Category: parenting

Posted on

Worry Them Home

I remember my dad and his siblings teasing their mom about being such a worry wart. It confused me because, even back then, I perceived my grandma’s worrying as just her way of loving us. As I got older, I understood why they were annoyed.

So many questions.

So nosey.

I’d often think, “Quit worrying about me and leave me alone,” as I rolled my eyes and refused to share the details of my escapades.

I do not remember her ever getting defensive when they gave her a hard time about worrying, she just kept at it. She wore her worrying like a cloak or a badge of honor. She didn’t hide it or sugar coat it. She was in their faces (and mine) about her worries. I do wonder if, because of how my dad and some of his siblings turned out, maybe my grandma hadn’t been worrying enough.

I’m not going to get into how those were different times, and they required different styles of parenting. Did anyone worry about their parenting style back then? I’m sure my grandma wasn’t worrying about whether she was doing a good job, she was just wanting to make sure they stayed out of jail.

Recently, on what had started out as a lazy Sunday morning, Will came running out of his bedroom pulling on a t-shirt and grabbing his boots. He’d just gotten a text from a friend who’d told him that the girlfriend of a mutual friend had texted to say that her boyfriend (a member of Will’s friend group) had not returned from camping when he said he would. Texts weren’t answered. Voicemails had not come in. She was panicked. Will and some members of the friend group had decided to rally and drive out to the mountains where this friend was supposed to be camping. Will was shaky and I warned him to take it easy and make a plan, so that he and others in the group weren’t at risk of harm while they looked out for the missing camper. “Remember,” I told him, “Manifest a positive outcome. Don’t dwell on the what-ifs, unless you are focusing on only the good what-ifs.”

They were 30 minutes from town, just before losing cell service, when he got a text that the friend was almost back to town. The friend was embarrassed to admit that he and his girlfriend had gotten their wires crossed and miscommunicated about his return time. Then the friend said, “Were you guys really coming to look for me?” After giving the camper a hard time for scaring the shit out of them, Will said, “Of course we were coming to look for you.” The friend was surprised that his group cared enough to drop everything and look for him.

Later, Will and I talked about how the Universe will go to great lengths to show folks they are loved. I laughed, “Geez, couldn’t you just tell each other that you love each other?” I like seeing his group worrying about each other. It reinforces that fact that he has found good friends.

Worry has gotten a bad rap. It wasn’t cool (way back in the 70s) to be a worry wart. It’s not cool now, either. Today, worry warts are called helicopter moms or hovering parents. I can see that there are less annoying ways to worry than my grandma’s style, and I do try to worry without being all up in their business. Of course, if you asked them, they might not agree.

The other day, out for my morning walk, I discovered this baby bottle lying on the side of the road. My mind jumped to all the hovering mom conclusions or, some might say, judgments. “That poor child! Who is in charge? How does that even happen?” On and on my brain went, circling around all the possibilities of how horrible this baby’s life must be if it’s parent/parents can’t even keep track of its bottle. (Why I didn’t first go to, “Wow. Bummer, the bottle was lost, but at least this baby was being fed,” is a whole different post.)

Then I got to noticing how worried I was about the baby, and how futile worry is. What was my worrying accomplishing? Did it help that baby any? Then I wondered if folks are less worried about others than they were in my grandma’s day. Do folks care about each other as much as they did back then?

Isn’t worry a form of love? Worry is caring. Worry might even be a form of manifesting. Will told me that he and his two buddies talked about focusing on their friend driving into town, as they were heading into the mountains, instead of focusing on the worst possible scenario. When I’m worried about one of my two, I picture them calling me. I picture Jen calling, from the safety of her apartment, to tell me all about her night out. Or I picture Will calling to tell me of the big catfish he caught, when he was on a river out of cell service. I’ll admit that sometimes, especially if I haven’t eaten, I’ll spiral into all the negative what-ifs, but I am getting better at not sharing all those with Jen and Will.

Worry might be the ripple we send out to the Universe that says make sure they get home safely. But the tone of the worry matters. Worry doesn’t need to judge the parents for losing the baby bottle. Worry can, and should, focus on that baby’s healthy future. Maybe something like, “Oh, I hope they had another bottle in the car.” Or, “I bet it fell out of the stroller as the parent was walking the baby and their puppy.”

