Remember how I said I can't keep a secret and don't like surprises? Those two particular personality traits have been with me my whole life.
In my child's mind it only made sense to me that if I didn't like surprises then no one else did either. And if I knew a secret about a surprise I told it. Every time.
This particular quirk of mine caused a lot of problems for my brother.
He could keep a secret. And he did like surprises. A lot.
For whatever reason my mom often told me what she got my brother for presents, or what other people got him. Or maybe she didn't have a choice. I've always like to shop and my mom was notorious for giving in to me. I was her strong willed child.
So when she went out shopping I made it a point to tag along and didn't often take no for an answer. On a regular basis I spoiled Josh's birthday and Christmas surprises. He hated it, but I kept on doing it. The suspense was just too much for me to handle.
One year my mom got him a video game that he'd been wanting for his birthday and I told him. He was so mad. It didn't help that my mom found out that I'd spoiled the surprise, so she returned the video game and got him a watch instead. She's going to comment that she doesn't remember this at all. But I remember because I thought for sure I was going to be killed.
I'm getting off topic. We're talking about Christmas, not birthdays.
So anyway, at Christmas time the cycle continued. Santa presents were kept under wraps of course, because why would my mother know for sure what Santa was bringing? But from time to time I would know something that a relative was going to give Josh. And I think by this point we all know what I did with that information.
What is the average age that a child learns the truth about Santa? I'm guessing between eight and ten.
I was five.
I don't remember what the present was. I just know that I told him, and in retaliation he told me the truth about the big jolly guy in red. It wasn't good enough to just hit me, and he'd get in trouble for that for sure. So why not spill the beans?
Of course at first I didn't believe him. How could he possibly know? Had he ever been to the North Pole to see?
Josh set out to make sure there wasn't an ounce of belief left in me. He described, in detail, how he crept downstairs in the wee hours one Christmas morning to find our mother stuffing our stockings and piling presents under the tree.
I think I was momentarily distraught. No Santa? Really?
So I went and asked my mom. She could tell that I had way more information than a five year old should have, so instead of perpetuating the myth she gave in and told me the truth.
Then the skies opened up and the heavenly angels began to sing. No Santa! My mom was Santa!! I had a direct link to the source of the gift giving!!! No more writing letters!!!! No more sitting on some strange man's lap to try to get my message across!!!!!
I was experiencing Christmas "gimme" bliss.
My brother had inadvertently done me a gigantic favor. He had told the world's worst secret keeper the truth about the biggest secret in a child's life. I'm afraid his revenge didn't have quite the impact that he'd hoped for.
Somehow I was able to grasp the importance of this secret. My mom managed to convince me that my friends didn't want to know and it would be very bad if I told them. So, as far as I remember, I did manage to keep the secret from all of my school chums.
My knowledge of the truth never seemed to be a problem, with one small exception.
The next year, when I was in first grade, the teachers were making a bulletin board with students' letters to Santa. One-by-one they called us up so we could give our list and they could write our letter. When they got to me I told the teacher that Santa wasn't real and I didn't write him letters. I flat out refused to give my Christmas list until she asked me what I was asking my mother for that year.
When my letter appeared on the bulletin board it read, "Dear Santa," and I distinctly remember being upset by that. Hadn't I told her Santa wasn't real? Why did this grown-up keep insisting on the existence of a fake person? Clearly, she was delusional.
How did you learn the truth about Santa?
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Kid-speak
Several years ago, when I was in college, I spent a summer working in a preschool in my hometown. I was in the two year old room which provided many laugh-out-loud moments throughout the months I was there.
One morning in particular stands out in my mind.
One of the students, a little boy, had an amazing memory. He could look at a map of the US and point out all 50 states and tell you their capitols. It was really impressive. This is usually how he filled his mornings before everyone got there and the day began. He did it so much that by the end of the summer I could recite them all from memory without looking at a map.
Each morning he'd sit down with the map and begin to recite everything he knew. It didn't matter if anyone was listening. He just liked to do it. But often the other students would watch him for a few minutes to see if they could beat him to North Carolina.
For the most part he didn't need any help, but once in a while he would get confused and have to ask which state was which.
This was one of those mornings. He got to a state and asked, "Miss S! Which state is this?" I looked over his shoulder and replied, "Oh. That's Utah."
At which point another student, a little girl who'd been watching the whole thing, assumed an air of complete offense and said, "Hey! I'm tall too!"
Ba-dum-bum
I didn't laugh right away. I just told her that she was indeed tall too and walked away to turn my back and laugh. She wasn't tall. She was the shortest kid in the class. But she didn't know that and that's the only thing that matters.
One morning in particular stands out in my mind.
One of the students, a little boy, had an amazing memory. He could look at a map of the US and point out all 50 states and tell you their capitols. It was really impressive. This is usually how he filled his mornings before everyone got there and the day began. He did it so much that by the end of the summer I could recite them all from memory without looking at a map.
Each morning he'd sit down with the map and begin to recite everything he knew. It didn't matter if anyone was listening. He just liked to do it. But often the other students would watch him for a few minutes to see if they could beat him to North Carolina.
For the most part he didn't need any help, but once in a while he would get confused and have to ask which state was which.
This was one of those mornings. He got to a state and asked, "Miss S! Which state is this?" I looked over his shoulder and replied, "Oh. That's Utah."
At which point another student, a little girl who'd been watching the whole thing, assumed an air of complete offense and said, "Hey! I'm tall too!"
Ba-dum-bum
I didn't laugh right away. I just told her that she was indeed tall too and walked away to turn my back and laugh. She wasn't tall. She was the shortest kid in the class. But she didn't know that and that's the only thing that matters.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
On a snowy day in January long, long ago
I'm really only guessing it was in January. It could have been March. Mom? Josh? Are you there? Do you remember when this happened?
Things I remember about this very snowy day:
The house we grew up in had a wood stove that we used for heat. On snowy days we would go outside and tromp around, getting lots of snow stuck to ourselves. My favorite part was when we were back inside we would pull the clumps of snow off our clothes and throw them onto the side of the wood stove. Watching it sizzle and evaporate was the best part of playing in the snow. Standing there in the heat from the stove, careful never to touch it, we had the most fun. There was something about the snow outside and the comfort the stove provided. It made me feel peaceful.
Despite all of that, this particular day, the day we made the giant snowman, has stayed with me as one of the happiest days of my childhood. I don't remember the cold, but I remember spending time with my mom and brother and the sense of accomplishment we all felt when the snowman was complete. It was a day spent in total carefree frivolity. No worries, save to finish the snowman.
It was a day spent in love.
Things I remember about this very snowy day:
- I was wearing a pair of my mom's snow boots
- In order to keep the boots on and make sure no snow got inside them my feet were covered with plastic bags
- Walking around was slippery
- When we started you couldn't see the grass in the yard
- At the end you could
- I wasn't much help because I was small (and undoubtedly whiny)
- Most of my time was spent walking around behind my mom and brother while they rolled this giant snow ball around the yard
- I took my job as snowman cheerleader very seriously
- Probably not. Most likely I kept asking if we were going inside soon.
- They used all the snow in the front yard for the body and had to go to the back yard to build the head
- When we were done Josh and I posed proudly for a photo next to our snowman
- A snowman that I had very little hand in making
- My mother is very generous
The house we grew up in had a wood stove that we used for heat. On snowy days we would go outside and tromp around, getting lots of snow stuck to ourselves. My favorite part was when we were back inside we would pull the clumps of snow off our clothes and throw them onto the side of the wood stove. Watching it sizzle and evaporate was the best part of playing in the snow. Standing there in the heat from the stove, careful never to touch it, we had the most fun. There was something about the snow outside and the comfort the stove provided. It made me feel peaceful.
Despite all of that, this particular day, the day we made the giant snowman, has stayed with me as one of the happiest days of my childhood. I don't remember the cold, but I remember spending time with my mom and brother and the sense of accomplishment we all felt when the snowman was complete. It was a day spent in total carefree frivolity. No worries, save to finish the snowman.
