won the gene lottery and inherited the mutation. What this means for me is that I go through a lot of extra studies and tests that normal girls my age don't have to go through, which leads me to today's blog.
A couple months ago I had my first mammogram. It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, though it was fairly quick and painless. The worst part was sitting in a small waiting room with three ladies who were at least 30 years older than me, and in the uncomfortable silence I blurted out, "What are the chances we'd all wear the same blouse?" referring to the hideous open-front hospital shirts we were wearing. Instead of a laugh or two, I got chided by one of the blue-haired ninnies who said, "I don't think now is the time for jokes!" Personally, I don't think there is a better time for jokes. Anyhow, after the mammogram and a very lengthy four hour long consultation with the St. Luke's High Risk Breast Cancer Clinic (which I must say is comprised with a lovely group of people. Seriously, they are the best!), the breast oncologist suggested that I get an MRI done as well. "Sure!" I said. "Whatever you think! Plus, I have a couple thousand bucks just sitting around that I'd love to spend!" And the appointment was made.
They called me last week to brief me on the MRI, and told me that I couldn't have anything to drink within two hours of my appointment (which was set for 8:45am). I woke up extra early this morning so I could follow their rules, but still have a cup of coffee. I mention this, because had I not done that this story may have ended in murder. But thankfully, I went into my appointment fully caffeinated. Wearing a dress with footless tights, the sweet lady checking me in says, "You'll probably be more comfy in your tights than scrub pants, so why don't you just keep them on? Just put on the scrub top and that should be fine!" I want to point out that I'm wearing tights: sheer, black tights. Not leggings. Not Spanx. Just one-step-away-from-nylons tights. And though tasteful, my undergarments are also sheer. Also, being a Badger girl and what not, I was born "ranch-ready", meaning most people don't want to see me gallivanting about in tight anything. So I step into the MRI room in my tights and a scrub shirt that barely covers my ass, and low and behold instead of the nice lady I had been working with, there stand two young and handsome male MRI techs!
Luckily, these young men were just as surprised to see me as I was them. Apparently not a lot of women under the age of 50 come into their unit for breast exams. Already, I'm mortified because it has occurred to me that they will be able to see right through my tights to my not appropriate at all for the occasion underpants, not to mention that I'll be completely exposed from the waste up. "Hi. Oh shit. Hi," I said (sorry Mom!). Fumbling his way through putting my IV in ("This is usually really easy for me!" He said), the youngster tells me to kneel on the MRI table, lift my shirt, and lower myself into the cutouts meant for my chestal region. So I do as I'm told, and as awkwardly as possible fall into the holes where I feel a lot like a dairy cow must while preparing to be milked. My butt exposed, the guy says, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if you have a blanket." To which I quickly replied, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if I have a blanket," and then added, "I'm sorry. I think I'm hilarious when I'm nervous. I should just say this is easily the most awkward situation I've ever been in, and I've been in a few." He laughed as he adjusted my womanhood into the holes, "Don't worry. This is awkward for me too, ha ha ha."
Finally, the adjusting is done, and I'm laying exposed and uncomfortable in a position that would never be appealing to anyone ever, and he sticks a set of headphones on me and asks me what radio station I prefer. "Radio Boise please, 89.9," I reply, at least relieved that I can listen to Antler Crafts while I'm stuck in a tube. "Sure thing! This should take about 40 minutes. It's really important that you don't move at all. Take small breaths. Don't cough. Any movement could really mess this up, and we'll have to start all over. Here we go!" He pushes me back into the machine, and starts piping music into my ears. It takes me two seconds to realize there's been a terrible mistake. Instead of 89.9, he set the radio dial to 89.5, the Christian Rock station, and here I am strapped face down to a board, udders swinging, unable to move for 40 hellish minutes listening to the awful, horrible sounds of "HOLY HOLY HOLY" ringing through my head. "I'm in Hell," I thought. "I'm a terrible person because I call people retarded and I laugh at jokes that I shouldn't laugh at and I really don't like dogs that much and I really hate some kids out there and I am now in Hell because I'm THE WORST."
Finally, 40 long minutes later, the hot guy comes in, pulls me out of the tube and removed the blasted headphones from my head. I'm dizzy from laying face down and he has to catch me as I stumble off of the MRI table (still exposed, mind you) helps me get dressed and practically pushes me out of the MRI room. I'm so thankful, so relieved to not be in this Christian Rock nightmare any more that it's only as I'm zipping up my dress that I realize that I still have the IV port in my arm. "Shit," I said again. It was my hope to never see these guys again. But instead, I stumble back into the MRI room and just hold out my arm without a word. "Oh, sorry about that," says the guy, quickly removing it, never making eye contact. As I walk out the room and towards the exit, I passed the gal who had checked me in, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She cheerfully said. I looked at her and looked away and kept walking without saying anything.