In the absence of being able to do anything for others, including that baby, the least we can do is send a ripple out to the Universe and worry them home.

Posted on

LTSG – Let That Shit Go

This is my new mantra. Or, more accurately, when I remember that I have a new mantra, this is the one.

Today I learned that an extended family member came to town and didn’t get in touch. Initially, I was a bit hurt. Why didn’t she call or text? What did I do? Why wasn’t I on her list of folks to see while she was here? While I was in the shower, I remembered: Let That Shit Go! (Also, Jesse, remember that the last time she was in town, you weren’t excited about getting together, anyway.)

As the member of the extended family who struggles the most with sweeping things under the rug, I often find that I’m not invited to family gatherings. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. We assumed you had other plans.” Or another favorite, “The last few times we invited you, you couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t come.” The family Black Sheep needs a poster on her bathroom door that says, “Let That Shit Go!”

When the last social function you went to was attended by library-supporting, long hippie skirt wearing, single women of a certain age, and you wonder why you rarely go out, or why it is that you have found your tribe and it’s nothing like you thought your tribe would be, remember to Let That Shit Go. Let go of those ridiculous expectations of where you thought your life would be right now, or who you thought you’d be spending it with. Besides, those ladies need to have someone to pass the baton to. Accept that baton proudly and with grace. Embrace your patchouli-scented tribe and carry on!

When someone comments that you spend way too much time with your kids and should work on getting a life outside of being a mom (and a dad), give them the side eye and LTSG.

Also, when your kids have issues with their vehicles and you get pissed because their “dad” is clueless and/or rarely checks in on them, LTSG and be glad that he rarely checks in on them because he’d stir up the pot, criticize them for how they handle these grown-up issues, and then give them the silent treatment for not having called or texted him more often. (As you remember, Jesse, he thinks the heavy lifting in the parenting game should be handled by the child, not the parent.) Let That Shit Go!

When you get told that you aren’t doing enough, LTSG.

When you are told that you should do it better, LTSG.

When you are passive aggressively informed that you fail to meet expectations, LTSG. And let them go while you are at it.

When your wardrobe and your yard and your car and your house and even (Goddesses forbid) your kids and your life are not like everyone else’s, LET THAT SHIT GO! (To be clear, I’m not advocating that you let your life and your kids and all that other stuff go. Let the comparisons go! You knew that, right?) It can get pretty quiet over here doing things differently than other folks. Get comfortable with the quiet path. Let the noise and commotion of the well-worn path be for others.

Also, the whole taking things personally? Yeah. I’m trying to Let That Shit Go, too.

Today I’m letting all that shit go. I’m heading out to watch all the bees happily bobbing from one blossom of clover to the next in my unconventional little private funky haven of a backyard.

*I got this cool poster at Society 6. It really is mounted on my bathroom door.

Posted on

My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

Posted on

It Always Works Out

I last posted in July. While many words have since tried to coalesce into post ideas, not a one of those potential posts seemed to matter, when looking at the state of the world.

Since my last post, Jen has gone off to college, and Will has left one job and found another. While that doesn’t even make a ripple for all of you, my boat was rocked.

Also, in the months since my last writing, we celebrated an anniversary, of sorts. It’s been 15 years since the kids and I moved out of their dad’s house.

Speaking of rocking boats and the state of the world …

How Do I Know It Works Out?

Recently, with an abundance of time on my hands, I found myself going through digital photos. (Take it from me, if you don’t have a system for organizing digital photos, STOP reading this post and make a system for organizing all your photos. Do it now.)

. . .

I’m assuming you are much more organized than I am, and that you are still reading because you created files on your laptop for years and months and birthdays and Halloween carvings and dying of Easter eggs and first lost tooth. I’m envious of your organizational skills and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are more disciplined than I, and that makes me worried that we can’t be friends because I’ll always feel that my lack of discipline is disappointing you in some way. (Wait. I think that only applied to my romantic relationships. Never mind.)

Anyway, as I was scrolling through a hard drive full of unorganized digital photos, I noticed a common theme: kinks or bumps along the way always tended to work themselves out.

The pics of Jen before braces present a case in point. I loved that face so much that I didn’t want it to change with braces. Besides, I didn’t know where we would get the money for them. She wanted them so badly, even though she knew it would be tough to find the money. I would tell her, “Don’t worry, honey. It always works out.” Scroll forward a few years, and I love her new face just as much as I loved her before-braces face. It worked out.