It was a day spent in love.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A hairy situation
Sorry for the delay in posts. I've been really busy getting back into the married routine. It's scary how easily that can slip away. 11 short days without Andy and it's like was single again.
So anyway.
Back during my blog-cation, when I cleaned out my old teenage bedroom I found a folder from my days in Advanced Placement Junior English class.
Can I just tell you this thing has some real treasures inside of it.
It's kind of frightening to see inside my brain from ten years ago.
But I came across something that I knew I needed to share with all of you. Because it's priceless.
You see, in that class we had a student teacher for part of the year. That's no big deal, really. I've had my fair share of student teachers, but this particular student is permanently burned into my brain, never to be forgotten.
Her name was Miss Diana. We never really knew if that was her first name or last name, but that's what we called her.
Miss Diana was what some might call a hippie. She lived in the mountains (where I live now, but then I lived in the foothills) and she didn't have a home. Though you couldn't consider her homeless because she lived that way by choice. I don't remember if she lived in a tent or a tepee, but I've always imagined her in a tepee. Mostly because when she said she lived outside it conjured up images of Eustace Conway in my head so I've always visualized her in a tepee wearing moccasins.
One of the first things we learned about our new teacher was that she had had surgery to remove a brain tumor. The surgery had been a success and she was fine, but they had shaved her head. By doing so they had removed a most vital part of her appearance - her dreadlocks.
One of the exercises that Miss Diana liked doing with us was word association. Someone would say a word and the next person would say whatever word that came to mind next. In short order we took it to the next level to flex our creative writing skills and we would be given a word or an object to write a small paragraph about. We were supposed to just let the words flow out of our minds and into our pencils. Whatever we were thinking.
Then one day Miss Diana came in with a large brown paper bag. We had assumed our usual position by arranging our desks in a circle (there were only nine of us) and waited for class to commence.
Miss Diana removed her bundle to show us what our writing topic would be about that day.
Do you see where this is going?
Out of the bag came a huge pile of dreadlocks. Miss Diana's beloved dreadlocks, that she had saved from the garbage when they shaved her head for surgery.
Ho-ly shit!
I think she may have tried at one point to pass the hairball around the circle and I'm not so sure that any of us were brave enough to get that close. Eventually the hair ended up perched on a table in front of us and we were instructed to "let the words flow" as per usual.
The following is, verbatim, what I wrote that day:
So anyway.
Back during my blog-cation, when I cleaned out my old teenage bedroom I found a folder from my days in Advanced Placement Junior English class.
Can I just tell you this thing has some real treasures inside of it.
It's kind of frightening to see inside my brain from ten years ago.
But I came across something that I knew I needed to share with all of you. Because it's priceless.
You see, in that class we had a student teacher for part of the year. That's no big deal, really. I've had my fair share of student teachers, but this particular student is permanently burned into my brain, never to be forgotten.
Her name was Miss Diana. We never really knew if that was her first name or last name, but that's what we called her.
Miss Diana was what some might call a hippie. She lived in the mountains (where I live now, but then I lived in the foothills) and she didn't have a home. Though you couldn't consider her homeless because she lived that way by choice. I don't remember if she lived in a tent or a tepee, but I've always imagined her in a tepee. Mostly because when she said she lived outside it conjured up images of Eustace Conway in my head so I've always visualized her in a tepee wearing moccasins.
One of the first things we learned about our new teacher was that she had had surgery to remove a brain tumor. The surgery had been a success and she was fine, but they had shaved her head. By doing so they had removed a most vital part of her appearance - her dreadlocks.
One of the exercises that Miss Diana liked doing with us was word association. Someone would say a word and the next person would say whatever word that came to mind next. In short order we took it to the next level to flex our creative writing skills and we would be given a word or an object to write a small paragraph about. We were supposed to just let the words flow out of our minds and into our pencils. Whatever we were thinking.
Then one day Miss Diana came in with a large brown paper bag. We had assumed our usual position by arranging our desks in a circle (there were only nine of us) and waited for class to commence.
Miss Diana removed her bundle to show us what our writing topic would be about that day.
Do you see where this is going?
Out of the bag came a huge pile of dreadlocks. Miss Diana's beloved dreadlocks, that she had saved from the garbage when they shaved her head for surgery.
Ho-ly shit!
I think she may have tried at one point to pass the hairball around the circle and I'm not so sure that any of us were brave enough to get that close. Eventually the hair ended up perched on a table in front of us and we were instructed to "let the words flow" as per usual.
The following is, verbatim, what I wrote that day:
I see hair. I don't have a lot to say about it. Acctually I don't have anything to say about it. I'm sitting here straining my brain for something to write. My mind is blank. My mind is blank a lot of times but right now it is really empty. I guess sometimes that can be a good thing. I know it is for me because when I have too much on my mind and I think a lot about it, I have a bad habit of picking at my cuticles and they end up looking really bad like they do now. They really look bad right now because I've had a lot on my mind lately. But I don't anymore so my cuticles can heal now.
Analyze that.
A blank mind? I think not. What I was really thinking was, "OH! MY! GOD! I can't believe she actually saved that! And then she brought it here to infest us all with lice and disease! I wonder where she keeps that inside her tepee?!"
You see, my momma raised me right. Saying what I really thought would have seriously hurt Miss Diana's feelings and I couldn't let that happen. Even if I thought she should immediately take the dreadlocks outside and set them on fire I would never tell her that to her face. Sometimes lying is a good thing.
It's also a good thing that I didn't have to say anything out loud about it because I'm not so good at keeping my face under control. As it was she probably could tell exactly what I was thinking if she looked at me for more than five seconds. I'm pretty sure I remember a similar reaction on the faces of all eight of my class mates. That was a tense day in English class.
When she finally put the hair back in the bag there was a collective sigh of relief.
I don't know what happened to Miss Diana. She finished her student teaching, we threw a farewell party and then she was gone.
I hope she found a more solid living arrangement. It gets cold up here in the winter.
Also, if she grew her hair back out and started some new dreadlocks I hope she burned the old ones.
A blank mind? I think not. What I was really thinking was, "OH! MY! GOD! I can't believe she actually saved that! And then she brought it here to infest us all with lice and disease! I wonder where she keeps that inside her tepee?!"
You see, my momma raised me right. Saying what I really thought would have seriously hurt Miss Diana's feelings and I couldn't let that happen. Even if I thought she should immediately take the dreadlocks outside and set them on fire I would never tell her that to her face. Sometimes lying is a good thing.
It's also a good thing that I didn't have to say anything out loud about it because I'm not so good at keeping my face under control. As it was she probably could tell exactly what I was thinking if she looked at me for more than five seconds. I'm pretty sure I remember a similar reaction on the faces of all eight of my class mates. That was a tense day in English class.
When she finally put the hair back in the bag there was a collective sigh of relief.
I don't know what happened to Miss Diana. She finished her student teaching, we threw a farewell party and then she was gone.
I hope she found a more solid living arrangement. It gets cold up here in the winter.
Also, if she grew her hair back out and started some new dreadlocks I hope she burned the old ones.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Photogenic Friday: Another childhood memory
Another item found among my old belongings was this sweater:
I loved this sweater with all of my heart. First of all, it's purple. Anything purple had me at hello. Secondly it has Miss Piggy on it.
Growing up Miss Piggy was my hero. I wanted to be her. It didn't matter that she was a pig because Miss Piggy was fa-bu-lous!
My brother used to pretend he was Kermit and I would pretend that I was Miss Piggy. (Ok weirdos, I know what you're thinking. Kermit and MP were boyfriend and girlfriend. Eww! It just happened that he liked Kermit and I liked MP. We liked to play Muppets, ok! Gesh! Also, if I remember correctly Josh was every other muppet too, but I refused to pretend to be anything but MP.)
Moving on...
I used to talk to my family in my Miss Piggy voice. I'd wear my purple sweater around and talk like Miss Piggy all day long.
Apparently I did it so much that my grandfather started to worry I'd never stop. He asked my grandmother if they shouldn't do something about it. Do what I don't know. Maybe he thought I needed to see a therapist.
