OK, so maybe I won't win any friends with a title like that one, but it's how I feel this time of year.
Struggling with the whole to Christmas or not to Christmas, that is the question quandary has been my modus operandi for years, ever since becoming a parent, really. At this time of year, I see my kids' friends celebrate with their families, hear them talk about their trees and lights and wish lists, and I think, am I short-changing my kids because we don't believe in a god? For a few years, we did the tree, lights, stockings and presents thing. The kids liked it, but no one was super excited about it. It was all about the loot. They wanted stuff, and I was fine with that, but I just didn't really see the need for all the pomp & circumstance of trimming and decking. The Martha Stewart K-Mart tree, along with all the decorations and lights, are tucked safely in the attic where they've spent every day since my youngest was about four, maybe five. I think, perhaps, preschool was the last Christmas we had here.
There are some sentimental emotions tied up in those items. I have some nice decorations I got from my family over the years, as well as some cute ornaments I bought when the boys were wee ones - Baby's First Christmas, Eeyore and Pooh, etc. - but all that stuff, that Christmas-y stuff, doesn't really mean much. I can look at pictures of the boys and remember their first Christmases, not that the day ever meant anything. I'd rather look at their birthday pictures or Halloween photos when they were dressed up as their favorite characters or ghouls. But two plastic tubs of red and green decorations are really quite meaningless.
I think the parts of Christmas that bother me the most are what those things represent. The commercialism, the consumerism, the conspicuous flaunting of money and wealth that Americans pretend to have, only to buy their way further into debt between November and December. It's always startling to me the craziness on the day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday is the WORST day of the year! Who thought up the concept of selling off all their shit the day after Thanksgiving, a day of familial gluttony, at slashed prices for the holiday season? Whose idea was it to begin this trend of cutthroat consumerism on a day we should all be out jogging or sleeping off our "sinful" behavior of the day before?
My sister, who is the retail queen - not because of her shopping prowess, although that's arguable, but because she has this amazing gift of salesmanship that I cannot begin to understand - posted a comment to a status update where I bash retail establishments for their un-Christian-like behavior. She was a little offended that I disliked retail so much as to disparage their commercialism during December. In my defense, it was a Kia commercial that said every time a Kia is sold, "an angel gets its wings." Gross, yes? In her defense, though, she's right. America is based on consumerism. She wouldn't have a job if December sales weren't stellar. That's really sad to me, though. Really, really sad. The basis of this economy hinges on the hope that Americans will buy more shit than they need, buy shit they don't need, and buy shit others don't need in the hopes that the shit will fulfill someone's Christmas wish! WTF???
I go back, then, to the origins of my December dismay. If Christmas is meaningless to me because I don't believe in the premise that Jesus is the savior, that God's word is the only word, blah, blah, blah, then why the flying figs do I feel guilty that my kids don't get to participate in the pagan pageantry that is the Christmas tree and all its trimmings?
I guess it boils down to the fact that we, as parents, alienate them from their friends' yuletide celebrations and keep them from what seems to be the birthright of most American school children, especially here in the good ole God-fearing Midwest.
A few years ago my boys were playing with the neighbors during winter break. I love our neighbors, but what one of their kids said to mine really pissed me off. I believe their son was about 9 or 10 at the time, and Christmas was brought up among the three boys. They were probably comparing notes about video games or something, who knows? When my kids said we don't believe in God, the little dear said, "If you don't believe, you don't receive." Now, there's a poetic thing to say. My eldest, who actually understood the concept, just shrugged & came home.
Yesterday, the youngest's friend popped over for a visit. Upon looking around the living room, he asked, "Where is your tree?"
My youngest simply replied, "We don't celebrate Christmas."
"Why not?"
He knows we don't believe in god. He chose, however, not to get into the whole religion discussion, so he chose a simpler version. "We don't believe in Santa Claus."
The friend replied, "Well, I don't either, but we still have a tree!"
I had to laugh, but inside I do feel bad. My kids are different from most of their friends. They have never been to church - well, not really anyway - nor been baptized. They don't celebrate Christmas or Easter. They get "weirded out" when we go to my family's homes or reunions and people pray before meals. (Aiden asked me last year after a Thanksgiving meal with my dad's family, "What the heck was that, Mom?") The boys don't have much to go on when it comes to comparative religions, while my husband and I can discuss the highlights of Lutheranism, Catholicism and Methodism. We have a basis for our contempt, but they do not. They simply do what we do, just like my husband and I did what our parents did when we were kids. We have had discussions with them, however, about religion, faith and belief. My oldest, at age 14, believes in a sort of reincarnation. I'm cool with that. At 14, I, too, had hopes that one day I might come back as a dog or a kitten - anything but a lowly human! But at 14, I also knew I didn't believe in a god of any kind.
Being different, for me, has never been a problem. I sort of relish the idea of being an outsider sometimes. The irony is often quite sweet. I'm an atheist in the Bible Belt, a liberal in a notoriously red state. My friends understand me... or tolerate me, perhaps. My friend M. thinks I'm "too political," and I probably am. Especially when I question others' beliefs. Maybe I'm too convinced of my own righteousness to understand when others aren't as convinced as I.
Case in point: a few weeks ago that same friend was talking about her daughter's CCD classes (for non-Catholics, these are the torturous classes kids have to take before their First Holy Communion or their "conversion" into the Catholic faith). Her daughter is a wonderful little second grader,a sprightly, precocious little waif whom I adore. Anyway, E. and her mom were sitting at CCD listening to the teacher (a nun? I don't know) talking about who shares God's love. The "discussion" went something like this (and if I'm getting this wrong, I hope M. will correct me):
Teacher: Who does God love?
Student 1: Everybody?
Teacher: Not everybody.
Student 2: Christians?
T: Not all Christians.
S3: Catholics?
T: Not all Catholics.
S4: Catholics who confess their sins?
... and so on.
M. commented on just how "un-Christian" this whole thing was, and how she hated that her beautiful (that's my adjective) daughter had to sit through that.
So... not being able to keep my devil's advocate mouth shut (I do love that expression, "devil's advocate"!), I asked, (sic) "Why do you take her then? If it's so awful, why go?"
I was hoping not to offend, but to merely question the intentions of someone who I know is against MOST of what the Catholic faith teaches, especially about God's love and birth control. She didn't seem too offended, but I knew I was possibly hitting a little below the belt. For that, I feel bad, but I desperately want to know why people continue to follow a faith, or pretend to, when they don't agree with the tenets of that faith.
Her answer was something I didn't expect. We went back and forth a bit before she gave it, but it basically came down to taking her daughter through this traditional Catholic ritual for the loot she'd (her daughter) get from family.
And so we come full-circle. It's all about the mo-ney, mo-ney, mo-ney.
But, here's the thing. I don't disparage her for that at all. On the contrary, I feel like this is what it all comes down to. Her daughter will get some nice bling, a little cash-in-hand, and maybe some to put back for college later. She'll get the spoils of those that expect her to grow up to be a good little Catholic school girl (oh, don't get me started on that!). She'll be a member of one of the most self-righteous institutions in history, but she really doesn't have to believe in it. Her parents certainly don't follow the church's teachings (sorry if I'm outing you, M. & R.). They're good people, honest and hard-working, generous and sweet. They aren't self-righteous or indignant about their beliefs. They take the whole religion thing in stride. (They have to; they're friends of mine!) So do I agree with what they're doing with their daughter? Eh. Maybe, maybe not. Not my place to do so. I just remember my own foray into the world of Catholicism and wonder if maybe they'd be better off letting her try on some other faiths after she's got her loot.
We don't have to go all the way back to my own Catechism, but if we did, it wouldn't be pleasant. I questioned the nun a little too forthrightly. At age 8, I didn't understand the Bible and the way it was being translated. I wondered why sane people believed that some dude died & came back to life three days later, and how the hell could they explain the making of man from dirt and woman from dirt's rib! These people knew there was no Santa Claus and no tooth fairy, right? They didn't think the Easter bunny was real, did they? So how on earth did they think I was going to believe some cockamamie story about the son of God, who I couldn't see, mind you, saving the world - or at least the good Catholics - from a million years of fire and brimstone? That seemed a little too far-fetched for me, and I think I might have said so, if not in so many words.
And the white dress? White patent leather shoes with frilly socks? A flippin' veil???? Are you kidding me? I felt more like the bride of Frankenstein than a miniature bride of God. <shudder>
OK, so childhood trauma notwithstanding, I think I have a tough time in December for the hypocrisy (and, people, it's blatant) of the holidays. The commercialism, the consumerism, the damage to the environment from all the effin' lights... it's too much for me. I know I sound like Scrooge, but the spirit of the holiday season is going to have to work a little harder if it wants this girl to feel festive. And that, my friends, would be a friggin' miracle.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Taboo
This isn't something I readily talk about (hence the title), but I'm compelled to do so tonight. Truthfully, the compulsion has been eating at me for about a week. You see, last Friday was an anniversary of sorts. For 17 years I've been vague and secretive about something that deeply altered my life then and continues to impact me daily.
<Note: I've been staring at this first paragraph for about 10 minutes now trying to think of how to come out with it. Fuck it. Here goes.>
I have a story to tell, and it's difficult to begin without giving back story. Honestly, the best of writers could somehow flashback effectively or edit for days and days to get just the right combination of words and sentences, but this is a blog, so I don't have the time nor space.
During my sophomore year of college I met a guy and fell in love. He's not the guy I married; we'll just get that out of the way first thing. I met the love of my life a few months later. In fact, my hubby and I wouldn't start dating until over a year after we met.
But I digress.
S. was probably the cutest guy my 20 year-old self had ever seen. Dark hair, blue eyes, beautiful teeth in a broad and seductive smile, but more than that, the worn jeans, faded t-shirt & hiking boots-wearing ruggedness about him made me weak in the knees. It was 1993, and I had a crush on Eddie Vedder, Johnny Depp (the "21 Jump Street" variety), Chris Cornell, and The Edge (U2). (See a "type" here?) He didn't play an instrument or sing in a band, but in my head he was a rock star. Four years older than me, a working man on the campus where I was studying literature and majoring in pheromones, he was the friend of a last-minute roommate met through the UDK's apartment ads. By proximity, we began a FWB relationship that would last more than 2 years. (If you don't understand the acronym, ask someone under 45.)