More scrolling, and I see a set of photos from Will’s first vehicle. “Mom, where will I get the money to buy a truck? Can we even do something like that?” He and I made lists of lawns he could mow and walks he could shovel. I looked at him and said, “It always works out.” It did. After many lawn mowings and a small loan from his sister, he bought a truck. That was a couple trucks ago.

Then there are the pictures of the kitchen with the old appliances. The old range had quit working right before one of Jen’s birthdays. She wondered how we’d be able to make her cake. “It always works out, honey.” That year we baked her cake at grandma’s house, and found the funds to purchase a new range a few weeks later.

When Jen went off to school, those first few weeks were rough for both of us. We would count down the number of “sleeps” until her next trip home. We both put Post-its on our bathroom mirrors that said, “One day at a time,” because it was clear to both of us that even though this was going to work out, we were going to be muddling through one day at a time, at first.

. . .

I’ve learned that I have to time the delivery of, “It always works out.” In the depths of stress and worry, that can sound trite. No one wants to hear that expression when they are venting about how the Universe seemingly created a roadblock out of thin air. I wait to say it until after we’ve bumped over the roadblock, found the new route, and cruised a bit. Then, it’s safe to remind them that it does always work out. Sometimes I’m met with an eye roll, but they will begrudgingly admit that it does work out.

Back when they were little folk, I could have said, “It always works out, but it might end up looking different than you thought it would.” Or I might have said, “It always works out, and one day you’ll be glad that it looks different from what you were hoping for.” Or, “It always works out but it might beat you up a bit before it does.” My goal, then, was to encourage them, not dash their hopes with realism.

I didn’t consult a crystal ball to know it would work out, and I don’t know how to read tea leaves. Even if the coffee sediment in the bottom of the saucer looks like it means something, I can’t tell you what it means. But the three of us learned to have faith and trust that with a little effort and “some leaving alone” things would always work out, even if sometimes we had to remind each other.

What About in Today’s World?

Now, given the threats on women’s rights, voters’ rights, the climate, and our very democracy, can I truly tell my kids, “It always works out?”

Can we put Post-its on our mirrors and hope for the best? Who has the crystal ball that will reveal the future? Will this be a future with women’s rights, opportunities for all to vote, a climate that isn’t taking its last breath and our democracy still intact?

Will it work out for women if we lose bodily autonomy? (Untold numbers of women around the world have never even tasted that freedom, and we could very well lose it.) How do you reassure your daughter, while there are those who want to take away her rights? Will it work out for all those who lose their right to vote? Will it work out if we ignore all the signs telling us that climate change is not just a political talking point, but an inevitability? Has it been able to work out (albeit only for a lucky few), up to this point, because we’ve been navigating the bumps and roadblocks within the framework of this democracy?

More importantly, while it has often worked out for my little family, does that even matter if it doesn’t work out for everyone?

In another 10, 20 or 50 years, when this country looks in the mirror, will it like what it sees? Who will it work out for then?

Posted on

They Grow Up So Fast

I see you, Momma Bird.  You flit across the yard with a blade of dried grass in your beak.  The first nest you made still lays in a heap on the patio.  Perhaps a wind gust swept it off the beam? The winds in that recent cold snap were brutal.  I admire your tenacity.  Not even Mother Nature’s mood swings could hamper your determination.  Instead of giving up, you started over in the same spot.  The cover of the metal roof must have come in handy.  Good thinking, to decide to build there with that bit of protection from the elements and the critters.

That day with the endless rain, I peeked out the window to see you hopping from branch to grass.  It must have been difficult to find any building materials that weren’t soggy.  Do you build at night?  How did you get that done so fast?  When do you rest?

I see you, Momma Bird.  I’ve been that kind of tired.

 

When the sun finally came out after those grey days of rain, I sat on the patio with coffee, making sure my lawn chair wasn’t too close to your new home.  I was bundled in a fleece jacket and socks, with a blanket over my lap.  How do you stay warm?  Or is that why you move so fast?  I felt a bit guilty for sitting and sipping coffee instead of working, like you.