Look at the label! I love that it's made by Calamity Jane!
Was I ever really this small?
If only they made it in adult sizes. I would totally rock it out.
Have a great weekend interwebs!
I loved this sweater with all of my heart. First of all, it's purple. Anything purple had me at hello. Secondly it has Miss Piggy on it.
Growing up Miss Piggy was my hero. I wanted to be her. It didn't matter that she was a pig because Miss Piggy was fa-bu-lous!My brother used to pretend he was Kermit and I would pretend that I was Miss Piggy. (Ok weirdos, I know what you're thinking. Kermit and MP were boyfriend and girlfriend. Eww! It just happened that he liked Kermit and I liked MP. We liked to play Muppets, ok! Gesh! Also, if I remember correctly Josh was every other muppet too, but I refused to pretend to be anything but MP.)
Moving on...
I used to talk to my family in my Miss Piggy voice. I'd wear my purple sweater around and talk like Miss Piggy all day long.
Apparently I did it so much that my grandfather started to worry I'd never stop. He asked my grandmother if they shouldn't do something about it. Do what I don't know. Maybe he thought I needed to see a therapist.
Look at the label! I love that it's made by Calamity Jane!
Was I ever really this small?
If only they made it in adult sizes. I would totally rock it out.Have a great weekend interwebs!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A wedding story
As I've already told you, I spent some time last month assisting my mother in cleaning out my old bedroom.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. I spent several hours sorting through a mountain of junk. Things that ten, or even five, years ago I wouldn't have dreamed of ever parting with. But when all was said and done I did bid farewell to most of it. Some things went to thrift shops, but a large amount of my previously loved possessions were carted off to the dump. What a difference ten years can make.
There was a small mountain left for me to take home and distribute into the proper places in our apartment.
One of those things was a teddy bear that I'd had since I was born (I think).
I had a lot of toys growing up, but none were more treasured than my stuffed animals. I had A LOT of stuffed animals and they all had names and they were all important to me.
This one teddy bear has remained so because of a certain journey it took with my four year old self.
The summer of my fourth year my Aunt Pam got married. I was her flower girl and my brother was her ring bearer.
If you know me and how much I love weddings you'll know that I was over the moon with excitement.
One weekend, about a month before the wedding, Josh and I went to visit our dad. I have no recollection of this weekend, or the events that took place, but my mother and grandmother tell me that I took the teddy bear with me. And when I came home I announced that the teddy's name was Ashley bear and I would not, under any circumstances, be in the wedding without her.
Having since been a bride myself I can only imagine what my beloved aunt was thinking upon this new revelation from the youngest member of her wedding party.
From what I have since been told she washed her hands of the situation and told my mother and grandmother to deal with it. She didn't care how they dealt with it, as long as she didn't have to.
So, my grandmother got to sewing and viola! Ashley bear became Ashley, the wedding bear. She had a dress identical to mine (even down to the slip) and a hair bow to top off the ensemble.
The big day came and Ashley bear sauntered down the aisle with me. And with my brother because once I saw all those eyes looking up the aisle at me all the excitement went away to be replaced with terror. No way in hell was I walking down that aisle alone. So down we went, Ashley bear under one elbow, my brother's arm under the other and my little fist clutching to my flower basket for dear life.
Incidentally I was too paralyzed with fear to drop a single petal. That is, until the end of the ceremony when Josh and I were supposed to walk back up the aisle and I realized my basket was still full. So I dumped the entire contents right there at my feet, took my brother's arm and back up the aisle we went. My head was held high on this second trip. I'd done my job!
So you see how Ashley bear has always had a special place in my heart.
And can you believe that my aunt and uncle named their first child Ashley; after my Ashley bear?
Ok, I'm only kidding. My Uncle Todd's first name is Ashley and she was named after him. My bear's name was purely coincidental.
There's a little more to the wedding story though.
20 years after my first wedding?
I got married myself.
That first born child? She was my maid of honor.
My niece, who was also four, was my flower girl.
She didn't carry a bear. But my nephew did.
Neither of them freaked out like I did. They made their way proudly down the aisle. I think they thought the whole thing was pretty fun.
So for now Ashley bear is living in a box to keep her from getting dirty. One day maybe she'll have a nice shelf in another little girl's room to live on.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. I spent several hours sorting through a mountain of junk. Things that ten, or even five, years ago I wouldn't have dreamed of ever parting with. But when all was said and done I did bid farewell to most of it. Some things went to thrift shops, but a large amount of my previously loved possessions were carted off to the dump. What a difference ten years can make.
There was a small mountain left for me to take home and distribute into the proper places in our apartment.
One of those things was a teddy bear that I'd had since I was born (I think).
I had a lot of toys growing up, but none were more treasured than my stuffed animals. I had A LOT of stuffed animals and they all had names and they were all important to me.
This one teddy bear has remained so because of a certain journey it took with my four year old self.
The summer of my fourth year my Aunt Pam got married. I was her flower girl and my brother was her ring bearer.
If you know me and how much I love weddings you'll know that I was over the moon with excitement.
One weekend, about a month before the wedding, Josh and I went to visit our dad. I have no recollection of this weekend, or the events that took place, but my mother and grandmother tell me that I took the teddy bear with me. And when I came home I announced that the teddy's name was Ashley bear and I would not, under any circumstances, be in the wedding without her.
Having since been a bride myself I can only imagine what my beloved aunt was thinking upon this new revelation from the youngest member of her wedding party.
From what I have since been told she washed her hands of the situation and told my mother and grandmother to deal with it. She didn't care how they dealt with it, as long as she didn't have to.
So, my grandmother got to sewing and viola! Ashley bear became Ashley, the wedding bear. She had a dress identical to mine (even down to the slip) and a hair bow to top off the ensemble.
The big day came and Ashley bear sauntered down the aisle with me. And with my brother because once I saw all those eyes looking up the aisle at me all the excitement went away to be replaced with terror. No way in hell was I walking down that aisle alone. So down we went, Ashley bear under one elbow, my brother's arm under the other and my little fist clutching to my flower basket for dear life.
Incidentally I was too paralyzed with fear to drop a single petal. That is, until the end of the ceremony when Josh and I were supposed to walk back up the aisle and I realized my basket was still full. So I dumped the entire contents right there at my feet, took my brother's arm and back up the aisle we went. My head was held high on this second trip. I'd done my job!
So you see how Ashley bear has always had a special place in my heart.
And can you believe that my aunt and uncle named their first child Ashley; after my Ashley bear?
Ok, I'm only kidding. My Uncle Todd's first name is Ashley and she was named after him. My bear's name was purely coincidental.
There's a little more to the wedding story though.
20 years after my first wedding?
I got married myself.
That first born child? She was my maid of honor.
My niece, who was also four, was my flower girl.
She didn't carry a bear. But my nephew did.
Neither of them freaked out like I did. They made their way proudly down the aisle. I think they thought the whole thing was pretty fun.So for now Ashley bear is living in a box to keep her from getting dirty. One day maybe she'll have a nice shelf in another little girl's room to live on.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Not my first time at the rodeo
Sorry for the dismal lack of blogging lately. My only excuse is an equally dismal lack of activity in my life. I really have nothing to share other than how much this whole recovery process continues to suck and how glad I'll be when it's all over and behind me.
As I have a very low tolerance for whiny people it isn't exactly fair for me to make my blog a whine fest either. So there you have it.
How is the recovery? Going well. I've kind of come to the end of the process where I make leaps and bounds towards being healthy. The process from here is going to be slow and tedious. I'm not a slow and tedious kind of person, so I'm not looking forward to the next six to twelve months. When there are updates to give I'll give them.
I'm getting around much better and driving again so I'd like to put the whole mess behind me. As much as I can anyway. Largely I'm to the point where I can get on with living my life. There are only a few things holding me back right now and as I said it's going to be a while before everything is back to normal. There isn't anything that I can't work around so I'm making preparations to return to the land of every day ho-hum life.