I was strung along like a puppet through those years. Though, to be fair, he did not likely recognize (consciously) the emotional turmoil this arrangement caused my tender heart. (How my heart got to be so tender is another story altogether, to be saved for another day.) I was quick to please, but reluctant to share too much of myself. We didn't talk about our feelings for one another (there weren't supposed to be any), and we didn't make long-term plans (at least not with one another). It was ideal... for someone who was happy passing the time while looking for something (someone) better.
Less than a year into our quasi-relationship, we did something foolish. I knew immediately that our carelessness would require much sacrifice...on my part.
<See, here's where my brain is telling me to be vague, but my inner writer is telling me to go balls-to-the-wall honest.>
Friday, August 12, 1994: one singular sperm met a singular egg & hit it off - too well. Like I said, I knew it immediately. I didn't sleep at all that night & drove 180+ miles the next day to see my childhood friend Steph, with whom I tearfully confided. She was able to calm me down a little by reminding me that I wouldn't - COULDN'T - know anything for a couple weeks, so go back to school, put it out of my mind, and get on with my life... and, by the way, end it with this jerk. (I loved her brutally honest foresight!)
August 23, 1994: Not quite two weeks in, but I had felt puny & cruddy for a few days, and I knew. I knew. The Wal-Mart pharmacy had them in 2-packs, but on my limited pet shop income I reasoned I'd only needed one test to prove what I obviously knew. I didn't waste time when I arrived home. I barely even read the instructions. It wasn't rocket science, for goodness sake.
I cried silently as I watched one and then (more quickly than I anticipated) two lines appear. It was not a surprise, but that confirmation was so heart-breaking. At the same time, this was the first time I'd ever felt so exhilarated. This was new territory for me. A baby? His baby? Overwhelming would be like saying the war in Afghanistan is a little squabble.
I don't remember the days following much. I was already back in my classes, this time as a junior with the light at the end of the educational tunnel appearing closer and closer. I know I probably cried and talked incessently with Ellen and Steph, probably to the point of exhaustion for them both, but I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to keep this baby, plain and simple. I didn't want to tell S. because I was afraid of his reaction. We didn't have too many deep conversations - not about things that applied to any sort of "us," that is - so I didn't even know how to broach the subject with him. It had to be done. I wasn't going to start some soap-opera drama crap when secrets of this magnitude are kept and revealed years later to an unsuspecting father. We were friends and shared many other friends. He worked on the campus where I'd likely soon be waddling. Besides, I'm just not that kind of girl.
Sunday, August 28, 1994: I swallow every ounce of courage to call him and ask him if I can come over. Our relationship didn't typically work that way - I usually waited for him to call me (wouldn't want to seem desparate or anything, right?). I'm sure he was a little weirded out by my call, and he was distracted when I got to his apartment, as if he were trying to get out of there as soon as I arrived. I followed him around the place with my eyes as he skitted about, trying to find a hat or some other inconsequential item. I think he knew something to make him uncomfortable was brewing. I finally said it, just blurted it out. "I'm pregnant." He stopped in his tracks (pretty much the result I was expecting).
I think he questioned whether it was his. I hardly flinched. I may have been a fool, but I was never stupid. I understood this to be the question out of most men's mouth when not married or securely committed to a girl making this claim. Par for the course. I don't remember details of the conversation, except the repeated words, "I can't" and "I don't want" and "I won't." Of course I cried in front of him - something I'd never, ever done, something that humiliated me more than the fact that I was pregnant with an unwanted child. I left feeling a sense of deep sadness and horrifying shame. Before this point, I hadn't really considered anything but bringing up his baby, either with him or without. But the other words that I remember bouncing around the room like a lead and rubber-filled balloon were, "get rid of" and "take care of."
I called Planned Parenthood the next day, and on Friday, September 9, 1994, I took care of it. Without his financial, physical, or emotional help. My mom took me and consoled me the best she could after, assuring me that it was for the best, to think of my future. I didn't talk to him for about two months. I couldn't. It was fine, though. I no longer lived with his friend, and I made a point of avoiding social gatherings he'd likely attend. I devoted myself to school and to not feeling like there was a million pieces of me on the floor waiting to be swept up and tossed out.
This is no sort of cautionary tale. I am, have always been, and will always be a supporter of and fighter for the right for women to make their own biological decisions. The cluster of cells that had formed after conception looked exactly like a cluster of cells. Those cells didn't have a heart, a brain, or a central nervous system. I write this because I never have before. Not since a cryptic poem for a creative writing class anyway. (I wish I could find that darn thing!) It's cathartic in a way, but it's also frightening for me. I'm afraid of the backlash of something so darn personal. Besides, I teach teens, and there are probably more than a few who will deal with an unexpected pregnancy at least once in their lives. I do not tell this story to them - nor would I ever. I don't expect any of them to read it either. I hope they don't.
Here's the other reason I write: I'm trying to wrap my brain around this and my current infertility. My mind can't help but jump to the obvious connection. I ended one pregnancy on purpose; I got rid of the first of the 3 children I wanted to have. What if this would have been the daughter I have always wanted? Oh, the thoughts that invade my mind! Self-punishment is putting it mildly. I know this is irrational. I know it is.
But here's the real kicker. I'm "friends" with S. on facebook now. This is a fairly recent development - less than a year, I think? Last fall he and his wife had their first baby. A daughter.
A daughter.
Last week was his birthday, and at 41, he commented that he felt old and that maybe he should have done this whole parenting thing 10 years ago.
I want to yell, How about 17 years ago, asshole?!?!
But I won't. I don't. Instead I write about it. Consequences be damned. I'm 37 years old, and I want to own my past without my ear next to the phone waiting for it to give me a booty call at 2am. I don't hate him. I couldn't really ever hate him. I hurt, but it was my decision. The woulda, coulda, shoulda is a stupid game we play in our heads, and it's such a self-loathing practice. I am not only this decision. I am a million great decisions and this one is one of the few that I sometimes question but also know in my heart to be the catalyst for the awesome decisions I made thereafter and the perfect brown-eyed results that fill my life with more happiness than I ever expected.
<Note: I've been staring at this first paragraph for about 10 minutes now trying to think of how to come out with it. Fuck it. Here goes.>
I have a story to tell, and it's difficult to begin without giving back story. Honestly, the best of writers could somehow flashback effectively or edit for days and days to get just the right combination of words and sentences, but this is a blog, so I don't have the time nor space.
During my sophomore year of college I met a guy and fell in love. He's not the guy I married; we'll just get that out of the way first thing. I met the love of my life a few months later. In fact, my hubby and I wouldn't start dating until over a year after we met.
But I digress.
S. was probably the cutest guy my 20 year-old self had ever seen. Dark hair, blue eyes, beautiful teeth in a broad and seductive smile, but more than that, the worn jeans, faded t-shirt & hiking boots-wearing ruggedness about him made me weak in the knees. It was 1993, and I had a crush on Eddie Vedder, Johnny Depp (the "21 Jump Street" variety), Chris Cornell, and The Edge (U2). (See a "type" here?) He didn't play an instrument or sing in a band, but in my head he was a rock star. Four years older than me, a working man on the campus where I was studying literature and majoring in pheromones, he was the friend of a last-minute roommate met through the UDK's apartment ads. By proximity, we began a FWB relationship that would last more than 2 years. (If you don't understand the acronym, ask someone under 45.)
I was strung along like a puppet through those years. Though, to be fair, he did not likely recognize (consciously) the emotional turmoil this arrangement caused my tender heart. (How my heart got to be so tender is another story altogether, to be saved for another day.) I was quick to please, but reluctant to share too much of myself. We didn't talk about our feelings for one another (there weren't supposed to be any), and we didn't make long-term plans (at least not with one another). It was ideal... for someone who was happy passing the time while looking for something (someone) better.
Less than a year into our quasi-relationship, we did something foolish. I knew immediately that our carelessness would require much sacrifice...on my part.
<See, here's where my brain is telling me to be vague, but my inner writer is telling me to go balls-to-the-wall honest.>
Friday, August 12, 1994: one singular sperm met a singular egg & hit it off - too well. Like I said, I knew it immediately. I didn't sleep at all that night & drove 180+ miles the next day to see my childhood friend Steph, with whom I tearfully confided. She was able to calm me down a little by reminding me that I wouldn't - COULDN'T - know anything for a couple weeks, so go back to school, put it out of my mind, and get on with my life... and, by the way, end it with this jerk. (I loved her brutally honest foresight!)
August 23, 1994: Not quite two weeks in, but I had felt puny & cruddy for a few days, and I knew. I knew. The Wal-Mart pharmacy had them in 2-packs, but on my limited pet shop income I reasoned I'd only needed one test to prove what I obviously knew. I didn't waste time when I arrived home. I barely even read the instructions. It wasn't rocket science, for goodness sake.
I cried silently as I watched one and then (more quickly than I anticipated) two lines appear. It was not a surprise, but that confirmation was so heart-breaking. At the same time, this was the first time I'd ever felt so exhilarated. This was new territory for me. A baby? His baby? Overwhelming would be like saying the war in Afghanistan is a little squabble.
I don't remember the days following much. I was already back in my classes, this time as a junior with the light at the end of the educational tunnel appearing closer and closer. I know I probably cried and talked incessently with Ellen and Steph, probably to the point of exhaustion for them both, but I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to keep this baby, plain and simple. I didn't want to tell S. because I was afraid of his reaction. We didn't have too many deep conversations - not about things that applied to any sort of "us," that is - so I didn't even know how to broach the subject with him. It had to be done. I wasn't going to start some soap-opera drama crap when secrets of this magnitude are kept and revealed years later to an unsuspecting father. We were friends and shared many other friends. He worked on the campus where I'd likely soon be waddling. Besides, I'm just not that kind of girl.
Sunday, August 28, 1994: I swallow every ounce of courage to call him and ask him if I can come over. Our relationship didn't typically work that way - I usually waited for him to call me (wouldn't want to seem desparate or anything, right?). I'm sure he was a little weirded out by my call, and he was distracted when I got to his apartment, as if he were trying to get out of there as soon as I arrived. I followed him around the place with my eyes as he skitted about, trying to find a hat or some other inconsequential item. I think he knew something to make him uncomfortable was brewing. I finally said it, just blurted it out. "I'm pregnant." He stopped in his tracks (pretty much the result I was expecting).
I think he questioned whether it was his. I hardly flinched. I may have been a fool, but I was never stupid. I understood this to be the question out of most men's mouth when not married or securely committed to a girl making this claim. Par for the course. I don't remember details of the conversation, except the repeated words, "I can't" and "I don't want" and "I won't." Of course I cried in front of him - something I'd never, ever done, something that humiliated me more than the fact that I was pregnant with an unwanted child. I left feeling a sense of deep sadness and horrifying shame. Before this point, I hadn't really considered anything but bringing up his baby, either with him or without. But the other words that I remember bouncing around the room like a lead and rubber-filled balloon were, "get rid of" and "take care of."