You’ve been so patient with us intruding into your space.  We’ve tried to remember to keep a distance.  The taller one is a bit louder.  Sorry about that.  His voice fills the backyard, but he doesn’t mean you any harm.  He did remember to move his chair into the grass.

I watch you watching us.  You keep an eye on us.  I see that you are torn between protecting your nest and keeping yourself out of harms way.  Your instincts tell you to keep your distance.  Your instincts tell you not to trust us, but your obligations need to be fulfilled.

I see you, Momma Bird.  Many times my instincts have been louder than my plans.  Unlike you, though, I often refused to listen to my instincts.

 

The one with the long hair was the first to notice your baby.  She’s the quietest of the three of us, and she tends to be a bit more observant.  She tiptoed around your nest and came into the house to tell me of the new arrival.  When did that happen?  We should have showered you with gifts!  Congratulations!  Nice work, Momma Bird.  Your baby is adorable.  She looks just like you!

Now you are consumed with a new kind of busy.  Does that baby eat all day long?  (I know how that feels, too!)  I hear the little one has found her voice.  I’m impressed that you can hear her above the voices of all the other birds in the yard.  I have heard how excited she gets in anticipation of a feeding.

Yesterday, I saw her head poke up high enough above the nest so that she could stretch her wings.  She’s getting so strong.  You are feeding her well!  Her head was up for quite a spell.  She’s very insistent about getting those worms.  You are keeping up as best you can.  Her little beak is always open and ready to receive.  (Sounds like a human I know.)  I saw when you hopped over into the garden.  I had the sprinkler going and that must have made it easier for you to get the worms.  Look at you!  You are hard at work, sopping wet and keeping that baby alive and healthy!  I’m so proud of you, Momma!

 

I’m waiting for the temperature to get closer to 60 before heading out with my coffee this morning.  I’ll tiptoe.  I promise.  You can trust us, Momma.  There is room for all of us in this backyard.  We want your baby to thrive as much as you do.

But Momma, try to enjoy this time.  I know it often feels like you are too busy or too tired to stop and appreciate it all, but this time is fleeting.

They do grow up so fast.

 

Best wishes to all those with graduating baby birds.  Job well done!

Posted on

The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

Posted on

Slow Learners

“Seriously, Margaret, why wouldn’t they wear a mask?  How tough is that?”

“Jon, that’s an interesting question coming from one who refused to wear a helmet when skateboarding.”

“Yeah, but I was the only one at risk.  That’s different.”

“I see your point.  But why wouldn’t you wear a helmet?”

Jon thought for a minute, trying to remember what it was like to glide on a board in his physical form.  “I guess I felt freer without one.  When I was learning to skate, I had to wear one.  Then when I got good enough, I didn’t fall as much, so I didn’t need one.”

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron.  “You needed one, dear, but most likely there was no one around to remind you to put one on.  Maybe the folks who refuse to wear masks feel freer by not wearing one.  Hand me that bowl of lemons, dear.”

Jon reached for the bowl of lemons, “Not the same, Margaret.  Not at all the same.”

 

“Margaret!  What kind are you making today?”  Gladys sat down and smoothed the pleats of her skirt.

“I’ve been feeling like lemon meringue.  It’s summer, and summer calls for lemon meringue.  We’ll have to eat it quick.  The meringue never keeps for long.”

Gladys laughed, “I’m sure we won’t have a problem.”

Gladys tugged on her necklace as she thought how to ask, “Why do you think they’re still talking about how Black Lives Matter?  They’ve been going on about that for so long.  You’d think they’d have figured it out by now.”

Margaret separated yolks from whites into a small bowl.  “Interesting, isn’t it.  And we still see struggles on other fronts, too.  Women haven’t progressed much further than in my day.”

“Progress still takes so damn long.”  Basil walked up and took a seat.  “Snails pace, I tell ya.  When those, that have, risk losing any of what they got, they’ll do all they can to make damn sure no one else gets any.”

Margaret reached for a lemon, “I imagine it’s hard to relinquish control when you’ve had it for so long.”

Jon laughed.   “Those who need control have no clue how great life is when you don’t worry about controlling everything.”

Gladys rolled her eyes, “Spoken like a guy who never wore a helmet.  Folks control when dealing with uncertainty.  Uncertainty causes fear.  Controlling is how they deal with fear.”