I just wanted to tell you one more thing before I stop waxing poetic about this accident and how it has thrown me for a loop. Something that has been on my mind lately.
You know the saying, "misery loves company"? It's so very true. For the last two months I can't tell you how many stories I've heard about other people's car crash experiences. Whose fault it was. How scary it was. What injuries they sustained. How scary and painful it all was for them.
Perfect strangers have confided in me their most horrific experiences. I guess it's their way of saying they know how I feel and that it'll get better. I don't mind really. I actually kind of welcome their confidences. It's nice to have someone to commiserate with.
What strikes me about all of this is how many of those people didn't just tell me about one accident they had. A lot of them were involved in multiple accidents. It has brought to mind my own car crash experiences.
I had a couple of fender bender accidents in my Jeep, but two months ago was the first time my car sustained any real damage. As you know it was serious damage.
The only other accident I've been in was twenty years ago when I was seven.
It was the summer of 1989 shortly before I was supposed to start second grade.
There are some uncanny similarities between my two crashes. First, they were both head on collisions where another car was on my side of the road. Second, in both accidents I sustained the worst injuries out of everyone involved. Third, my face took the brunt of the injuries.
Of course I wasn't driving twenty years ago. My mother was. I was in the back seat and my brother was in the front with my mom. This was before all of the seat belt laws. Seat belts were more of a suggestion than a rule, so my mother and I were sans seat belts. My brother, goody-two-shoes that he was, never got into the car without strapping in. He was ahead of his time I guess.
Anyway, I was in the back eating a sugar daddy. I didn't really like sugar daddy's then and I haven't eaten one since. But I was chowing down on my sugar daddy and all I remember is hearing my mom scream and then I blacked out. The next thing I remember is my mom hovering over me piling tissues on my face. She spread a blanket on the ground and pulled me out of the car to sit with me on the blanket. Then she sent my brother to get help.
The accident happened on a dirt road that was really only driven by people like us who lived on it. This was also pre-cell phone invasion so the only thing to do was go to the nearest neighbor's house.
My mom's head had hit the windshield and cracked it, but she hadn't cut her head and since I was bleeding pretty badly she was more worried about me than herself. The best anyone could figure is that upon impact I flew up and hit the back of the driver's seat cutting my eyelid.
I remember that my grandparents came and took me to the hospital in their old Gran Torino. My grandfather couldn't be bothered with things like checking in at the front desk so he pulled right into the ambulance entrance and made them take me strait back into the emergency department. This always made me laugh because what if there had been a real emergency that day? I guess to my grandfather my uncontrollable bleeding was an emergency, so oh well.
The nurse checked my vision first and I remember her asking me how many fingers she was holding up. Then they got me ready to get stitched up. Have you ever had a needle poked into your eye? I don't recommend it. I screamed really loud and my grandmother had to put her head between her legs so she wouldn't pass out.
Once I was all numbed up though it really wasn't bad and I calmed down. The doctor talked to me through the whole thing and I told him about my pink ballet costume I had worn in my recital. He told me he was color blind and didn't know what pink looked like but he was sure it was very pretty. I didn't even know color blindness existed and that little piece of news pretty much shattered my world. As far as I was concerned, at seven years old, this poor man must have been a shambles not to be able to see pink.
As a whole my first car crash experience was pleasant compared to my most recent.
I remember felling ugly and concerned what the other students would think of me when I returned to school. I still have a scar that is unnoticeable to anyone but me. For me it's an annoyance mostly because it lies right in my eyelid crease and can make even eyeshadow application difficult.
I hope soon my new injuries are unnoticeable. I pray that in another year it will be like it never happened and I'll be able to look back on it all and laugh. Well, I don't know if I'll ever laugh about it, but at least it will be a cautionary tale I can tell my children and grandchildren. I can tell them how lucky they are that they're alive because I am lucky and blessed to be here. I can warn them to be aware when they're driving; to be courteous to other people on the road because their actions don't just affect them.
If, in another twenty years, I'm involved in another car crash it will be too soon.
My family learned a valuable lesson from that crash on a hot summer day in 1989: always wear your seat belt. My brother came out completely unscathed.
My lesson learned this time? Well, I'm not sure I'm done learning from this one yet, but patience, positive thinking, and forgiveness are at the top of my list.
I could say I've learned my lesson about air bags, and in a way I have. Andy has forbidden me to buy a car without air bags and I've agreed, on one condition. I have a love for old Jeeps, as you well know, and my dream car is a fully restored Grand Wagoner. Those don't come with air bags. So, I'm allowed to buy one eventually as long as it doesn't serve as my primary mode of transportation. I can live with that.
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My dismal lack of activity is about to end. Out of the next eight Saturdays I only have two free. Prepare yourselves for a barage of cute kid pictures and family shenanigans.
As I have a very low tolerance for whiny people it isn't exactly fair for me to make my blog a whine fest either. So there you have it.
How is the recovery? Going well. I've kind of come to the end of the process where I make leaps and bounds towards being healthy. The process from here is going to be slow and tedious. I'm not a slow and tedious kind of person, so I'm not looking forward to the next six to twelve months. When there are updates to give I'll give them.
I'm getting around much better and driving again so I'd like to put the whole mess behind me. As much as I can anyway. Largely I'm to the point where I can get on with living my life. There are only a few things holding me back right now and as I said it's going to be a while before everything is back to normal. There isn't anything that I can't work around so I'm making preparations to return to the land of every day ho-hum life.
I just wanted to tell you one more thing before I stop waxing poetic about this accident and how it has thrown me for a loop. Something that has been on my mind lately.
You know the saying, "misery loves company"? It's so very true. For the last two months I can't tell you how many stories I've heard about other people's car crash experiences. Whose fault it was. How scary it was. What injuries they sustained. How scary and painful it all was for them.
Perfect strangers have confided in me their most horrific experiences. I guess it's their way of saying they know how I feel and that it'll get better. I don't mind really. I actually kind of welcome their confidences. It's nice to have someone to commiserate with.
What strikes me about all of this is how many of those people didn't just tell me about one accident they had. A lot of them were involved in multiple accidents. It has brought to mind my own car crash experiences.
I had a couple of fender bender accidents in my Jeep, but two months ago was the first time my car sustained any real damage. As you know it was serious damage.
The only other accident I've been in was twenty years ago when I was seven.
It was the summer of 1989 shortly before I was supposed to start second grade.
There are some uncanny similarities between my two crashes. First, they were both head on collisions where another car was on my side of the road. Second, in both accidents I sustained the worst injuries out of everyone involved. Third, my face took the brunt of the injuries.
Of course I wasn't driving twenty years ago. My mother was. I was in the back seat and my brother was in the front with my mom. This was before all of the seat belt laws. Seat belts were more of a suggestion than a rule, so my mother and I were sans seat belts. My brother, goody-two-shoes that he was, never got into the car without strapping in. He was ahead of his time I guess.
Anyway, I was in the back eating a sugar daddy. I didn't really like sugar daddy's then and I haven't eaten one since. But I was chowing down on my sugar daddy and all I remember is hearing my mom scream and then I blacked out. The next thing I remember is my mom hovering over me piling tissues on my face. She spread a blanket on the ground and pulled me out of the car to sit with me on the blanket. Then she sent my brother to get help.
The accident happened on a dirt road that was really only driven by people like us who lived on it. This was also pre-cell phone invasion so the only thing to do was go to the nearest neighbor's house.
My mom's head had hit the windshield and cracked it, but she hadn't cut her head and since I was bleeding pretty badly she was more worried about me than herself. The best anyone could figure is that upon impact I flew up and hit the back of the driver's seat cutting my eyelid.
I remember that my grandparents came and took me to the hospital in their old Gran Torino. My grandfather couldn't be bothered with things like checking in at the front desk so he pulled right into the ambulance entrance and made them take me strait back into the emergency department. This always made me laugh because what if there had been a real emergency that day? I guess to my grandfather my uncontrollable bleeding was an emergency, so oh well.