And that is the breast of the story.
Sincerely,
h.
First off, let's just get this out of the way: if you're offended by things like breasts and hilarity, this blog post is not for you. Stop reading now, Google "baby animals" and enjoy the images. Otherwise, allow me to welcome you to the story of my morning.
Several years and at least three lifetimes ago when I was a young and dainty 16 years old, I was inducted into a study with the Huntsman Cancer Institute because my family carries the BRCA1 among many other renown gene mutations (ie the "Jackass Gene", "Relief Society Arm Gene", and the "Braegger Bug Eye Gene"). For those of you unfamiliar with BRCA1, it's the high risk breast cancer gene. You may recall Angeline Jolie having a mastectomy not long ago because she too has the mutation (we have so many things in common!). Anyhow, out of the three Badger girls, I won the gene lottery and inherited the mutation. What this means for me is that I go through a lot of extra studies and tests that normal girls my age don't have to go through, which leads me to today's blog.
A couple months ago I had my first mammogram. It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, though it was fairly quick and painless. The worst part was sitting in a small waiting room with three ladies who were at least 30 years older than me, and in the uncomfortable silence I blurted out, "What are the chances we'd all wear the same blouse?" referring to the hideous open-front hospital shirts we were wearing. Instead of a laugh or two, I got chided by one of the blue-haired ninnies who said, "I don't think now is the time for jokes!" Personally, I don't think there is a better time for jokes. Anyhow, after the mammogram and a very lengthy four hour long consultation with the St. Luke's High Risk Breast Cancer Clinic (which I must say is comprised with a lovely group of people. Seriously, they are the best!), the breast oncologist suggested that I get an MRI done as well. "Sure!" I said. "Whatever you think! Plus, I have a couple thousand bucks just sitting around that I'd love to spend!" And the appointment was made.
They called me last week to brief me on the MRI, and told me that I couldn't have anything to drink within two hours of my appointment (which was set for 8:45am). I woke up extra early this morning so I could follow their rules, but still have a cup of coffee. I mention this, because had I not done that this story may have ended in murder. But thankfully, I went into my appointment fully caffeinated. Wearing a dress with footless tights, the sweet lady checking me in says, "You'll probably be more comfy in your tights than scrub pants, so why don't you just keep them on? Just put on the scrub top and that should be fine!" I want to point out that I'm wearing tights: sheer, black tights. Not leggings. Not Spanx. Just one-step-away-from-nylons tights. And though tasteful, my undergarments are also sheer. Also, being a Badger girl and what not, I was born "ranch-ready", meaning most people don't want to see me gallivanting about in tight anything. So I step into the MRI room in my tights and a scrub shirt that barely covers my ass, and low and behold instead of the nice lady I had been working with, there stand two young and handsome male MRI techs!
Luckily, these young men were just as surprised to see me as I was them. Apparently not a lot of women under the age of 50 come into their unit for breast exams. Already, I'm mortified because it has occurred to me that they will be able to see right through my tights to my not appropriate at all for the occasion underpants, not to mention that I'll be completely exposed from the waste up. "Hi. Oh shit. Hi," I said (sorry Mom!). Fumbling his way through putting my IV in ("This is usually really easy for me!" He said), the youngster tells me to kneel on the MRI table, lift my shirt, and lower myself into the cutouts meant for my chestal region. So I do as I'm told, and as awkwardly as possible fall into the holes where I feel a lot like a dairy cow must while preparing to be milked. My butt exposed, the guy says, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if you have a blanket." To which I quickly replied, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if I have a blanket," and then added, "I'm sorry. I think I'm hilarious when I'm nervous. I should just say this is easily the most awkward situation I've ever been in, and I've been in a few." He laughed as he adjusted my womanhood into the holes, "Don't worry. This is awkward for me too, ha ha ha."
Finally, the adjusting is done, and I'm laying exposed and uncomfortable in a position that would never be appealing to anyone ever, and he sticks a set of headphones on me and asks me what radio station I prefer. "Radio Boise please, 89.9," I reply, at least relieved that I can listen to Antler Crafts while I'm stuck in a tube. "Sure thing! This should take about 40 minutes. It's really important that you don't move at all. Take small breaths. Don't cough. Any movement could really mess this up, and we'll have to start all over. Here we go!" He pushes me back into the machine, and starts piping music into my ears. It takes me two seconds to realize there's been a terrible mistake. Instead of 89.9, he set the radio dial to 89.5, the Christian Rock station, and here I am strapped face down to a board, udders swinging, unable to move for 40 hellish minutes listening to the awful, horrible sounds of "HOLY HOLY HOLY" ringing through my head. "I'm in Hell," I thought. "I'm a terrible person because I call people retarded and I laugh at jokes that I shouldn't laugh at and I really don't like dogs that much and I really hate some kids out there and I am now in Hell because I'm THE WORST."