I called Planned Parenthood the next day, and on Friday, September 9, 1994, I took care of it. Without his financial, physical, or emotional help. My mom took me and consoled me the best she could after, assuring me that it was for the best, to think of my future. I didn't talk to him for about two months. I couldn't. It was fine, though. I no longer lived with his friend, and I made a point of avoiding social gatherings he'd likely attend. I devoted myself to school and to not feeling like there was a million pieces of me on the floor waiting to be swept up and tossed out.
This is no sort of cautionary tale. I am, have always been, and will always be a supporter of and fighter for the right for women to make their own biological decisions. The cluster of cells that had formed after conception looked exactly like a cluster of cells. Those cells didn't have a heart, a brain, or a central nervous system. I write this because I never have before. Not since a cryptic poem for a creative writing class anyway. (I wish I could find that darn thing!) It's cathartic in a way, but it's also frightening for me. I'm afraid of the backlash of something so darn personal. Besides, I teach teens, and there are probably more than a few who will deal with an unexpected pregnancy at least once in their lives. I do not tell this story to them - nor would I ever. I don't expect any of them to read it either. I hope they don't.
Here's the other reason I write: I'm trying to wrap my brain around this and my current infertility. My mind can't help but jump to the obvious connection. I ended one pregnancy on purpose; I got rid of the first of the 3 children I wanted to have. What if this would have been the daughter I have always wanted? Oh, the thoughts that invade my mind! Self-punishment is putting it mildly. I know this is irrational. I know it is.
But here's the real kicker. I'm "friends" with S. on facebook now. This is a fairly recent development - less than a year, I think? Last fall he and his wife had their first baby. A daughter.
A daughter.
Last week was his birthday, and at 41, he commented that he felt old and that maybe he should have done this whole parenting thing 10 years ago.
I want to yell, How about 17 years ago, asshole?!?!
But I won't. I don't. Instead I write about it. Consequences be damned. I'm 37 years old, and I want to own my past without my ear next to the phone waiting for it to give me a booty call at 2am. I don't hate him. I couldn't really ever hate him. I hurt, but it was my decision. The woulda, coulda, shoulda is a stupid game we play in our heads, and it's such a self-loathing practice. I am not only this decision. I am a million great decisions and this one is one of the few that I sometimes question but also know in my heart to be the catalyst for the awesome decisions I made thereafter and the perfect brown-eyed results that fill my life with more happiness than I ever expected.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
I'm OK. You're OK.
I have been looking forward to and dreading this night for the past week. My gal pals and I haven't gotten together as a group for months, and we needed a Girls' Night like nobody's business. Two in our group have had babies in the past 4 months, so it's been difficult, to say the least, for all of us to hang. Three of us also share a friend in common whose 5 week-old baby died of SIDS about 6 weeks ago. We wanted her to join us, too.
I don't have to tell anyone who has been reading this blog the past 8 months of my desire and disappointment regarding babies. One of the reasons I haven't written much for the past few months is because that's what I do when I'm on the brink. I turn inward and I don't let a whole lot of people in. I've all but shut out all of my closest friends, save my husband. I don't talk about my pain because it's just too much to put into words sometimes. And then I feel guilty for having such selfish thoughts, as if I had the power to harness them! HA!
So when we planned for this little get-together, it was understood that the babies and children of most would have to be in attendance. The only way we could all show up on the same date and at the same time was if we brought our kids.
While I have wanted to hang out with the girls for the longest time (it's kind of hard to get girl time in a house full of boys), I have been suffering little moments of anxiety about this night since we set the date. I didn't know if I could sit in a room with two babies and hold back my tears.
However, no one is as strong as our friend Lindsey. She lost her son Max less than 2 months ago, yet she came. She held the 6 week-old son of our friend Jeane, a little guy who is just one week older than Max was when they found him in his crib. I know it was immensely difficult for her to do that, to watch all of us oohing and awing over these infants, and to not lose her shit. I cannot tell you how much respect I have for her, and how much she puts things into perspective for me.
I'm not going to wallow - or, at least I'm going to try - in my self pity anymore. No, I'm not going to be able to have another baby the way I wanted to have one in the time I wanted. I don't know what, if anything, I will do, but I'm going to take a lesson from Lindsey. I'm not going to avoid people with babies; I'm going to embrace them like I embraced, cuddled, held, fed, burped, and rocked Stella and Eli tonight.
I don't have to tell anyone who has been reading this blog the past 8 months of my desire and disappointment regarding babies. One of the reasons I haven't written much for the past few months is because that's what I do when I'm on the brink. I turn inward and I don't let a whole lot of people in. I've all but shut out all of my closest friends, save my husband. I don't talk about my pain because it's just too much to put into words sometimes. And then I feel guilty for having such selfish thoughts, as if I had the power to harness them! HA!
So when we planned for this little get-together, it was understood that the babies and children of most would have to be in attendance. The only way we could all show up on the same date and at the same time was if we brought our kids.
While I have wanted to hang out with the girls for the longest time (it's kind of hard to get girl time in a house full of boys), I have been suffering little moments of anxiety about this night since we set the date. I didn't know if I could sit in a room with two babies and hold back my tears.
However, no one is as strong as our friend Lindsey. She lost her son Max less than 2 months ago, yet she came. She held the 6 week-old son of our friend Jeane, a little guy who is just one week older than Max was when they found him in his crib. I know it was immensely difficult for her to do that, to watch all of us oohing and awing over these infants, and to not lose her shit. I cannot tell you how much respect I have for her, and how much she puts things into perspective for me.
I'm not going to wallow - or, at least I'm going to try - in my self pity anymore. No, I'm not going to be able to have another baby the way I wanted to have one in the time I wanted. I don't know what, if anything, I will do, but I'm going to take a lesson from Lindsey. I'm not going to avoid people with babies; I'm going to embrace them like I embraced, cuddled, held, fed, burped, and rocked Stella and Eli tonight.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
A Call to Arms, Parents
I don't usually get too controversial here, because I know once I send something down the interweb tubes, it's out there forever and ever, but I have to comment on an article in today's USA Today (a paper I do not read regularly, but the article to which I will be referring was recommended by my mother who does).
http://www.usatoday.com/news/opinion/forum/2011-06-20-Parents-key-in-education_n.htm
Go ahead. I'll go get a drink while you read it. It's pretty short, so no need to hurry on my part. I'm going to add ice and maybe pet the dog in the interim as well.
Ok, so now that you've perused it, you can agree or disagree. I welcome your comments, but first I have to add mine.
Aside from the wonderful examples of students the author has taught in the past and their career paths, marriage choices, etc., I think the article makes some very valid points. The first, of course, is that our school boards, our government, and the so-called reformers will not admit that the issue of successful educational strides have very, very little to do with the classroom teacher.
Like Mr. Welsh, I would love to say I had so much power! Imagine the possibilities if all teachers could "reach" every student in every class every day of every year! Like Hillary Swank and Michelle Pfiefer rolled up in one steroid-dipped joint, man! We'd be on fire!
The truth is, I have very little influence in my students' education. It's true. I see them a few hours a week and compete with their other classes, their friends, their video games, their sports and after-school activities, and their ever-present cell phones. I am merely the tiniest blip on their radar screens. Elementary teachers have less competition, and probably a little more impact, but guaranteed they're competing as well. It's a losing battle for many of us, and we accept that. It's a bruised ego we must endure when we go home at night sometimes thinking, I just don't understand why they don't take my class seriously or why can't they just do the work? But, we grow to understand this competition is fixed. It was never fair.
That's where the parents come in, ladies and gentlemen. They are either on our team or the enemy's. The kids who have parents on our side will ensure their children have the basics they need to succeed in class, but they also provide the teachers with additional arsenal. They give their kids experiences outside their home, neighborhoods, and communities. They take their kids to museums and give them an outlet to express themselves creatively and actively. These parents also understand the importance of being active in their kids' educational lives. They don't sit passively by and watch as their kids struggle or succeed. They provide tutors when needed. They look for resources that will help their kids grow and get better.
Now, like Mr. Welsh stated, this type of parenting is not reserved for the privileged. It is not the wealthy or the college-educated parents who are the only ones able to play in this game. No! Any parent can be an advocate for his or her child's education and show that child why it's important to learn. They don't even have to say, "It's important to read, son." or "An education is necessary, dear." No. It's by deed. Take your son or daughter to a game (little league or pro), to be exposed to sports and outlets for their energy; to an art museum, art show, or art fair (there are free shows/fairs/museums) so you can talk about why the artist chose that color or subject or to discuss which painting you like best and why; to a nature preserve to talk about insects and plants and the environment and biology; to the grocery store to show consumerism and advertising and nutrition; to a play to see something performed live instead of edited for television; on a road trip across the state to learn about history and culture outside their neighborhood. These activities (among so many others) help acculturate our youth. They give the school a fighting chance, too.
Besides giving children experiences, we need to teach them how to live in a civilized society. Working in a semi-suburban school (some of our kids are downright urban, aight?), teachers at my school see every day the effects of parents neglecting that seemingly simple task. It seems so brainless on our part, too. Like, why wouldn't you teach your kid manners? But, we all too often try our best to teach students that it is NOT OK to talk when the teacher is instructing, that it is socially unacceptable to interrupt someone with your voice or your actions while they have the floor, that it is not fine to yell or cuss in the middle of class, that it is not alright to answer a cell phone any time they want no matter what's going on around them. I'm sorry to say this, but it isn't just our "urban" kids who are guilty of not knowing the rules of middle-class society. Many of our suburban kids do not understand these rules either. It's not a matter of how much money mom or dad pull in, it's a matter of what they've been taught at home through direct instruction or modeled behavior.
Parents of my generation, I'm sad to say, have not made a good show of it. Many of Gen-X's leaders have befriended their kids instead of taking the tougher job of parenting them. They've taken their kids to get tattoos and piercings at the same time they're getting them. I'm thinking now of a little gal I coached this year whose mother had a "tattoo party" at her house and encouraged her 15 year-old to get a giant butterfly on the back of her shoulder, even though she would have to cover it every time she wore her cheerleading uniform. Does this make the mother a bad parent? NO!!! Not at all. But through her actions, she has opened the floodgates for accepting and encouraging certain behaviors. What is wrong with limits when kids are young? No, daughter, I am getting a tattoo today, but because you're young and not fully developed physically, emotionally, or psychologically, you need to wait until you're a few years older to get one, too, because who knows? You might not want to be permanently marked when you're a little older. What's difficult about that? Oh! A whiny, pouty, "I hate you" response from a 15 year-old? Darn.