The nurse checked my vision first and I remember her asking me how many fingers she was holding up. Then they got me ready to get stitched up. Have you ever had a needle poked into your eye? I don't recommend it. I screamed really loud and my grandmother had to put her head between her legs so she wouldn't pass out.
Once I was all numbed up though it really wasn't bad and I calmed down. The doctor talked to me through the whole thing and I told him about my pink ballet costume I had worn in my recital. He told me he was color blind and didn't know what pink looked like but he was sure it was very pretty. I didn't even know color blindness existed and that little piece of news pretty much shattered my world. As far as I was concerned, at seven years old, this poor man must have been a shambles not to be able to see pink.
As a whole my first car crash experience was pleasant compared to my most recent.
I remember felling ugly and concerned what the other students would think of me when I returned to school. I still have a scar that is unnoticeable to anyone but me. For me it's an annoyance mostly because it lies right in my eyelid crease and can make even eyeshadow application difficult.
I hope soon my new injuries are unnoticeable. I pray that in another year it will be like it never happened and I'll be able to look back on it all and laugh. Well, I don't know if I'll ever laugh about it, but at least it will be a cautionary tale I can tell my children and grandchildren. I can tell them how lucky they are that they're alive because I am lucky and blessed to be here. I can warn them to be aware when they're driving; to be courteous to other people on the road because their actions don't just affect them.
If, in another twenty years, I'm involved in another car crash it will be too soon.
My family learned a valuable lesson from that crash on a hot summer day in 1989: always wear your seat belt. My brother came out completely unscathed.
My lesson learned this time? Well, I'm not sure I'm done learning from this one yet, but patience, positive thinking, and forgiveness are at the top of my list.
I could say I've learned my lesson about air bags, and in a way I have. Andy has forbidden me to buy a car without air bags and I've agreed, on one condition. I have a love for old Jeeps, as you well know, and my dream car is a fully restored Grand Wagoner. Those don't come with air bags. So, I'm allowed to buy one eventually as long as it doesn't serve as my primary mode of transportation. I can live with that.
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My dismal lack of activity is about to end. Out of the next eight Saturdays I only have two free. Prepare yourselves for a barage of cute kid pictures and family shenanigans.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Ch-ch-ch-changes
One day, when I was in the fifth grade, our school nurse came around to my classroom and announced that all the girls in my class should form a line at the door and the boys should all stay put. I proceeded quietly down the hall with my female classmates into another room where I found every other 5th grade girl in my school. We all crammed in together and of course the whispering began. What was going on? Why were we all here? There were those among us who already knew. You see, one or the other of their parents worked in the school and had forewarned their daughters of what was going to happen that day. There were murmurs around the room that we were about to learn about having our periods and S-E-X!!
What!?!?!?!?
A very distinct atmosphere filled the room, half excitement and half terror.
The nurse proceeded to the front of the class and, as she passed out booklets, confirmed our worst fear. They were indeed going to tell us all about or menstrual cycles. Then someone turned out the lights... thank God. For about the next half hour we learned all about our bodies and how they worked. At least as much as the administration would allow a school nurse to tell a room full of impressionable girls. As far as I remember we didn't talk about S-E-X (that didn't happen until 9th grade), but we did, very briefly, go over the diagram of male reproductive anatomy. At which time my face turned about twenty different shades of red. Along with everyone else's face in the room, I'm sure, including the adults. But, like I said, the lights were out... thank God.
I left that room thoroughly enlightened. My mother had discussed certain things with me, but I'd never had it projected on a 10'x10' screen and given a full color illustration book. I shared that book with my mother when I got home that day. She was horrified - no - pissed that the school took it upon themselves to tell me about the birds and the bees. I don't remember any follow up discussion about what I learned. I'm sure I told her all about it and she corrected anything that I had gotten mixed up. What I do remember is that she was so upset that she took my book to work the next day to show her one an only female co-worker so that they could commiserate in anger against the school board. I never saw my full color illustration book again. She lost it. She lost it in a building full of men. Men I'd grown up around and who I didn't want knowing that I was about to go through puberty. It didn't matter that they probably could figure it out on their own. What mattered was that I didn't want them knowing that I knew what was coming. Clearly, I've never forgiven my mother for this misstep.
But, I digress.
None of this is the point. What I'm circling around to is that in that classroom they failed to mention that your body never, ever, ever stops changing, ever. They lead me to believe that puberty would only last for a short time and I'd come out of it with boobs and a menstrual cycle.
I'm sure all of you are getting very uncomfortable at this point. You're wondering if I'm about to tell you all about my girlie bits right here and now. Well, no I'm not. I'm just a little disgruntled that I had to figure out so much on my own. The "changes" they told me about came and went, but new ones set in. I guess you could call it aging.
If you're a woman you know all of this. You know that your hips spread. Not just once, but several times, and I don't mean they get fat, I mean that your hip bones literally spread apart in preparation for the babies you may or may not be having. Your body gets curvier. The acne never really goes away, it just lessens and changes. And your metabolism slows. None of this is true for men. Except the acne part.
That slow metabolism thing is what really gets you. One day you wake up and realize you should have changed your eating habits about 10 years ago in order to accommodate the metabolism that you will have, not the one you do. I'm a creature of habit and I'm used to giving into my every whim. If I get a hankerin' for junk food I've got to have something. Cravings kind of take over my brain and I can think of nothing else until I've satisfied it. Pair that with a mouth full of sweet teeth and you've got yourself an ugly picture, or at least someone on their way to something ugly. Namely, me. I do try to not buy junk food. Andy and I have always been on a strict "junk food is too expensive" grocery budget. I plan our meals very carefully and rarely allow myself to stray from my list in the grocery store. I'm not denying the occasional late night trip to satisfy a craving. As a matter of fact, just last Wednesday we kind of went over board on a quick trip to the grocery. That couldn't have been good for my midsection and it definitely wreaked havoc on my dreams, think M. Night Shyamalan.
Do you know what is totally and completely unfair about all this?
Andy put on a little weight after college. He has kind of yo-yo'ed up and down about ten pounds ever since then. Until last spring. He decided that he wanted to cut down on his alcohol intake. Not to say that he had a problem, he just decided that it wasn't very good for him and he wasn't going to drink very much anymore. He didn't change anything else about his dietary intake but that. He is now down to the weight he was when he started college. When he was 18.
I could get really upset about this, and the only thing stopping me is my other blog. This is the year of gratitude and I'm working hard not to be bitter about anything. Bitterness makes it hard to find the beauty in life. So Andy can drop weight without trying. So what? I've put on some weight since I was 18. Ok, I've put on a lot of weight since I was 18. Look at me here:
At least now I've got some curves to show from all that sugar intake.
Something else they don't tell you in 5th grade? Men's ears and noses never stop growing. So when we are old and gray, my hips are all spread out and I've lost the ability to make any babies, my face will still be in the same proportion as it is now. A little saggier? Yes, but still in proportion. Andy, on the other hand, will have giant features with gray hair growing out of them.
So, God really does make everything balance out after all.
What!?!?!?!?
A very distinct atmosphere filled the room, half excitement and half terror.
The nurse proceeded to the front of the class and, as she passed out booklets, confirmed our worst fear. They were indeed going to tell us all about or menstrual cycles. Then someone turned out the lights... thank God. For about the next half hour we learned all about our bodies and how they worked. At least as much as the administration would allow a school nurse to tell a room full of impressionable girls. As far as I remember we didn't talk about S-E-X (that didn't happen until 9th grade), but we did, very briefly, go over the diagram of male reproductive anatomy. At which time my face turned about twenty different shades of red. Along with everyone else's face in the room, I'm sure, including the adults. But, like I said, the lights were out... thank God.
I left that room thoroughly enlightened. My mother had discussed certain things with me, but I'd never had it projected on a 10'x10' screen and given a full color illustration book. I shared that book with my mother when I got home that day. She was horrified - no - pissed that the school took it upon themselves to tell me about the birds and the bees. I don't remember any follow up discussion about what I learned. I'm sure I told her all about it and she corrected anything that I had gotten mixed up. What I do remember is that she was so upset that she took my book to work the next day to show her one an only female co-worker so that they could commiserate in anger against the school board. I never saw my full color illustration book again. She lost it. She lost it in a building full of men. Men I'd grown up around and who I didn't want knowing that I was about to go through puberty. It didn't matter that they probably could figure it out on their own. What mattered was that I didn't want them knowing that I knew what was coming. Clearly, I've never forgiven my mother for this misstep.