Finally, 40 long minutes later, the hot guy comes in, pulls me out of the tube and removed the blasted headphones from my head. I'm dizzy from laying face down and he has to catch me as I stumble off of the MRI table (still exposed, mind you) helps me get dressed and practically pushes me out of the MRI room. I'm so thankful, so relieved to not be in this Christian Rock nightmare any more that it's only as I'm zipping up my dress that I realize that I still have the IV port in my arm. "Shit," I said again. It was my hope to never see these guys again. But instead, I stumble back into the MRI room and just hold out my arm without a word. "Oh, sorry about that," says the guy, quickly removing it, never making eye contact. As I walk out the room and towards the exit, I passed the gal who had checked me in, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She cheerfully said. I looked at her and looked away and kept walking without saying anything.
And that is the breast of the story.
Sincerely,
h.
9.11.2013
Share With You
Most Saturdays, my friends Heidi and Catie and I meet around a small table outside of the Record Exchange and participate in what we like to call "Writing Group". It is, indeed, exactly as it sounds. We bring our notebooks and we buy our $1.00 cups of coffee and come up with topics and time our writing. Both Heidi and Catie are legitimate, talented writers. I just love to write, and feel honored that I get to sit at their table. After we finish a piece
, we take turns sharing what we've written. Only able to speak for myself, I find this practice to be both humbling and therapeutic, but more encouraging than anything. The writings from these sessions typically aren't "show pieces", rather rough drafts that may or may not grow up into bigger works. I've spurred some of my own writings into blogs on this very site.
Today, however, I would like to share with you something that I wrote at our last group. The topic, as given by Catie, was themed "Share With You". The idea came from a poem she read aloud to us, and it was a cleverly written list of things the writer would like to share with a child; in turn, we carried that theme into our own writings. It's an interesting thing to consider. Children are so much smarter than adults. They sop up their environments and like a biscuit. We adults do not give them nearly enough credit. We lie to them, thinking it's for their own good. We mock them, talk down to them, trick them. And they learn this from us! For shame, adults, for shame. Anyhow (sorry for the rant), I have read and re-read my own few paragraphs on the subject and thought, "That's not half bad." So I read and re-read my few paragraphs to Shay and he said, "That's actually good." (Always surprised at the good, that one). So I'm going to now share my few paragraphs with you, though it's nowhere near a show piece. However, I think the subject is thought provoking, and I would be remiss if I didn't encourage you to consider what you would share with a child in your own life.
Here goes nothing:
The Dalai Llama spoke to me once (granted it was through a television screen, but I'm absolutely sure that he was talking to me), and said that the transference of compassion is a natural occurrence at birth, a gift given only by the mother directly to the new-born human. A gift predetermined by biology. A gift the father, the doctor or midwife, the millions of other souls out there cannot possibly give. Only Mom. So when I gave birth to my baby, as young, as stupid as I was, my heart was overflowing with love and compassion and that darling baby boy (even with a hole in his heart!) accepted every ounce of that gift. Easily the most important thing to teach him. And all I had to do was birth him.
Now that the foundation is set, and his life in in progress, and he can rinse his dishes and unlock the front door and ride a bike and tie his shoes, my focus is teach him humanity, which can be counterintuitive to compassion. Say no. Set boundaries. Let your heart be broke, but not too broke. Listen to records that make you want to scratch the feeling from your feelings. Defy me. Prove me wrong. Stand your ground. Be tender. Be honest - always, horribly honest. Make mistakes, oh that's a big one. Even bigger? Recover from mistakes.
I teach and I teach and I have no idea I'm doing it. What a funny thing it is to discuss semantics and existentialism and death and love and space and time and everything - EVERYTHING - with a child. Fresh eyes and unblemished heart and virgin ideals. Who am I kidding? Cliche and obvious, he is my teacher. He is my sensei. And we just kind of stumble and learn from this life together.
There you have it! That was my piece. While I still have one foot remaining on my soapbox, I'd like to remind you: don't talk to kids, converse with them. Respect their ideas, their feelings, their incredibly fast growing brains. They are smarter than you. They learn how to yell from you. They will resent you for lying to them (yes, even you. Every lie you tell is just another reason to destroy their relationship with you when they get old enough to learn the truth). Now that you know, you're accountable. Sorry.
Special thanks to Heidi and Catie, I love you both. You make me a better writer and a better person.
Sincerely,
h.
8.03.2013
We're All People After All
Dear Readers,
Since my last post, I have tried and tried and tried again to write this particular blog, and failed at every attempt. I think the reason why is because I still had more to learn on the subject. I had the idea, the words jumbled in my head trying to make sense of each other, but they just wouldn't fall into place. So I started talking about it instead, at length with several of my friends. Gathering their experiences like berries, one after the other. Each story confirmed my thesis, however. And this blog is the result.