Jon looked at Gladys.  “Do you think that’s why they won’t wear masks – because deep down they’re afraid?  And because of that, NOT wearing a mask is their way of controlling their fear?”

Basil took a sip of coffee and shook his head.  “Nah.  That’s a nice theory Jon but, I don’t buy it.  Lots of folks are just plain lazy.  They don’t like being inconvenienced.”

“And lots don’t like to be told what to do.”  Margaret gave Jon a sideways glance before measuring cornstarch into a pan.  “Kind of like Jon and helmets.  Right, dear?”

Gladys said,  “That’s right.  Ask me about what it’s like to tell a man what to do.”  They all laughed.

 

Jon sat down next to Basil.  “Seriously, though, why do you think they’re such slow learners?  Isn’t it obvious to them what they need to do?  Wear a mask, already.  Save some lives, already.  How many times must they be told that Black Lives Matter?”

Basil smiled.  “Was it obvious to you what you needed to do when you were learning to skate?”

Jon grinned.  “Sure.  It’s obvious to anyone who wants to skate.”

Basil said, “So it was obvious what you needed to do.  Did you pick it up quick?”

Jon rubbed his elbow.  “Heck, no!  I fell a thousand times.  I scraped up every square inch of me.  There was nothing quick about it.  Even though I knew what to do, it still took a long time to get good.”

Basil laughed.  “Do you think it’s the same with being human?”

Gladys stood up, “Basil, you can’t equate learning to skate with learning to be an empathetic, evolved human.”

Basil grinned, “I knew you’d get riled, Gladys.  The point I’m making is that even though people know what needs doin’, they’re slow to get there.”

 

“Dear, stir this while I beat these egg whites,” Margaret handed Basil a whisk.  “Humans aren’t born wanting to share, or wanting to put others first.  Think of what it’s like to teach a child to share.  It’s an ongoing process.  A good parent works at it all through that child’s younger years.  Schools work at teaching children to take turns.  Church preaches sharing.  It takes time to learn these things.”

Jon laughed, “I knew kids who would only share when an adult was watching.”

Just then the timer beeped.  “Jon, dear, could you take that pie crust out, please?”

“How will I know it’s done?”

“It’s done, dear.”  Margaret stopped the mixer and looked at the three of them.  “We are wired to survive.  Sharing, putting others first – these things go against that instinct for survival.  Except for moms, of course.  Moms have to share.  We don’t have a choice!”  All four of them laughed.

Gladys asked, “Haven’t we evolved enough, by now, to override those instincts?  Can’t we see that we have enough, and that we’ll survive if we share?”

Basil said, “Our brain knows we need to share, but that conflicts with our base instinct to get what we think we need to survive.”

Margaret folded a bit of thickened cornstarch into beaten egg yolks.  “That’s exactly right, Basil.  All these things  – sharing, thinking of others, putting others first – need to be learned.  They don’t come naturally.  More importantly, they need to be learned repeatedly.  When we don’t have parents or church or peer groups or even the government reminding us to do those things, we forget the lesson.  We need constant reminders.  Community fills that role.  When community breaks down, we lose the examples of why those ideals are so important.”

“Beat the yolks, please, Gladys, while I add more of the cornstarch mixture.” Gladys shook her head, “It’s tiresome that humans need to be reminded to be human.”

Jon winced, “I wished I’d done a better job of picking peers.  Where would I be now if I’d picked a different group?”

 

Margaret said, “It’s a shame, isn’t it.  Think of it like Jon and skateboarding.  If he hasn’t done it for awhile, he gets rusty.  Everything takes practice.  Lessons need to be reinforced.  They need to practice sharing, practice putting others first.  They need to practice accepting others and including them, until they can do it without thinking about it.”

Basil put down his coffee cup, “Evolution is an ongoing process, especially for lazy humans!”

Jon laughed, “You sound like a crabby old sage.”  He grabbed his board,  “I, for one, am glad to be done learning those lessons.”

Margaret smiled, “Oh, dear!  You’ve only just begun!”  She put the pie in the oven, “I’ll let you know when the pie is ready.”

 

The Spirit Guides are between incarnations.  They hang out at a cemetery, watching our foibles, offering insights, all while enjoying Margaret’s amazing pies. 