But, I digress.
None of this is the point. What I'm circling around to is that in that classroom they failed to mention that your body never, ever, ever stops changing, ever. They lead me to believe that puberty would only last for a short time and I'd come out of it with boobs and a menstrual cycle.
I'm sure all of you are getting very uncomfortable at this point. You're wondering if I'm about to tell you all about my girlie bits right here and now. Well, no I'm not. I'm just a little disgruntled that I had to figure out so much on my own. The "changes" they told me about came and went, but new ones set in. I guess you could call it aging.
If you're a woman you know all of this. You know that your hips spread. Not just once, but several times, and I don't mean they get fat, I mean that your hip bones literally spread apart in preparation for the babies you may or may not be having. Your body gets curvier. The acne never really goes away, it just lessens and changes. And your metabolism slows. None of this is true for men. Except the acne part.
That slow metabolism thing is what really gets you. One day you wake up and realize you should have changed your eating habits about 10 years ago in order to accommodate the metabolism that you will have, not the one you do. I'm a creature of habit and I'm used to giving into my every whim. If I get a hankerin' for junk food I've got to have something. Cravings kind of take over my brain and I can think of nothing else until I've satisfied it. Pair that with a mouth full of sweet teeth and you've got yourself an ugly picture, or at least someone on their way to something ugly. Namely, me. I do try to not buy junk food. Andy and I have always been on a strict "junk food is too expensive" grocery budget. I plan our meals very carefully and rarely allow myself to stray from my list in the grocery store. I'm not denying the occasional late night trip to satisfy a craving. As a matter of fact, just last Wednesday we kind of went over board on a quick trip to the grocery. That couldn't have been good for my midsection and it definitely wreaked havoc on my dreams, think M. Night Shyamalan.
Do you know what is totally and completely unfair about all this?
Andy put on a little weight after college. He has kind of yo-yo'ed up and down about ten pounds ever since then. Until last spring. He decided that he wanted to cut down on his alcohol intake. Not to say that he had a problem, he just decided that it wasn't very good for him and he wasn't going to drink very much anymore. He didn't change anything else about his dietary intake but that. He is now down to the weight he was when he started college. When he was 18.
I could get really upset about this, and the only thing stopping me is my other blog. This is the year of gratitude and I'm working hard not to be bitter about anything. Bitterness makes it hard to find the beauty in life. So Andy can drop weight without trying. So what? I've put on some weight since I was 18. Ok, I've put on a lot of weight since I was 18. Look at me here:
Who the hell is that stick with Andy?
Oh, yeah. That's me.
Sweet holy Moses, this was taken a long time ago.
Oh, yeah. That's me.
Sweet holy Moses, this was taken a long time ago.
At least now I've got some curves to show from all that sugar intake.
Something else they don't tell you in 5th grade? Men's ears and noses never stop growing. So when we are old and gray, my hips are all spread out and I've lost the ability to make any babies, my face will still be in the same proportion as it is now. A little saggier? Yes, but still in proportion. Andy, on the other hand, will have giant features with gray hair growing out of them.
So, God really does make everything balance out after all.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Dear Santa, You can blame my brother.
I was five when I found out the truth about Santa Clause. Or rather, when I was told the truth about him.
You see, I have a hard time keeping a secret. Even as an adult the excitement surrounding a secret is almost overwhelming. I want to tell someone. I want to tell everyone whatever it is that I know.
When I was a kid? Forget it. If you had something you wanted to keep quiet then you needed to not tell me. I was the designated bean spiller in the family.
On the flip side, if you were keeping a secret from me and I knew you were I nearly exploded until I found out. As a result of this I don't like surprises if I know they're coming. If it's a genuine surprise and I know nothing until the moment the surprise is revealed I'm great, but don't tell me about it and then make me wait. That's torture.
My big brother, on the other hand, likes surprises and could take a secret to his grave. And if you spoiled a surprise for him? You were dead meat. Especially if you were the little sister.
Somehow, even though she knew all this about us, my mother still told us everything she had gotten us for Christmas. Well, I don't know if she told Josh what she got me because he probably didn't give a crap, but she definitely told me what she got him. She was an enabler for that whole "need to know" part of my personality.
So one year (my fifth year), like always, she told me some of Josh's gifts he was getting for Christmas. And, like always, I turned around and told him. I never could understand why he got so mad. If he knew what my presents were I'd have wanted him to tell me and it didn't make sense to my child mind why he didn't want to know too. But, as was normal, he got ticked and to retaliate against me he told me that awful truth that squashes childhood at Christmas.
I think my mom was more upset than I was. I don't even remember being upset. I think I was kind of surprised and shocked that my mom had lied to me about something. My straightforward, honesty-is-the-best-policy mother had withheld the truth. As far as I knew she had never told me even a little white lie, but this? This was a whopper. A fat man? With flying reindeer? Coming down the chimney? Once I really thought it over I knew how improbable it all was. And then after I got over the shock of the lies I think I was happier every Christmas. There was no sneaking around. I could go shopping with my mom every year (which I l-o-v-e-d!) and I could just go straight to the source for what I wanted. The self serving part of me was actually quite pleased.
I don't remember this ever causing a problem for me with my friends. I understood that they would find out on their own and didn't need me to spoil it for them, so I just left them alone. But the next year (in first grade) the class was writing letters to Santa to put up on a bulletin board. The teacher called us up one by one and asked what we wanted from Santa. When it was my turn I told her that I didn't believe in Santa and she should write the letter to my mother. The look on her face was as if I had just spoiled the surprise for her. That face is burned into my memory forever. When she recovered she just asked me to pretend and tell her what I wanted, so I did.
Now, as an adult, I wonder what I'll tell my own children when I have them. I have more memories of Christmas not believing than ones when I did. My memories are happy. So should I play the Santa game and risk serious childhood letdown or do I just tell the truth from the beginning? I asked Andy this the other night and he, of course, didn't have an opinion. I suppose he will when we're closer to having kids. We've got a while.
So how did you find out the awful truth? Or did I just blow the whole thing for you?
You see, I have a hard time keeping a secret. Even as an adult the excitement surrounding a secret is almost overwhelming. I want to tell someone. I want to tell everyone whatever it is that I know.
When I was a kid? Forget it. If you had something you wanted to keep quiet then you needed to not tell me. I was the designated bean spiller in the family.
On the flip side, if you were keeping a secret from me and I knew you were I nearly exploded until I found out. As a result of this I don't like surprises if I know they're coming. If it's a genuine surprise and I know nothing until the moment the surprise is revealed I'm great, but don't tell me about it and then make me wait. That's torture.
My big brother, on the other hand, likes surprises and could take a secret to his grave. And if you spoiled a surprise for him? You were dead meat. Especially if you were the little sister.
Somehow, even though she knew all this about us, my mother still told us everything she had gotten us for Christmas. Well, I don't know if she told Josh what she got me because he probably didn't give a crap, but she definitely told me what she got him. She was an enabler for that whole "need to know" part of my personality.
So one year (my fifth year), like always, she told me some of Josh's gifts he was getting for Christmas. And, like always, I turned around and told him. I never could understand why he got so mad. If he knew what my presents were I'd have wanted him to tell me and it didn't make sense to my child mind why he didn't want to know too. But, as was normal, he got ticked and to retaliate against me he told me that awful truth that squashes childhood at Christmas.
I think my mom was more upset than I was. I don't even remember being upset. I think I was kind of surprised and shocked that my mom had lied to me about something. My straightforward, honesty-is-the-best-policy mother had withheld the truth. As far as I knew she had never told me even a little white lie, but this? This was a whopper. A fat man? With flying reindeer? Coming down the chimney? Once I really thought it over I knew how improbable it all was. And then after I got over the shock of the lies I think I was happier every Christmas. There was no sneaking around. I could go shopping with my mom every year (which I l-o-v-e-d!) and I could just go straight to the source for what I wanted. The self serving part of me was actually quite pleased.