I digress. Parents are the first teachers. We've heard that expression again and again. What we teach our own kids in word AND (especially) in deed has much more of an impact than any school teacher will have. If we teach them that education is important, they will more likely think so, too, even if they complain about their homework and snarl or slam the door when we make them turn off the electronic devices in order to (gasp!) study.
And let's not kid ourselves, OK? If our teachers had that much influence on us, I'd be a mother of 8 kids with the same initials (Mr. Bauer) who travels to Greece every break to see my stud of a boyfriend (Ms. Johnson), drinks heavily on and off the clock (protecting that teacher's name), and wears crazy knee-high socks with every outfit (Mrs. Grant). I will say this, however, about my awesome teachers: their influences ARE present when I teach my own students. Their influences are felt every time I write (thank you Mr. Bauer, Mrs. Estes, Mrs. Camp, Ms. Johnson) and read (thank you, Mrs. Huntress, Mrs. Denney, Mrs. Davis). I think my teachers in all the schools I ever attended, in all three districts, were tops!
But the best educators I had, those that taught me to be somebody, to take my education seriously, to persevere when I wanted to give up, that school wasn't social time but my job, were my parents and my older sister. Shout out! If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be able to sit through a graduation ceremony every single year or an in-service meeting every quarter, bored to tears, but still able to listen attentively to the speaker instead of reading a magazine, talking to my neighbors or texting. I wouldn't work hard for my accomplishments rather than expect them to be handed to me. I wouldn't enjoy reading the paper or watching the news. I wouldn't be able to be curious about the world around me. Wouldn't that be sad?
So, parents, it's up to us, not to our kids' teachers and their schools, to ensure our kids get a good "education" before they, too, become parents. Their teachers are facilitators for their learning. The foundations for that education are built at home. When we send our children to school, whether it's to Mrs. Penny's Preschool or the University of I'm Gonna Be Filthy Rich Someday, we have to ensure they are ready to learn, are able to learn, and are willing to learn. Hell, it might even be nice if we teach them to enjoy it, too (but that's probably a little much, huh?).
http://www.usatoday.com/news/opinion/forum/2011-06-20-Parents-key-in-education_n.htm
Go ahead. I'll go get a drink while you read it. It's pretty short, so no need to hurry on my part. I'm going to add ice and maybe pet the dog in the interim as well.
Ok, so now that you've perused it, you can agree or disagree. I welcome your comments, but first I have to add mine.
Aside from the wonderful examples of students the author has taught in the past and their career paths, marriage choices, etc., I think the article makes some very valid points. The first, of course, is that our school boards, our government, and the so-called reformers will not admit that the issue of successful educational strides have very, very little to do with the classroom teacher.
Like Mr. Welsh, I would love to say I had so much power! Imagine the possibilities if all teachers could "reach" every student in every class every day of every year! Like Hillary Swank and Michelle Pfiefer rolled up in one steroid-dipped joint, man! We'd be on fire!
The truth is, I have very little influence in my students' education. It's true. I see them a few hours a week and compete with their other classes, their friends, their video games, their sports and after-school activities, and their ever-present cell phones. I am merely the tiniest blip on their radar screens. Elementary teachers have less competition, and probably a little more impact, but guaranteed they're competing as well. It's a losing battle for many of us, and we accept that. It's a bruised ego we must endure when we go home at night sometimes thinking, I just don't understand why they don't take my class seriously or why can't they just do the work? But, we grow to understand this competition is fixed. It was never fair.
That's where the parents come in, ladies and gentlemen. They are either on our team or the enemy's. The kids who have parents on our side will ensure their children have the basics they need to succeed in class, but they also provide the teachers with additional arsenal. They give their kids experiences outside their home, neighborhoods, and communities. They take their kids to museums and give them an outlet to express themselves creatively and actively. These parents also understand the importance of being active in their kids' educational lives. They don't sit passively by and watch as their kids struggle or succeed. They provide tutors when needed. They look for resources that will help their kids grow and get better.
Now, like Mr. Welsh stated, this type of parenting is not reserved for the privileged. It is not the wealthy or the college-educated parents who are the only ones able to play in this game. No! Any parent can be an advocate for his or her child's education and show that child why it's important to learn. They don't even have to say, "It's important to read, son." or "An education is necessary, dear." No. It's by deed. Take your son or daughter to a game (little league or pro), to be exposed to sports and outlets for their energy; to an art museum, art show, or art fair (there are free shows/fairs/museums) so you can talk about why the artist chose that color or subject or to discuss which painting you like best and why; to a nature preserve to talk about insects and plants and the environment and biology; to the grocery store to show consumerism and advertising and nutrition; to a play to see something performed live instead of edited for television; on a road trip across the state to learn about history and culture outside their neighborhood. These activities (among so many others) help acculturate our youth. They give the school a fighting chance, too.
Besides giving children experiences, we need to teach them how to live in a civilized society. Working in a semi-suburban school (some of our kids are downright urban, aight?), teachers at my school see every day the effects of parents neglecting that seemingly simple task. It seems so brainless on our part, too. Like, why wouldn't you teach your kid manners? But, we all too often try our best to teach students that it is NOT OK to talk when the teacher is instructing, that it is socially unacceptable to interrupt someone with your voice or your actions while they have the floor, that it is not fine to yell or cuss in the middle of class, that it is not alright to answer a cell phone any time they want no matter what's going on around them. I'm sorry to say this, but it isn't just our "urban" kids who are guilty of not knowing the rules of middle-class society. Many of our suburban kids do not understand these rules either. It's not a matter of how much money mom or dad pull in, it's a matter of what they've been taught at home through direct instruction or modeled behavior.
Parents of my generation, I'm sad to say, have not made a good show of it. Many of Gen-X's leaders have befriended their kids instead of taking the tougher job of parenting them. They've taken their kids to get tattoos and piercings at the same time they're getting them. I'm thinking now of a little gal I coached this year whose mother had a "tattoo party" at her house and encouraged her 15 year-old to get a giant butterfly on the back of her shoulder, even though she would have to cover it every time she wore her cheerleading uniform. Does this make the mother a bad parent? NO!!! Not at all. But through her actions, she has opened the floodgates for accepting and encouraging certain behaviors. What is wrong with limits when kids are young? No, daughter, I am getting a tattoo today, but because you're young and not fully developed physically, emotionally, or psychologically, you need to wait until you're a few years older to get one, too, because who knows? You might not want to be permanently marked when you're a little older. What's difficult about that? Oh! A whiny, pouty, "I hate you" response from a 15 year-old? Darn.
I digress. Parents are the first teachers. We've heard that expression again and again. What we teach our own kids in word AND (especially) in deed has much more of an impact than any school teacher will have. If we teach them that education is important, they will more likely think so, too, even if they complain about their homework and snarl or slam the door when we make them turn off the electronic devices in order to (gasp!) study.
And let's not kid ourselves, OK? If our teachers had that much influence on us, I'd be a mother of 8 kids with the same initials (Mr. Bauer) who travels to Greece every break to see my stud of a boyfriend (Ms. Johnson), drinks heavily on and off the clock (protecting that teacher's name), and wears crazy knee-high socks with every outfit (Mrs. Grant). I will say this, however, about my awesome teachers: their influences ARE present when I teach my own students. Their influences are felt every time I write (thank you Mr. Bauer, Mrs. Estes, Mrs. Camp, Ms. Johnson) and read (thank you, Mrs. Huntress, Mrs. Denney, Mrs. Davis). I think my teachers in all the schools I ever attended, in all three districts, were tops!
But the best educators I had, those that taught me to be somebody, to take my education seriously, to persevere when I wanted to give up, that school wasn't social time but my job, were my parents and my older sister. Shout out! If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be able to sit through a graduation ceremony every single year or an in-service meeting every quarter, bored to tears, but still able to listen attentively to the speaker instead of reading a magazine, talking to my neighbors or texting. I wouldn't work hard for my accomplishments rather than expect them to be handed to me. I wouldn't enjoy reading the paper or watching the news. I wouldn't be able to be curious about the world around me. Wouldn't that be sad?
So, parents, it's up to us, not to our kids' teachers and their schools, to ensure our kids get a good "education" before they, too, become parents. Their teachers are facilitators for their learning. The foundations for that education are built at home. When we send our children to school, whether it's to Mrs. Penny's Preschool or the University of I'm Gonna Be Filthy Rich Someday, we have to ensure they are ready to learn, are able to learn, and are willing to learn. Hell, it might even be nice if we teach them to enjoy it, too (but that's probably a little much, huh?).
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Collaboration with the Like-Minded
I love summer. As a teacher, I just love, L-O-V-E, summer.
Most would think because I have "3 months off" every year, of COURSE I love summer. However, that is not why (nor is that statement is at all true for any teacher worth his salt, but I won't get into that).
No, summer for me, albeit a break from the traditional day-to-day grind of teaching, means learning. It's finally MY turn to learn something other than 160+ student names, learning styles, and temperaments. I get to talk to adults for hours on-end, discussing strategies, theories, practices, and even horror stories of our time in the trenches of public education. I get to learn about how different districts implement their policies and how other teachers devise ways of subversively breaking the rules to ensure their kids actually learn something, too. I learn tricks of the trade, my friends, and their is nothing more valuable in my teacher tool box than the ideas I get from other educators.
This week I attended the Baker University Summer Conference for Educators. It was two days of classes, a wonderful keynote speaker, and collaboration at its finest. The wonderful thing about Baker is their forward approach to education. They have instructors who also never quit learning, ensuring that they have the best research, the best theories, and the best practices to pass along. Not only that, but their instructors love to learn more from their students! At a conference like this one, it is likely that one would find more of a consortium of ideas rather than a lecture series.
I met some fabulous people, too. Stacy and Rachael from Baldwin High School are a dynamic duo. I have been a little jealous of Baldwin City's high school teachers for a long while. They have so many offerings for classes in their English department, and they have the benefit of being close to both Baker AND KU (and other forward thinkers). It puts our huge district to shame. Today I also met Joe, an administrator from Wellington. We shared common contacts (many of my cousins attended Wellington High) as well as great ideas regarding our practices in the classroom. He took some of my ideas to share with his staff, and I'm taking some of his to share with my department.