 

 

 

Posted on

Independence Is Just Beyond Our Grasp

Warning:  If you have no interest in feminism, stop reading.  Come back when I’m less angry.  Also, I’m not sure when that will be.

 

Jen is heading off to college in the fall.

. . .

She has all her necessary credits to graduate.   She has her driver’s license.  She has work experience, a kick-ass portfolio, and a plan for a course of study.  We didn’t spend any time learning how to balance a checkbook because…

She does know how to file her taxes.  She also has an extensive background in navigating difficult personality types.  Even though there are a million other things she’d rather do than cook, she knows enough to bake a cake, and make a box of mac and cheese.  Weekend nights she makes stove-top popcorn with too much butter and she often whips up smoothies.  Better than that, she knows how to eat well.

She’ll be fine.

The only item left on the list before she *choke* leaves the nest is a self-defense class.  It’s been many moons since I took a class in how to protect myself from a perpetrator.  I figured we’d take one together.  I thought I’d found one until I looked into it further and read the blurb that said, “How to defend yourself when the attack is taken to the ground.”

WTH?!

Neither of us plans on letting an attack get that far, so I searched for the class that stops the attack before it reaches the ground.  It occurred to me that, in my town, anyway, all those classes are still taught by men.

Instead, I purchased  Ladies* Personal Defense gadgets for both of us.  Then I changed the entry on the list to:  “Search for an online self-defense class taught by a female.”

 

When there are so many educational options available online, why are we sending our daughters to college campuses? 

Jen wants the college campus experience.  She knows she has the option to never leave the safety of our home and study online.  After all, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last 10 years.  It’s time to get out into the world.

However, it’s 2020 and our daughters still risk personal safety in pursuit of higher education.

Why are we willingly paying mountains of money to institutions that clearly cannot make the personal safety of college students a priority?  And, yes, I know.  That should be taught at home before young men go off to college.  Will that ever happen?

Should she attend an all-female college?  Is that the best way to tackle the issue?   If we want to be safe, must we avoid all males?

 

Can we avoid all males?  Asking for a friend.

 

And, in the terrifying unlikely event (Gods forbid) that an attack happens, she then must report to the police department, which is largely populated by men.

Do you see how independence is just beyond our grasp?

Do you see the reason for my sleep-deprived, worry-filled nights?

I tried to search online for the manufacturer of the kitty self-defense gadget.  I assume it was designed by a man, because a woman wouldn’t have given it that pathetic moniker.

Do you see the irony?  Men teach self-defense classes to women.  Men design our self-protection gadgets.  Men work to keep us safe… from men.

Are they coming at this problem from the wrong direction?

 

*The name – Ladies Personal Defense – tells us all we need to know.

 

 

 

Posted on

The Land of Pink – 2

The school environment is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.  There is so much new to learn.  She gets to experiment!  More importantly, she interacts with people other than her family.  She has (sort of) figured out where she fits in the family dynamic, now she must figure out where she fits, in the school setting.

Quickly, she learns that while being smart is praised at home, being smart gets her a label at school.  “Oh, she’s the teacher’s favorite.”  Certain groups will shun her if she’s too smart.  Even though she may be automatically accepted by the group that values her brains, she knows she’s more than that.  She’s good at other things, too.  She likes to run.  She’s good at drawing, and she loves books.  Does she have to pick only one of her loves to find her tribe?

The athletic group teases her for drawing, “Like a little kid,” so she tucks her markers away.  The brainy kids tease her for hanging with the group that likes soccer.  “Why do you wear those dumb, long red socks?”

Is it enough to be herself?  Why must she hide parts of herself in order to belong to a group?  Slowly, she sees that she is liked more when she displays traits that certain groups prefer, while hiding the parts they belittle.

She draws at home where no one can make fun of her.  If she’s lucky, the brainy kids will never find out that she is trying out for soccer.  She almost hopes she doesn’t make the team.

One school night, while trying to decide what to wear the next day, she hides her long red socks in the back of her drawer.  (A few months later, mom discovers them in the Goodwill pile.  Mom secretly pulls the socks out and hides them in the Keepsake pile.)

At school, if asked, she never reveals her test scores.  She chimes in, with the rest of the class, when they make fun of the one day of the month that they have art class.  Secretly, she wishes they could have art class once a week.

 

The whittling away and the accommodating begin at a tender age.