I don't remember this ever causing a problem for me with my friends. I understood that they would find out on their own and didn't need me to spoil it for them, so I just left them alone. But the next year (in first grade) the class was writing letters to Santa to put up on a bulletin board. The teacher called us up one by one and asked what we wanted from Santa. When it was my turn I told her that I didn't believe in Santa and she should write the letter to my mother. The look on her face was as if I had just spoiled the surprise for her. That face is burned into my memory forever. When she recovered she just asked me to pretend and tell her what I wanted, so I did.
Now, as an adult, I wonder what I'll tell my own children when I have them. I have more memories of Christmas not believing than ones when I did. My memories are happy. So should I play the Santa game and risk serious childhood letdown or do I just tell the truth from the beginning? I asked Andy this the other night and he, of course, didn't have an opinion. I suppose he will when we're closer to having kids. We've got a while.
So how did you find out the awful truth? Or did I just blow the whole thing for you?
Friday, September 26, 2008
The one I've been avoiding
In the fall of 1992 something happened that forever changed my view of politics and political conversation. In case you don't remember, 1992 was the year Bill Clinton was elected to his first Presidential term. It was also the year that my parents (my mom and step dad) got married. And it was in that same year that they nearly divorced. Over the election.
They married in March of that year. Just in time for the election season to get into gear. Since I couldn't vote for another eight years I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to the political madness. We talked about it in school and on election night I had to color in a map of the US according to which candidate won which state. But other than that the most I remember about the political front was how my parents disagreed on which candidate to vote for. I don't remember the conversation getting heated-that is until election day rolled around.
We were all home for the night and my parents started talking about their poll experience that day, skirting the issue that eventually sparked their conflict. My step dad finally asked my mom who she voted for. She didn't want to say, so she just looked at him. That look told him everything he needed to know. She had not, in fact, voted how he would have liked. That is to say, she didn't vote the same way he had. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that she voted for a single thing the same way he had on that particular ticket.
And then came the rage, from both of them. I'm not sure exactly why my step dad was upset. There are two possible reasons. 1) He thought that she should vote like he told her because he was her husband and she should be subservient, or 2) His political convictions were so strong that he could not stand the idea of the other candidate winning and knowing that, if that happened, his wife would have assisted that in happening. I'm betting on number 2. My mom was just pissed off that he seemed to think her incapable of making up her own mind. She had, after all, been voting and taking care of herself long before he came along. She was an intelligent, independent woman and she could and did vote for the candidate that she thought best. Not based on his opinions or anyone else's. Her political beliefs were entirely her own, and still are.
Now don't get me wrong here. I'm not saying that one is at fault more than the other or that either should have bowed to the other's political wishes. They were both entitled to their own opinions. They, unfortunately, didn't see it that way.
I don't remember everything that was said that night. I do remember that we (my mom, my brother and I) packed a suitcase and went to stay with my grandparents that night. And the night after that I believe. Then two dozen red roses arrived with an apology and we went back home. You should know that my step dad isn't really one for romance and I can't remember a time before or after that he sent my mom flowers, and especially not two dozen of them.
Ever since that election we didn't discuss politics in our house. At least, not with each other. My mom still gets really angry at the television and talks trash to it, as if it can hear her. We just ignore her or try to keep the remote out of her hands all together.
Also, as a result of that fateful night in 1992, I don't discuss my personal politics with anyone. I do love a good debate, but usually I stay out of it unless I can assume the roll of devil's advocate. I never pick sides, at least not publicly, and no one knows who I vote for. Not even Andy.
I feel like politics are a very personal, individual thing. Much like I believe religious convictions to be an internal decision. I don't think it's anyone's business who I vote for or how I'm registered, anymore than it's their business how I worship. I try very hard not to be swayed by the opinions of those around me and I take in as much political information as I can handle, and from alternate sources so as to avoid a biased view.
What I will say is that, particularly now, it is extremely important for all those able to cast their vote this November. I hope that they are casting it as an educated American, and not as someone who comes to the polls and picks who they think is better looking. An uninformed vote is just as bad as not voting at all. So, if you are going to vote this year, regardless of who you cast your vote for, please make sure you know as much about each candidate as possible. Know who you are choosing. That is all any of us can ask.
They married in March of that year. Just in time for the election season to get into gear. Since I couldn't vote for another eight years I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to the political madness. We talked about it in school and on election night I had to color in a map of the US according to which candidate won which state. But other than that the most I remember about the political front was how my parents disagreed on which candidate to vote for. I don't remember the conversation getting heated-that is until election day rolled around.
We were all home for the night and my parents started talking about their poll experience that day, skirting the issue that eventually sparked their conflict. My step dad finally asked my mom who she voted for. She didn't want to say, so she just looked at him. That look told him everything he needed to know. She had not, in fact, voted how he would have liked. That is to say, she didn't vote the same way he had. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that she voted for a single thing the same way he had on that particular ticket.
And then came the rage, from both of them. I'm not sure exactly why my step dad was upset. There are two possible reasons. 1) He thought that she should vote like he told her because he was her husband and she should be subservient, or 2) His political convictions were so strong that he could not stand the idea of the other candidate winning and knowing that, if that happened, his wife would have assisted that in happening. I'm betting on number 2. My mom was just pissed off that he seemed to think her incapable of making up her own mind. She had, after all, been voting and taking care of herself long before he came along. She was an intelligent, independent woman and she could and did vote for the candidate that she thought best. Not based on his opinions or anyone else's. Her political beliefs were entirely her own, and still are.
Now don't get me wrong here. I'm not saying that one is at fault more than the other or that either should have bowed to the other's political wishes. They were both entitled to their own opinions. They, unfortunately, didn't see it that way.
I don't remember everything that was said that night. I do remember that we (my mom, my brother and I) packed a suitcase and went to stay with my grandparents that night. And the night after that I believe. Then two dozen red roses arrived with an apology and we went back home. You should know that my step dad isn't really one for romance and I can't remember a time before or after that he sent my mom flowers, and especially not two dozen of them.
Ever since that election we didn't discuss politics in our house. At least, not with each other. My mom still gets really angry at the television and talks trash to it, as if it can hear her. We just ignore her or try to keep the remote out of her hands all together.
Also, as a result of that fateful night in 1992, I don't discuss my personal politics with anyone. I do love a good debate, but usually I stay out of it unless I can assume the roll of devil's advocate. I never pick sides, at least not publicly, and no one knows who I vote for. Not even Andy.
I feel like politics are a very personal, individual thing. Much like I believe religious convictions to be an internal decision. I don't think it's anyone's business who I vote for or how I'm registered, anymore than it's their business how I worship. I try very hard not to be swayed by the opinions of those around me and I take in as much political information as I can handle, and from alternate sources so as to avoid a biased view.
What I will say is that, particularly now, it is extremely important for all those able to cast their vote this November. I hope that they are casting it as an educated American, and not as someone who comes to the polls and picks who they think is better looking. An uninformed vote is just as bad as not voting at all. So, if you are going to vote this year, regardless of who you cast your vote for, please make sure you know as much about each candidate as possible. Know who you are choosing. That is all any of us can ask.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Divine Intervention
How old are you and at what age did you know what you wanted to be when you grew up?
Hi, I'm Joanna and I'm 26. I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.
There is a memory in the back of my brain that resurfaces from time to time when I have these identity crises. It's a memory from my childhood. I don't know how old I was; I'm going to guess about seven or eight. I was standing on the hearth in my grandparent's dining room and we had just finished a big family meal. One of those where it's like a small family reunion and I was surrounded by not just parents, grandparents and sibling, but also a lot of my extended family. My great aunt Norma Jean was there. I don't know why she always sticks out in this particular memory, but I can always see her face as clear as if she were standing in front of me.