I am looking forward to the next conference in a month, and then the 4-day AP institute at the end of July. I have so much to sift through from the past two days, though, so I'll be plenty busy until then. It's my turn to be the student for a while, and I just love it!
Most would think because I have "3 months off" every year, of COURSE I love summer. However, that is not why (nor is that statement is at all true for any teacher worth his salt, but I won't get into that).
No, summer for me, albeit a break from the traditional day-to-day grind of teaching, means learning. It's finally MY turn to learn something other than 160+ student names, learning styles, and temperaments. I get to talk to adults for hours on-end, discussing strategies, theories, practices, and even horror stories of our time in the trenches of public education. I get to learn about how different districts implement their policies and how other teachers devise ways of subversively breaking the rules to ensure their kids actually learn something, too. I learn tricks of the trade, my friends, and their is nothing more valuable in my teacher tool box than the ideas I get from other educators.
This week I attended the Baker University Summer Conference for Educators. It was two days of classes, a wonderful keynote speaker, and collaboration at its finest. The wonderful thing about Baker is their forward approach to education. They have instructors who also never quit learning, ensuring that they have the best research, the best theories, and the best practices to pass along. Not only that, but their instructors love to learn more from their students! At a conference like this one, it is likely that one would find more of a consortium of ideas rather than a lecture series.
I met some fabulous people, too. Stacy and Rachael from Baldwin High School are a dynamic duo. I have been a little jealous of Baldwin City's high school teachers for a long while. They have so many offerings for classes in their English department, and they have the benefit of being close to both Baker AND KU (and other forward thinkers). It puts our huge district to shame. Today I also met Joe, an administrator from Wellington. We shared common contacts (many of my cousins attended Wellington High) as well as great ideas regarding our practices in the classroom. He took some of my ideas to share with his staff, and I'm taking some of his to share with my department.
I am looking forward to the next conference in a month, and then the 4-day AP institute at the end of July. I have so much to sift through from the past two days, though, so I'll be plenty busy until then. It's my turn to be the student for a while, and I just love it!
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Update: A Story of a Family (working title)
I've mostly made edits today. Not a lot of additional story line nor character development, but the typical English teacher I-can't-stand-for-my-verb-tenses-to-be-inconsistent stuff.
Lemme give you a little run-down. Let's see if your curiosity is piqued at all.
The story follows 3 generations: Maggie, her nephew Joe, and Joe's daughter Meg. I employ flashback throughout the entire novel - the stories run simultaneously, really.
Maggie is 15 in 1941. She lives on a Kansas wheat farm with her hard-working parents, a German Catholic family with only enough money to "get by" since their lives were hit hard in the Great Depression when Maggie and her 2 older sisters were small. One of the most exciting events in their lives is the annual county fair where the girls enter baked goods and livestock in competitions, and where they can "let loose" for an evening. Maggie meets a young man at the fair, a hired man who travels with the amusements. He woos her for two nights and leaves. A few months later, she realizes she is pregnant and is sent by her mother to have the baby at her eldest sister's house where the community & her father will not find out. Maggie must give the baby up for adoption before she can return to her family. While she is under the care of her sister and brother-in-law, she bonds strongly with one of the couple's children, a sickly little boy named Josiah (Joe). She cares for him tenderly and gives him the affection he lacks from his parents.
Flash forward to 1970. Joe is about 30 years old and has a young wife. He has graduated college, thanks to his Aunt Maggie's tutelage and financial support, with a degree in pharmacy, and is able to buy his own pharmacy after a decade of working tirelessly to earn enough money. He becomes a community success story, and when he has a daughter of his own (in the late '70s), he names her Margaret after his aunt. When the pharmacy comes into hard times in the mid '80s, Joe allows a partner to buy out 49% of the store to keep it up and running.
Meg is a curious and precocious young girl who is devoted to her dad and her great-aunt. She loves to spend time with both, and often writes about them in short stories. As a young adult she grows to wonder about a mysterious illness overtaking her father and about the hushed history of her great-aunt Maggie.
And that's all I'm going to say about that...
There's some great plot twists that I don't want to give away just yet, but this is the bare bones of it. Would you open it if it were a book in your hands?
Lemme give you a little run-down. Let's see if your curiosity is piqued at all.
The story follows 3 generations: Maggie, her nephew Joe, and Joe's daughter Meg. I employ flashback throughout the entire novel - the stories run simultaneously, really.
Maggie is 15 in 1941. She lives on a Kansas wheat farm with her hard-working parents, a German Catholic family with only enough money to "get by" since their lives were hit hard in the Great Depression when Maggie and her 2 older sisters were small. One of the most exciting events in their lives is the annual county fair where the girls enter baked goods and livestock in competitions, and where they can "let loose" for an evening. Maggie meets a young man at the fair, a hired man who travels with the amusements. He woos her for two nights and leaves. A few months later, she realizes she is pregnant and is sent by her mother to have the baby at her eldest sister's house where the community & her father will not find out. Maggie must give the baby up for adoption before she can return to her family. While she is under the care of her sister and brother-in-law, she bonds strongly with one of the couple's children, a sickly little boy named Josiah (Joe). She cares for him tenderly and gives him the affection he lacks from his parents.
Flash forward to 1970. Joe is about 30 years old and has a young wife. He has graduated college, thanks to his Aunt Maggie's tutelage and financial support, with a degree in pharmacy, and is able to buy his own pharmacy after a decade of working tirelessly to earn enough money. He becomes a community success story, and when he has a daughter of his own (in the late '70s), he names her Margaret after his aunt. When the pharmacy comes into hard times in the mid '80s, Joe allows a partner to buy out 49% of the store to keep it up and running.
Meg is a curious and precocious young girl who is devoted to her dad and her great-aunt. She loves to spend time with both, and often writes about them in short stories. As a young adult she grows to wonder about a mysterious illness overtaking her father and about the hushed history of her great-aunt Maggie.
And that's all I'm going to say about that...
There's some great plot twists that I don't want to give away just yet, but this is the bare bones of it. Would you open it if it were a book in your hands?
Iiiii'm Ready!
Spongebob's little mantra is swimming in my head right now as I revisit an old novel I began a couple years ago. It is one of those epic multi-generational projects I must get exactly right before I publish. I think it was that daunting concept that scared me into halting the project before I had written 2 full chapters. Granted, there are so far more than 4 mini-chapters as I break up each full chapter by generation.
After reading (and editing a few minor issues like syntax & dates) what I've written so far, I am a little ashamed I put it away for so long. It's not half bad. I'm actually sort of proud of its poetic descriptions and the width & breadth of the storyline. I have an outline (which is something I neglected in the last story I began, and probably a major force behind halting that project as well), and I hadn't realized just how much I had planned.
So off to write again, kiddies. Less time on Facebook (maybe) and reading others' writing (although I will not stop that, believe me), and more time on developing these wonderful characters again. Wish me luck.
After reading (and editing a few minor issues like syntax & dates) what I've written so far, I am a little ashamed I put it away for so long. It's not half bad. I'm actually sort of proud of its poetic descriptions and the width & breadth of the storyline. I have an outline (which is something I neglected in the last story I began, and probably a major force behind halting that project as well), and I hadn't realized just how much I had planned.
So off to write again, kiddies. Less time on Facebook (maybe) and reading others' writing (although I will not stop that, believe me), and more time on developing these wonderful characters again. Wish me luck.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Ever Feel Less Than?
Less than...
Less than perfect.
Less than excellent.
Less than great.
Less than good.
Less than alright.
Less than eh.
Less than nothing?
Yeah. That was my evening yesterday.
I have been so proud, so excited, and so ready to take on this promotion at school. I have worked my butt off for 12 years to earn my stripes there. I've been through 4 principals, countless assistant principals, 2 department chairs, and more colleagues than I can count. I've gone from being the youngest member of my department of 19 people to one of the "seasoned veterans" in a shrinking department of 10. I have earned a Master's degree, several awards, served on many committees, coached, sponsored, and attended so many conferences it'd make your head spin.
Now I have a chance to lead my department, to organize and support my fellow English teachers, to make decisions about scheduling and budgeting and curriculum, to help my colleagues become better teachers, but I have always felt less than nothing when a certain, nameless, person enters the room. I do not what I've ever done to deserve the amount of disrespect and disdain with which this woman gives me, but I have tried to prove my competence - nay! my excellence! - to my bosses and my peers for 12 years, and I just don't know what it would take to earn her respect.
Part of me doesn't want to care. Lie. All of me doesn't want to care, but all of me does. I am not a big enough person (yeah, keep the short jokes to yourself) to not care what people think of me. I'm insecure in many ways, but professionally I am usually totally secure. But not when she's in the room. I don't get a hello. I don't get a nod. When I ask a question, I get nothing but a terse do-not-bother-me-you-peon reply.
The whole situation yesterday made me reflect more about how I treat people. I know there are people in my life who for one reason or another grate on my nerves. I usually just let them be, but I don't think I'm ever outwardly rude or show absolute intolerance when they're sharing the same air. Do I? I'm usually pretty darn friendly, to be honest. In fact, there are so few people who truly irritate me that I don't think I hardly even think about it much.
So, yeah, it's her problem, right? She's the one with the issue - not me, right? Not everyone has to like me, right? I don't care if everyone likes me so much as I feel like I've earned the right to have a little more consideration than what I get. I'm damn good at what I do. I've got more talent in my pinkie finger for working with kids than many people will ever realize. I am friggen' smart, too. I am an awesome diplomat - most of the time. Yeah, yeah. I feel like Stuart Smally here. My daily affirmations... "And doggone it, people like me."
So screw anyone who doesn't think I'm the shiznit, right? Yeah. Tell me that when I have to be in the same room with this person the next time.
Less than perfect.
Less than excellent.
Less than great.
Less than good.
Less than alright.
Less than eh.
Less than nothing?
Yeah. That was my evening yesterday.
I have been so proud, so excited, and so ready to take on this promotion at school. I have worked my butt off for 12 years to earn my stripes there. I've been through 4 principals, countless assistant principals, 2 department chairs, and more colleagues than I can count. I've gone from being the youngest member of my department of 19 people to one of the "seasoned veterans" in a shrinking department of 10. I have earned a Master's degree, several awards, served on many committees, coached, sponsored, and attended so many conferences it'd make your head spin.