A few months ago, on Memorial Day in fact, I was sitting around the cherished yellow table in my parent's kitchen, chatting with my dad and Grandpa Jack about some family history my dad has been working on. His research and writings focus on a man named John Chamberline Badger, Grandpa Jack's grandpa. I've heard stories on this man at length, but never much about his wife, so I was asking questions about her. Grandpa, who is well into his nineties, recalled being a young child and having his Grandma Isabella calling him "Little John". He recounted some stories about her, but also about his childhood in general. One of which that sticks out to me was about him and his brothers swimming in the canal on hot days, then laying in the cool dirt on the canal banks in the sun to dry off. I loved this visual, and had a crystal clear picture of it in my head. It occurred to me (possibly for the first time) that my grandpa was a child at some point. He hadn't always been the older gentleman I've known for 30 some years. He had lived through the depression, World War II, owned a business, helped build a community, married my grandma, raised 4 children, and retired all before I was born. What? How is that possible? Grandparents are people.
A few weeks later, I was at that glorious place they call Banbury. This is the first summer I can recall that I didn't go swimming once. Rather I stayed around the campground, stuffing my face with as much food as possible, enjoying the conversations of my relatives. It was a special year, as all of the Braegger siblings were there, something that hasn't happened in years. Though I had heard several of the stories they have told before, hearing them as an adult was a completely different experience. Compound that with being an adult fresh out of crisis, and it made me especially senstive to the topics at hand. I have always (and probably always will) held my now deceased grandparents, Cal and Hazel, in the highest regard. From my early memories they shine as examples of compassion and nurturing. So it was surprising for me to hear stories of their struggles as a young couple raising a young family; the hardships put on their kids from moving around (even just from Rupert to Paul). Once again, I found myself in the place I had just a few weeks earlier, of realizing that entire lives were lived before I was even born; that mistakes had been made, that grudges had been carried, that they hadn't always been the people that I knew. Looking around the camp ground at my aunts and uncles, people that I love and adore and have cherished any amount of attention and love they have given me, and realizing that they are people to. That they've been faced with decisions and choices and not always making the best ones, that they have struggled and suffered. It made me feel better in a way, more adult and human, to know them and sit among them. Aunts and uncles are people.
My mom and dad are great people, there is no doubt of that. As it happens to most everyone, there have been a few ups and downs that have made us more aware of our fragility and humanity lately. It's days like these that you will find yourself vulnerable, which in my opinion is a blessing, because that's when you're at your most willing and able to acknowledge what's important and necessary and let go of the frivolities that can become so burdomsome. I'm not sure about you, but to see my parents in such a spot tears my heart open and turns the tables a bit, making me want to step into the roll of protector and swap duties with them for a while. I have friends who have done this; taken over the role of parent to their parent. Making sure food is on the table, that their siblings are cared for. Cleaning the house and burying dead pets. I have friends who have cared for their parents when they've lost their sanity or their health or in some cases both. I have friends who haven't spoken to their parents in years, who have walked away from a relationship that was never fostered to begin with. I have friends who blame their parents for their own weaknesses, who resent them for their money and their success, who feel that they will only let them down. I have friends who are best friends with their mom and dad, that can talk with them about everything from sex to politics, their beliefs and their fears, without a trace of shame or a hint of guilt and receive solid advice and unconditional love in return. I have learned lessons of humility and graciousness from my own parents this year, and I am grateful for that. I have learned also that there is so much about them that I don't know, that like my grandparents and aunts and uncles, they have lived entire lives before I was born. Though I don't know what nor do I know if it's my business to, they have made mistakes, have had heartbreak, and have maybe even stood in some of the same crossroads I have, having to make the decisions to go forward or back, or take a new road completely. I don't know why it's taken me so long, but I'm gladd to be at the age that I can see them this way, appreciate their humanity outside of their parenthood. My parents are people.
In twenty years or so, I wonder what Lucas will realize about his own parents. I wonder how he'll view us through those beautifully lashed eyes. It's easy for me to say right now that we'll always be close; that he will come to us with all of his problems and triumphs; that Shay and I will stand behind all of his choices and decisions. I wonder if he'll blame me for his tender heart when it gets broken for the first time or shake his fist at Shay for his overprotection. I can't imagine it now, and I hope beyond hope that everything will go flawlessly and he will live out every ounce of his potential and at the end of it all he'll say, "Thanks Mom and Dad!". But, it must be said, children are people.
I have to admit this overly wordy blog didn't turn out the way I had intended it to, but I think I got my point across none-the-less. It's nice to be at a point to look around and see everyone as peers and fellow humans. It's nice to learn and grow in my own humanity. As it ends up, I am people too.
Sincerely,
h.
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