 

It turns out that going to school requires a lot of “pretending,” and it’s not the fun kind.  She pretends she doesn’t like soccer.  She makes fun of art.  She pretends she doesn’t know the math answers, and refuses to raise her hand.

She gets an upset stomach on most Sunday nights.  Mom notices a pattern (not feeling well on Sunday night), but she’s at a loss for what to do about it.  (Mom has no idea that her amazing daughter is a completely different kid on the playground.)  Her grades are good.  She made the soccer team.  She seems to have lots of friends.

Soon, she starts pretending at home, too.  It’s easier to pretend than try to figure out what’s wrong.  Without her even realizing it, she’s stopped doing some of the things she loves so much.

One day, before she heads out the door to go to school, she gathers up all her markers and puts them in her little sisters room.  Maybe her sister will want them, now that she doesn’t draw any more.

 

To be continued …

 

Posted on

The Land of Pink

I almost painted my fingernails yesterday.  They are long right now, and they’d look good with some polish.   I can’t remember the last time I painted them.  I have long, masculine fingers – my grandma’s – and they look better (more feminine?) when my nails are longer, but long nails are a distraction.  They get in the way when typing or gardening, which is a bummer, because my nails are hard and they are nice.  I tried to decide what color.  We don’t have a lot of polish in the house.  Jen has a couple favorite colors – white, gold and another white.  I think.

I was wanting a red or a corral.  I don’t know where this came from.  But then I thought, people will notice because I never paint my nails.  And, ugh, they’ll say something, and I’ll feel the need to defend my choice to paint my nails and why I picked the color I picked, and why I don’t normally paint my nails.

I thought of women who change their hair color or handbag or get a tattoo, and don’t seem to have a care in the world about whether anyone comments, and how freeing that must be.  Or, most likely, they do care, but they don’t let that stop them.

And then I got tired, which reminded me of what it’s like to be in The Land of Pink.

 

Look at that sweet baby girl.  Or is it a boy.  Hard to tell when they are new.  They smell the same.  They act the same.  They cry when they are hungry or they need to be changed.  They cry when they are tired.  That’s pretty much it.

Until well-meaning parents get involved and suddenly gender is projected on to this being that only cares about sleeping and eating and being comfortable.  The Big Ones coo and smile and comment on appearance when they change diapers.  “Oh, your soooo cute.”  Their hearts are in the right place, but Bigs start to treat the girls and boys differently.  They can’t help it.  It’s in their genetic coding.

Baby girls are cute for different reasons than baby boys are.

Baby slowly starts to make a connection between her appearance and the mood of the Bigs.

Babies aren’t dumb.  It doesn’t take them long to connect dots.  Happy Big = more squash.  If I coo or smile at Big, Big is happy, then I get squash.

Before she knows it, she has to be careful about not getting mashed peas on her pretty dress.  She mustn’t get squash in her hair.  She doesn’t care about her hair, she cares about fists full of food.   Pretty soon, though, it takes more than a smile to make Big happy.  Big likes it when we are cute or clean or quiet.  If we do those things, we get more squash.

 

Now she’s old enough to toddle around in the yard.  She’s amazed at where her legs will take her.  She doesn’t care what’s on her legs as long as it isn’t itchy.  This Disney Princess dress is itchy.  She reaches for a fistful of mud and attempts to bring it to her mouth, but a Big tells her, “NO!  Don’t eat that!  That’s icky!  Don’t get that on your pretty dress.”

 

It’s the first day of Kindergarten.  Her tummy feels weird and her new clothes are itchy.  She’s wearing a dress and she’s told that she probably better not go on the slide at the playground because the boys might look up her dress.  Why do boys want to look up her dress?  Whose idea was it to make her wear a dress today, anyway?

She’s no dummy.  She can see that the teacher spends more time with certain kids – the cute ones.   She notices that the cute ones are surrounded by more kids on the playground.  What must she do to be cuter?  She ponders this while sitting at a long, cold table, under florescent lights, eating a peanut butter and jelly that has been cut into quarters.  She can’t wait to get home, get out of this dress and away from this need to be cute.

Years later, she’ll learn that the weird feeling in her tummy is called anxiety.  Anxiety will become her life-long companion.

 

To be continued …

 

By the way, I cut my nails.  It’s just easier, and I’m tired.