Now I have a chance to lead my department, to organize and support my fellow English teachers, to make decisions about scheduling and budgeting and curriculum, to help my colleagues become better teachers, but I have always felt less than nothing when a certain, nameless, person enters the room. I do not what I've ever done to deserve the amount of disrespect and disdain with which this woman gives me, but I have tried to prove my competence - nay! my excellence! - to my bosses and my peers for 12 years, and I just don't know what it would take to earn her respect.
Part of me doesn't want to care. Lie. All of me doesn't want to care, but all of me does. I am not a big enough person (yeah, keep the short jokes to yourself) to not care what people think of me. I'm insecure in many ways, but professionally I am usually totally secure. But not when she's in the room. I don't get a hello. I don't get a nod. When I ask a question, I get nothing but a terse do-not-bother-me-you-peon reply.
The whole situation yesterday made me reflect more about how I treat people. I know there are people in my life who for one reason or another grate on my nerves. I usually just let them be, but I don't think I'm ever outwardly rude or show absolute intolerance when they're sharing the same air. Do I? I'm usually pretty darn friendly, to be honest. In fact, there are so few people who truly irritate me that I don't think I hardly even think about it much.
So, yeah, it's her problem, right? She's the one with the issue - not me, right? Not everyone has to like me, right? I don't care if everyone likes me so much as I feel like I've earned the right to have a little more consideration than what I get. I'm damn good at what I do. I've got more talent in my pinkie finger for working with kids than many people will ever realize. I am friggen' smart, too. I am an awesome diplomat - most of the time. Yeah, yeah. I feel like Stuart Smally here. My daily affirmations... "And doggone it, people like me."
So screw anyone who doesn't think I'm the shiznit, right? Yeah. Tell me that when I have to be in the same room with this person the next time.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Vicarious Living
I'm over the moon for my brother and his wife Jen who had their first baby two days ago. I've seen a couple pictures, and this kid is going to be a heart breaker! OK, he already is.
Babies have been on the mind for quite some time (DUH!), and so this little bundle of sweet-smelling, soft, cuddly love is making me physically ache.
Brian commented the other day I would like to go out to California and steal that baby, but I replied, "No, I couldn't do that to someone I love. I would only steal a stranger's baby." We both shared a little chuckle, but I'm beginning to think there's a tiny part of me that just might! It's that same little speck of crazy in me that wants the world to bend to my every whim.
For now, I'm going to live vicariously through my sister-in-law and brother's new-found parenthood. I'm going to love that swaddled little man with all my heart and promise never, ever, EVER to steal him. He's got the best mommy on earth anyway; he needs her.
Babies have been on the mind for quite some time (DUH!), and so this little bundle of sweet-smelling, soft, cuddly love is making me physically ache.
Brian commented the other day I would like to go out to California and steal that baby, but I replied, "No, I couldn't do that to someone I love. I would only steal a stranger's baby." We both shared a little chuckle, but I'm beginning to think there's a tiny part of me that just might! It's that same little speck of crazy in me that wants the world to bend to my every whim.
For now, I'm going to live vicariously through my sister-in-law and brother's new-found parenthood. I'm going to love that swaddled little man with all my heart and promise never, ever, EVER to steal him. He's got the best mommy on earth anyway; he needs her.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Caught the Bug
It's decided. I think. I need approximately $28k to do it, though. That's a little more than half my salary. It's more than most people without a college education make in a year. It's more than I would pay to replace my car with a newer model (but just barely).
Making a baby is making me work harder than ever to build my bank account.
I got a promotion at work this week. I will be the head of the English department starting next year, so I'll be in charge of about a dozen other teachers, their schedules, evaluations, curriculum implementation, bookkeeping, and SO many other responsibilities I don't even know about yet. Yikes. Unfortunately, I'll be taking a pay cut.
Because I cannot handle both this new job AND cheerleading, I have to say goodbye to my girls. This makes me sad... sort of. I'll miss some of the best young ladies I've ever met, but I won't miss the drama and the crazy basketball schedule from December to March.
So now I've caught the writing bug. I'm determined to finish the book I've started and to work harder at sharing my work with my friends - especially my "reader" friends. I don't expect to write a best-seller right out of the gate, but that's where my friends can help me. I value those honest opinions, the critiques and the suggestions. Most of all, I need encouragement. I have never finished more than a short story because I am so damn critical of myself.
So far I've published a short story and the first 6 chapters of my novel in progress. I'm editing as I go, so what I need most is answers to problems I foresee:
1. Are my characters and setting consistent?
2. Is the back-and-forth of the timeline confusing or does it work?
3. What is missing - details the reader needs that I am not hitting?
Any suggestions or constructive criticism is valued more than you could know, so please check out my other blog, entitled "Scribblings." You'll have to read the older posts first to get the full story.
Thank you, friends. I hope you'll enjoy what I've written so far. My plan is to post at least a chapter a week.
Making a baby is making me work harder than ever to build my bank account.
I got a promotion at work this week. I will be the head of the English department starting next year, so I'll be in charge of about a dozen other teachers, their schedules, evaluations, curriculum implementation, bookkeeping, and SO many other responsibilities I don't even know about yet. Yikes. Unfortunately, I'll be taking a pay cut.
Because I cannot handle both this new job AND cheerleading, I have to say goodbye to my girls. This makes me sad... sort of. I'll miss some of the best young ladies I've ever met, but I won't miss the drama and the crazy basketball schedule from December to March.
So now I've caught the writing bug. I'm determined to finish the book I've started and to work harder at sharing my work with my friends - especially my "reader" friends. I don't expect to write a best-seller right out of the gate, but that's where my friends can help me. I value those honest opinions, the critiques and the suggestions. Most of all, I need encouragement. I have never finished more than a short story because I am so damn critical of myself.
So far I've published a short story and the first 6 chapters of my novel in progress. I'm editing as I go, so what I need most is answers to problems I foresee:
1. Are my characters and setting consistent?
2. Is the back-and-forth of the timeline confusing or does it work?
3. What is missing - details the reader needs that I am not hitting?
Any suggestions or constructive criticism is valued more than you could know, so please check out my other blog, entitled "Scribblings." You'll have to read the older posts first to get the full story.
Thank you, friends. I hope you'll enjoy what I've written so far. My plan is to post at least a chapter a week.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Always look on the bright side of life...
Optimism. Wow, there's a loaded word the last few weeks. I've had more disappointment than I care to admit - especially since I won't be talking about work on this blog, like EVER (see Pennsylvania teacher article - yikes!). Of course, the biggest disappointment was learning that my ovarian reserve is somewhat, shall we say, lacking. As stated in my last blog post, this means I am "not a good candidate for IVF."
We went back to the doc today so he could tell us what I already knew, what my amazing husband tried to dissuade me from believing by showing me articles, studies, forums on fertility, and by so many words of encouragement I thought I'd married a counselor rather than a computer programmer. What I already knew after the fated conversation with the nurse on the phone when she called with my AMH blood workup, was that I would not have another baby of my own, at least not with any of the eggs still left in my body.
This brings us to today and our meeting. The doc told us exactly that. We could use a donor egg, and I'd likely have a baby no problem. The problem? That baby wouldn't be from my biological make-up. He or she wouldn't share my traits, my genetic code.
It was one thing to think of adoption. That baby or child wouldn't be ours biologically, but we would care for her or him as if we were the biological parents. I could do that.
I could even fathom having to use donor sperm if need be.
But carrying a child that was B's and not mine? I just don't know.
We would have to pick a donor based on the traits we wanted (could possibly find one with brown hair, hazel eyes and a short stature like me), and then use the same ICSI procedure to retrieve the necessary male goods from B. Then, they'd implant me. Viola! It sounds simple, but my head just can't wrap itself around the possibility of this baby being a "part" of me, but kinda not.
I won't even go into the fact that it's more than twice the cost. UGH!
I feel as if my body is betraying me, and honestly, I've had about enough of that. My ovaries have aged prematurely, and I am angry about it. The doc stated that my reserves were like that of a woman 5-10 years older than I am. 15 years ago, it took ONE try. Ten years ago, again it took ONE try. We barely had to whisper the word "baby" and I'd be preggers. So what's up with my body now? Did I peak way too early? Did having kids as early as I did doom me to this fate? It's just pissing me off.
B wants them to test my AMH again. He thinks it may be a mistake or that by taking the vitamins I've started taking (for general health and balance), that the number will be different. I'm not so convinced. I'm pretty darn sure that my body is finished making baby eggs, and that I'm going to have to accept it. I waited too long, and now I regret it.
The only question now is do I want to carry a baby who is not genetically mine and costs me more than the car I drive?
We went back to the doc today so he could tell us what I already knew, what my amazing husband tried to dissuade me from believing by showing me articles, studies, forums on fertility, and by so many words of encouragement I thought I'd married a counselor rather than a computer programmer. What I already knew after the fated conversation with the nurse on the phone when she called with my AMH blood workup, was that I would not have another baby of my own, at least not with any of the eggs still left in my body.
This brings us to today and our meeting. The doc told us exactly that. We could use a donor egg, and I'd likely have a baby no problem. The problem? That baby wouldn't be from my biological make-up. He or she wouldn't share my traits, my genetic code.
It was one thing to think of adoption. That baby or child wouldn't be ours biologically, but we would care for her or him as if we were the biological parents. I could do that.
I could even fathom having to use donor sperm if need be.
But carrying a child that was B's and not mine? I just don't know.
We would have to pick a donor based on the traits we wanted (could possibly find one with brown hair, hazel eyes and a short stature like me), and then use the same ICSI procedure to retrieve the necessary male goods from B. Then, they'd implant me. Viola! It sounds simple, but my head just can't wrap itself around the possibility of this baby being a "part" of me, but kinda not.
I won't even go into the fact that it's more than twice the cost. UGH!
I feel as if my body is betraying me, and honestly, I've had about enough of that. My ovaries have aged prematurely, and I am angry about it. The doc stated that my reserves were like that of a woman 5-10 years older than I am. 15 years ago, it took ONE try. Ten years ago, again it took ONE try. We barely had to whisper the word "baby" and I'd be preggers. So what's up with my body now? Did I peak way too early? Did having kids as early as I did doom me to this fate? It's just pissing me off.
B wants them to test my AMH again. He thinks it may be a mistake or that by taking the vitamins I've started taking (for general health and balance), that the number will be different. I'm not so convinced. I'm pretty darn sure that my body is finished making baby eggs, and that I'm going to have to accept it. I waited too long, and now I regret it.
The only question now is do I want to carry a baby who is not genetically mine and costs me more than the car I drive?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Devotion
Bad News: I'm old, and so are my ovaries. OK, maybe just my ovaries are old. I'm still a spring chicken.