I had been taking art classes for a few years and it had brought out a love for creating that I had never known was inside me. Oh sure I was imaginative and I liked playing with play dough and coloring with my Crayola's, but suddenly there were endless artistic resources at my fingertips. We created and crafted and OH THE JOY! of a teacher who encouraged us to put paint brush to paper and create whatever our hearts desired. Every week she would praise us with a fervor that, now looking back I realize, only a parent could muster considering some of the ridiculous things that came out of that art room. At the tender age of seven or eight I just knew that I wanted, no needed, to do this FOREVER. I was going to be an artist!!
But, somehow I also knew there wouldn't be any (much) money in creating beautiful works of art. I had never heard of a famous (read rich) artist. I knew I had to have a back up plan, or an alternate career that would allow me to produce my masterpieces, but still make a living.
My family knew of my love for my art classes and I'm pretty sure I had been showing off some of my spectacular work. Someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. They were, of course, prompting me to say that I wanted to be an artist so that they could praise me some more and encourage me in my endeavors, knowing that I probably would give it up as a hobby and decide on a more practical career path. But who were they to squash the dreams of a budding Monet at seven years old?
I obliged them. Beaming, I answered that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Oh, but I didn't stop there. I was going to be a lawyer and a doctor and an artist during my spare time. There was a silent pause, no doubt they were trying to figure out an appropriate way to respond to this revelation, and then they all laughed. Loud, booming, belly laughs. I was crushed. I don't remember exactly what all was said, but my Aunt Norma Jean was the only one who seemed the least bit encouraging about my chosen career path(s). Really, it's the laughter that stands out the most in my memory.
For six years I was the youngest member of my family and I delighted in every ray of spotlight that was shone on me. Sometimes I even demanded it. The only time I ever shied away from being doted on was when someone laughed at me. I was serious about everything I said and did and I never could understand why anyone would laugh. It usually crushed my world and sent me over the edge of the waterfall into tear land. I think this particular memory stands out because I knew there was something behind the laughter. I hadn't done something cute (at least I didn't think so) and I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what the underlying tone was in those laughs.
It took me a long time to figure out exactly why they had laughed. They were laughing, not just at the ridiculous nature of my goals, but because I truly did believe I could do ANYTHING that I set my mind to. That's what my mother had told me. That's what they taught me in school. I was encouraged to think that way. What they didn't tell me was the reality of the situation. I could, in fact, do whatever I wanted. I could choose any path I wanted to take and I would have my entire family there to coach and encourage me along the way. But (and there is always a but), life is fleeting. We only have so much time. Sure, I could be a doctor and a lawyer and an artist, but when was I going to have time to live my life? Now, as I look back, I think they were laughing so that they didn't cry. In too short a time I was going to realize that I had to pick a path and stick with it. There wasn't going to be enough time to achieve all of my goals that I set on that day nearly twenty years ago. No one had the heart to break it to me, so they just laughed.
Now as an adult my goals are no more focused than they were when I was a wide eyed and hopeful child. I'm not a doctor or a lawyer, and depending on what your definition of artist is, I may or may not be that either. There are lots of words that can be used to define me: wife, daughter, sister, aunt, granddaughter, niece, cousin, anal retentive control freak; but none of those tell me what I want to DO with my life. What will define me? What is my purpose?
I was looking through one of my old quote books earlier today and I found the following quote that I copied out of a religious studies book from college. It gave me a much needed lift:
Hi, I'm Joanna and I'm 26. I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.
There is a memory in the back of my brain that resurfaces from time to time when I have these identity crises. It's a memory from my childhood. I don't know how old I was; I'm going to guess about seven or eight. I was standing on the hearth in my grandparent's dining room and we had just finished a big family meal. One of those where it's like a small family reunion and I was surrounded by not just parents, grandparents and sibling, but also a lot of my extended family. My great aunt Norma Jean was there. I don't know why she always sticks out in this particular memory, but I can always see her face as clear as if she were standing in front of me.
I had been taking art classes for a few years and it had brought out a love for creating that I had never known was inside me. Oh sure I was imaginative and I liked playing with play dough and coloring with my Crayola's, but suddenly there were endless artistic resources at my fingertips. We created and crafted and OH THE JOY! of a teacher who encouraged us to put paint brush to paper and create whatever our hearts desired. Every week she would praise us with a fervor that, now looking back I realize, only a parent could muster considering some of the ridiculous things that came out of that art room. At the tender age of seven or eight I just knew that I wanted, no needed, to do this FOREVER. I was going to be an artist!!
But, somehow I also knew there wouldn't be any (much) money in creating beautiful works of art. I had never heard of a famous (read rich) artist. I knew I had to have a back up plan, or an alternate career that would allow me to produce my masterpieces, but still make a living.
My family knew of my love for my art classes and I'm pretty sure I had been showing off some of my spectacular work. Someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. They were, of course, prompting me to say that I wanted to be an artist so that they could praise me some more and encourage me in my endeavors, knowing that I probably would give it up as a hobby and decide on a more practical career path. But who were they to squash the dreams of a budding Monet at seven years old?
I obliged them. Beaming, I answered that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Oh, but I didn't stop there. I was going to be a lawyer and a doctor and an artist during my spare time. There was a silent pause, no doubt they were trying to figure out an appropriate way to respond to this revelation, and then they all laughed. Loud, booming, belly laughs. I was crushed. I don't remember exactly what all was said, but my Aunt Norma Jean was the only one who seemed the least bit encouraging about my chosen career path(s). Really, it's the laughter that stands out the most in my memory.
For six years I was the youngest member of my family and I delighted in every ray of spotlight that was shone on me. Sometimes I even demanded it. The only time I ever shied away from being doted on was when someone laughed at me. I was serious about everything I said and did and I never could understand why anyone would laugh. It usually crushed my world and sent me over the edge of the waterfall into tear land. I think this particular memory stands out because I knew there was something behind the laughter. I hadn't done something cute (at least I didn't think so) and I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what the underlying tone was in those laughs.
It took me a long time to figure out exactly why they had laughed. They were laughing, not just at the ridiculous nature of my goals, but because I truly did believe I could do ANYTHING that I set my mind to. That's what my mother had told me. That's what they taught me in school. I was encouraged to think that way. What they didn't tell me was the reality of the situation. I could, in fact, do whatever I wanted. I could choose any path I wanted to take and I would have my entire family there to coach and encourage me along the way. But (and there is always a but), life is fleeting. We only have so much time. Sure, I could be a doctor and a lawyer and an artist, but when was I going to have time to live my life? Now, as I look back, I think they were laughing so that they didn't cry. In too short a time I was going to realize that I had to pick a path and stick with it. There wasn't going to be enough time to achieve all of my goals that I set on that day nearly twenty years ago. No one had the heart to break it to me, so they just laughed.
Now as an adult my goals are no more focused than they were when I was a wide eyed and hopeful child. I'm not a doctor or a lawyer, and depending on what your definition of artist is, I may or may not be that either. There are lots of words that can be used to define me: wife, daughter, sister, aunt, granddaughter, niece, cousin, anal retentive control freak; but none of those tell me what I want to DO with my life. What will define me? What is my purpose?
I was looking through one of my old quote books earlier today and I found the following quote that I copied out of a religious studies book from college. It gave me a much needed lift:
"...God has a purpose with each of us; that however insignificant we seem, however friendless, however hardly used, however ousted even from our natural place in this world's households,
God has a place for us; that however we lose our way in life we are not lost from His eye; that even when we do not think of choosing Him He in His Divine, all-embracing love chooses us, and throws about us bands from which we cannot escape." -Marcus Dods, The Expositor's Bible
God has a place for us; that however we lose our way in life we are not lost from His eye; that even when we do not think of choosing Him He in His Divine, all-embracing love chooses us, and throws about us bands from which we cannot escape." -Marcus Dods, The Expositor's Bible
Every time I read this it makes me feel a little bit better. It isn't the all encompassing answer I was looking for, but it gives me hope. It reminds me that my definition isn't finished yet, and I have the rest of my life to write it.
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