I got a call from the nurse at the clinic yesterday; our bloodwork was in from last week's tests.
Neither of us have any of the tested diseases - duh. We both have the same blood type (A+ in case any of you need a transfusion in the future). My AMH levels (that's the follicle-stimulating hormone) are low. Very low. Very, very, no longer on the chart low.
"Typically, levels this low do not make for a good IVF candidate," she stated in a near whisper.
"Oh. Alright." I tried to sound as upbeat as one can with the horrible lump of one's dreams being dashed in my throat.
I have an appointment to discuss "options" with the doctor on President's Day. (Still with enough optimism to want to conserve sick days, just in case, but with enough reality in my head to realize there's no rush.)
My wonderful, exquisitely loving husband, who wasn't as thrilled to have another mouth to feed and butt to clean as I, has been trying desperately and loyally to console me and to give me nothing but encouragement. I can't express how much love I feel for him right now for the articles and forums he's been reading to me and showing me in the last 16 hours. I fell asleep last night to his encouraging words, and woke up to them this morning as well.
My heart is breaking, but I have realized something I've taken for granted too many times in our relationship and marriage. He is devoted to me beyond any expectations I've ever held for him or anyone else. Screw Hallmark holidays, my valentine shows his love in ways no stupid card or dead flowers can.
I got a call from the nurse at the clinic yesterday; our bloodwork was in from last week's tests.
Neither of us have any of the tested diseases - duh. We both have the same blood type (A+ in case any of you need a transfusion in the future). My AMH levels (that's the follicle-stimulating hormone) are low. Very low. Very, very, no longer on the chart low.
"Typically, levels this low do not make for a good IVF candidate," she stated in a near whisper.
"Oh. Alright." I tried to sound as upbeat as one can with the horrible lump of one's dreams being dashed in my throat.
I have an appointment to discuss "options" with the doctor on President's Day. (Still with enough optimism to want to conserve sick days, just in case, but with enough reality in my head to realize there's no rush.)
My wonderful, exquisitely loving husband, who wasn't as thrilled to have another mouth to feed and butt to clean as I, has been trying desperately and loyally to console me and to give me nothing but encouragement. I can't express how much love I feel for him right now for the articles and forums he's been reading to me and showing me in the last 16 hours. I fell asleep last night to his encouraging words, and woke up to them this morning as well.
My heart is breaking, but I have realized something I've taken for granted too many times in our relationship and marriage. He is devoted to me beyond any expectations I've ever held for him or anyone else. Screw Hallmark holidays, my valentine shows his love in ways no stupid card or dead flowers can.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Few Weeks Have Passed... Did you miss me?
It's been an exciting week, ladies and gents. A blizzard, 3 snow days and a couple appointments with doctors. As most of the country has experienced the winter storm of the decade, I'll save those details for the reader's own research.
Most of my audience would like to know what happened at the much-anticipated appointment with the fertility clinic. Ah, that.
My husband is relieved that the only testing he had to endure was of the blood variety. Let your imagination figure out what he was truly nervous about.
Basically, it's all set. There are no reasons the doctor or nurse could find in our medical histories, our profiles, or our bodies which would prevent us from conceiving as early as early April. In fact, the whole process will likely be about HALF the price I had anticipated.
Such good news! So...
I'm trying to decide the when. If I begin the process in a week or two, we conceive in early April (it takes about 8 weeks to prepare the ovaries for egg extraction), then we would have another Miner minor in December. I would love to have an early winter baby.
However, we could choose to postpone the blessed event until mid-spring of 2012, so that the last quarter of school would be my maternity leave. This would be past "testing" time for my students.
The doctor would like to see us start as soon as possible. Either way, I'll be 38 when I have this kid, and Brian will be 40. Aiden will be 10 and Alex 14 (or 15). He did mention that age is a factor. The sooner, the better. I agree. It's one reason I didn't want to put off our planning a few more months or a year in order to save more money.
I also don't want to base the birth of my child on my work schedule - whatever it may be. It's probably the more responsible, practical way to go, but why the hell would I want to give over control of my family to my job - I do that enough as it is.
Decisions, decisions. Any input would be happily considered or dismissed.
Most of my audience would like to know what happened at the much-anticipated appointment with the fertility clinic. Ah, that.
My husband is relieved that the only testing he had to endure was of the blood variety. Let your imagination figure out what he was truly nervous about.
Basically, it's all set. There are no reasons the doctor or nurse could find in our medical histories, our profiles, or our bodies which would prevent us from conceiving as early as early April. In fact, the whole process will likely be about HALF the price I had anticipated.
Such good news! So...
I'm trying to decide the when. If I begin the process in a week or two, we conceive in early April (it takes about 8 weeks to prepare the ovaries for egg extraction), then we would have another Miner minor in December. I would love to have an early winter baby.
However, we could choose to postpone the blessed event until mid-spring of 2012, so that the last quarter of school would be my maternity leave. This would be past "testing" time for my students.
The doctor would like to see us start as soon as possible. Either way, I'll be 38 when I have this kid, and Brian will be 40. Aiden will be 10 and Alex 14 (or 15). He did mention that age is a factor. The sooner, the better. I agree. It's one reason I didn't want to put off our planning a few more months or a year in order to save more money.
I also don't want to base the birth of my child on my work schedule - whatever it may be. It's probably the more responsible, practical way to go, but why the hell would I want to give over control of my family to my job - I do that enough as it is.
Decisions, decisions. Any input would be happily considered or dismissed.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Trembling Toy Poodle
Last Monday was a go-get-'em day. Finished collecting and scanning and sending all the paperwork necessary to RRC.
Thursday was a oh-hell-yeah day, as we had a snow day. Fortuitously, the clinic caught me at home to let me know one piece of paperwork was missing, so I quickly sent it in as well. A few minutes later (after I completed shoveling the 7" of snow off the driveway and sidewalk) Carol from RRC called back. We set up our first appointment for February 1st. Ladies and gentlemen, that is one week and three days away. I was expecting a month at least.
So remember that previous post where I self-deprecatingly stated my impatient personality? Yeah, now I'm freaking out because it is happening so fast! OK, maybe "freaking out" isn't quite the right verbiage here. I'm nervously excited. If I were a toy poodle, I'd be wetting my master's carpet.
I know I'm going to get poked and prodded and scanned and interrogated for about 3 hours next week, and my poor husband has no idea what to expect for himself. It may be time to call my sister-in-law to get the low-down. For now, I'm overjoyed and thinking of where I'm going to put a kid in our 3-bedroom house. Somebody might be moving to the basement sooner than he figured (and, no, I don't mean my hubby - he can stay put).
Thursday was a oh-hell-yeah day, as we had a snow day. Fortuitously, the clinic caught me at home to let me know one piece of paperwork was missing, so I quickly sent it in as well. A few minutes later (after I completed shoveling the 7" of snow off the driveway and sidewalk) Carol from RRC called back. We set up our first appointment for February 1st. Ladies and gentlemen, that is one week and three days away. I was expecting a month at least.
So remember that previous post where I self-deprecatingly stated my impatient personality? Yeah, now I'm freaking out because it is happening so fast! OK, maybe "freaking out" isn't quite the right verbiage here. I'm nervously excited. If I were a toy poodle, I'd be wetting my master's carpet.
I know I'm going to get poked and prodded and scanned and interrogated for about 3 hours next week, and my poor husband has no idea what to expect for himself. It may be time to call my sister-in-law to get the low-down. For now, I'm overjoyed and thinking of where I'm going to put a kid in our 3-bedroom house. Somebody might be moving to the basement sooner than he figured (and, no, I don't mean my hubby - he can stay put).
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Book of Mom
As I think I may have mentioned, patience was not a virtue handed to me at birth, unlike these good looks and charm (HA!). So it may be a recurring theme present on this blog. I'm not a good waiter (or apparently waitress either, since I was asked to wash dishes more than serve pizza at my first job - but that's beside the point). I don't wait well. Better?
In the meantime, while I'm waiting (UH!) for the RRC to call me to set up an appointment since we've got all the appropriate paperwork in, I may have to bore everyone with musings of a different sort, if nothing more than to take my own mind off of the lapsing time.
Here's a good topic: The Book of Motherhood
Now, I know all of my fellow moms out there are nodding, thinking of the day they were handed their very own copy of this instruction manual. They're nostalgically pondering the soft music playing when they were given this volume of priceless knowledge and how-to, complete with diagrams, pictures, and pop-ups. The birds were chirping, the breeze caught each page just at the right moment to turn as we soaked in everything we needed to know about mothering. Bliss. Pure bliss.
Those of you non-moms out there thinking, "of course!," get real! There is no such book. We have no idea what we're doing 95% of the time. It is why our oldest children are so screwed up (or will be) and in therapy (or will be). We listen to the advice of "experts," our mothers, sisters, friends, and strangers in the grocery store who give us that look when we give in and buy the candy just to shut that brat up!
When all else fails, we try desperately to listen to our intuition. Unfortunately, that fickle b!tch doesn't always give us the best advice. In fact, I'm pretty sure my intuition is out to lunch with her friends whenever I have a real crisis on my hands and I'm screaming at my teenager to do his homework for "the last time!" or using foul language in front of them - constantly.
I'm happy to give others advice on mothering, as long as they understand that most of my advice is not proven by experience, but is likely the opposite of what I did (and what failed for me). I have several friends with young children (someone should have told me when I was 23 that the rest of my friends were going to wait until my biological clock was going crazy to start having babies - would have saved me some money and parental blunders along the way). Some bring to me stories of their children doing "weird" things and ask me if it's "normal" - as if I should know. I'm confident that my own children are fairly abnormal, so what others' kids are doing, if different than what mine did, is "yes, absolutely" normal.
My own mothering is (hopefully) going to start a new chapter in the next year with the addition of another little rugrat climbing the furniture and walls, and my oldest will be starting high school. I think I may get it right this time. Maybe. Who knows? I suppose my children's therapists can tell me in 10-20 years.
In the meantime, while I'm waiting (UH!) for the RRC to call me to set up an appointment since we've got all the appropriate paperwork in, I may have to bore everyone with musings of a different sort, if nothing more than to take my own mind off of the lapsing time.
Here's a good topic: The Book of Motherhood
Now, I know all of my fellow moms out there are nodding, thinking of the day they were handed their very own copy of this instruction manual. They're nostalgically pondering the soft music playing when they were given this volume of priceless knowledge and how-to, complete with diagrams, pictures, and pop-ups. The birds were chirping, the breeze caught each page just at the right moment to turn as we soaked in everything we needed to know about mothering. Bliss. Pure bliss.
Those of you non-moms out there thinking, "of course!," get real! There is no such book. We have no idea what we're doing 95% of the time. It is why our oldest children are so screwed up (or will be) and in therapy (or will be). We listen to the advice of "experts," our mothers, sisters, friends, and strangers in the grocery store who give us that look when we give in and buy the candy just to shut that brat up!
When all else fails, we try desperately to listen to our intuition. Unfortunately, that fickle b!tch doesn't always give us the best advice. In fact, I'm pretty sure my intuition is out to lunch with her friends whenever I have a real crisis on my hands and I'm screaming at my teenager to do his homework for "the last time!" or using foul language in front of them - constantly.
I'm happy to give others advice on mothering, as long as they understand that most of my advice is not proven by experience, but is likely the opposite of what I did (and what failed for me). I have several friends with young children (someone should have told me when I was 23 that the rest of my friends were going to wait until my biological clock was going crazy to start having babies - would have saved me some money and parental blunders along the way). Some bring to me stories of their children doing "weird" things and ask me if it's "normal" - as if I should know. I'm confident that my own children are fairly abnormal, so what others' kids are doing, if different than what mine did, is "yes, absolutely" normal.
My own mothering is (hopefully) going to start a new chapter in the next year with the addition of another little rugrat climbing the furniture and walls, and my oldest will be starting high school. I think I may get it right this time. Maybe. Who knows? I suppose my children's therapists can tell me in 10-20 years.
Heart is Racing!
No, I haven't just worked out or run up the stairs carrying my 125 pound teenager on my back; I've just sent in all my forms to RRC. This is what anticipation feels like.
But it's all just hurry up and wait until we have an appointment set up. And then it's hurry up and wait again until we start the actual process. Can my impatient, overly excited self handle this? Having a baby may be difficult if I'm dead because I've had a heart attack from the anticipation of it all!
But it's all just hurry up and wait until we have an appointment set up. And then it's hurry up and wait again until we start the actual process. Can my impatient, overly excited self handle this? Having a baby may be difficult if I'm dead because I've had a heart attack from the anticipation of it all!
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Almost-Middle-Age Angst
My evening with the gals was too much fun. Medical science is right: laughter is a cure-all. We ate, talked, played Dance Central on the XBox, and laughed some more.
So, I ask myself: why didn't my teenage self realize just how much fun being lame was? I had a blast and drank not a sip of alcohol nor smoked a single cigarette. I didn't have to put on tight clothes or extra makeup. I didn't have to spend any money on cover charges or get drinks spilled all over me while trying to walk to a crowded puke-reeking bathroom with stall doors that do not close. I didn't have to ward off advances of men old enough to be my father or with foul-smelling breath. I didn't have to make sure I had my cover story in case the bouncer didn't believe it was me on the fake ID. I didn't have to worry about finding my ride later only to discover she had left with the guy with the stink breath.
Maybe experiences like these were necessary for me to appreciate my life as it is now, but I really wish I wouldn't have had to go to all that trouble just to realize how absolutely lame it was being young. Being almost middle aged is a friggen' blast!
So, I ask myself: why didn't my teenage self realize just how much fun being lame was? I had a blast and drank not a sip of alcohol nor smoked a single cigarette. I didn't have to put on tight clothes or extra makeup. I didn't have to spend any money on cover charges or get drinks spilled all over me while trying to walk to a crowded puke-reeking bathroom with stall doors that do not close. I didn't have to ward off advances of men old enough to be my father or with foul-smelling breath. I didn't have to make sure I had my cover story in case the bouncer didn't believe it was me on the fake ID. I didn't have to worry about finding my ride later only to discover she had left with the guy with the stink breath.
Maybe experiences like these were necessary for me to appreciate my life as it is now, but I really wish I wouldn't have had to go to all that trouble just to realize how absolutely lame it was being young. Being almost middle aged is a friggen' blast!
Certified or Certifiable?
Got the Rubella test and a check-up this week - all systems go. Had many interesting questions from the GP, though. "Why do you want to have another?" "Your children are going to be spaced pretty far apart; are the older kids OK with the possibility of a baby in the house?" "Why have you waited so long?"
Great questions, don't get me wrong. I was just fascinated that the doctor I go to for all my run-of-the-mill ailments and physicals would ask. There were a few more inquiries like these, and I answered honestly (why wouldn't I?). When we were about to head over to the lab for my blood work, I asked her a question: "What's with the inquisition?"
Now, if you're following me, you probably can guess the tone I used when asking the above. I genuinely wanted to know, but I said it in a mocking manner. Dr. Tran (which is pronounced Tron - how cool is that?) turns and smiles, and then she replies, "We like to make sure our patients are mentally stable before making this decision. It's a big deal."
"Gee," I said. "I sure hope I passed!"
"Of course you did. I wouldn't be drawing your blood in a matter of minutes if you didn't."
Phew.
So, with all the craziness of two snow days, a brand new student teacher, and basketball games I had to go to this week, the baby making plans got a little sidetracked. I only now have to pick up my results, drop off or mail Brian's medical release forms with his doctor, and send in or fax all our forms to RRC. That was supposed to happen this past week, but fortunately, my doc and Brian's doc are both open Monday, and we don't have school. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day will be a busy one for me, it appears.
All this planning, all this paperwork, has left me pensive this week. Not doubtful by any means, but thoughtful. I've been trying to picture our lives in this house with a new baby. Dr. Tran's questions added to this reflective period, too.
The boys are excited at the prospect of having another brother or sister. They're both wishing for a sister; and I've made it no secret that I am as well. Brian jokes that he has no desire to have a little girl, although I think he'd be over the moon with a daughter. But what will our family be like with another little one? Logistically, we'd have to do some rearranging and shuffling of rooms in our house. That's doable.
I have a sitter already lined up, too. She's just waiting for the word.
Sleepless nights? 3am feedings? Diapers galore? Just a stage. The time passes all too quickly.
Childhood illnesses? Kindergarten? Braces on a third kid? Bring it on.
If anything, I am more prepared to face the unpredictability and the predictability of another child in our home than ever. There's nothing, not one single thing in the universe, that I cherish more than the milestones, big and small, of a child.
I may be crazy in the eyes of some friends and family, but apparently I am sane on paper.
Great questions, don't get me wrong. I was just fascinated that the doctor I go to for all my run-of-the-mill ailments and physicals would ask. There were a few more inquiries like these, and I answered honestly (why wouldn't I?). When we were about to head over to the lab for my blood work, I asked her a question: "What's with the inquisition?"
Now, if you're following me, you probably can guess the tone I used when asking the above. I genuinely wanted to know, but I said it in a mocking manner. Dr. Tran (which is pronounced Tron - how cool is that?) turns and smiles, and then she replies, "We like to make sure our patients are mentally stable before making this decision. It's a big deal."
"Gee," I said. "I sure hope I passed!"
"Of course you did. I wouldn't be drawing your blood in a matter of minutes if you didn't."
Phew.
So, with all the craziness of two snow days, a brand new student teacher, and basketball games I had to go to this week, the baby making plans got a little sidetracked. I only now have to pick up my results, drop off or mail Brian's medical release forms with his doctor, and send in or fax all our forms to RRC. That was supposed to happen this past week, but fortunately, my doc and Brian's doc are both open Monday, and we don't have school. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day will be a busy one for me, it appears.
All this planning, all this paperwork, has left me pensive this week. Not doubtful by any means, but thoughtful. I've been trying to picture our lives in this house with a new baby. Dr. Tran's questions added to this reflective period, too.
The boys are excited at the prospect of having another brother or sister. They're both wishing for a sister; and I've made it no secret that I am as well. Brian jokes that he has no desire to have a little girl, although I think he'd be over the moon with a daughter. But what will our family be like with another little one? Logistically, we'd have to do some rearranging and shuffling of rooms in our house. That's doable.
I have a sitter already lined up, too. She's just waiting for the word.
Sleepless nights? 3am feedings? Diapers galore? Just a stage. The time passes all too quickly.
Childhood illnesses? Kindergarten? Braces on a third kid? Bring it on.
If anything, I am more prepared to face the unpredictability and the predictability of another child in our home than ever. There's nothing, not one single thing in the universe, that I cherish more than the milestones, big and small, of a child.
I may be crazy in the eyes of some friends and family, but apparently I am sane on paper.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Just Because
I'm fighting the urge to do anything of import today. I've succeeded in this endeavor quite nicely actually.
The weather kept me in. Not because I didn't think it was safe to go outside, but because I just felt so... cold. I'm not a fan of extreme cold, so I stayed inside, mostly upstairs in my room, and only stepped out once - to get the mail.
Now, I find myself in need of verbal release. Since I'm not a socialite (fear social gatherings most of the time), I find solace in writing. Putting my thoughts down on paper has always been cathartic to me.
It began when I moved to Monett from Aurora (Missouri, people. Keep up!), just before the third grade. My best friend Stephaine (no, that's not a typo; her parents got creative) and I started writing one another letters. At first these were simple one-page "Hi. How are you? I am fine. Next week is Christmas. Are you excited? I am." kind of letters. From there, our letters evolved to novellas at times, ranting over something horrible the kids at school did, a boy we liked so much it hurt, or describing a trip in MUCH detail.
During this time, I also started journal writing. Sporadic at best, my diary was nothing short of inconsequential. Besides, I didn't need the diary because I was writing to Steph nearly every week! My favorite gifts were of the stationary sort during those formative years.
When we were old enough to drive, we didn't need to write. Instead, we'd meet at least once a month to hang out. In fact, we had some friends in common (since our houses were a mere 20 minutes away from one another), and often ended up at the same parties. It was then that I started finding fiction to be my genre of choice when writing. I tried my hand at horror (Stephen King was my favorite author from age 11 to 14), and then at romance (which didn't work out because I lack the romantic sensibility necessary for lovey-dovey stories).
What I have found to be my biggest obstacle in writing fiction is my own criticism. I am excellent at editing and commenting on others' writing. I hardly ever allow incorrect grammar or spelling in my own writing (you might have noticed that). When it comes to ideas, I have plenty. I've explored many of those ideas on paper. If starting a novel or short story could be a lucrative career choice, I would excel. Finishing one, on the other hand...
So now I write just because. I like the blog format. I can allow my ideas to spill from my brain, post for everyone or no one to read, and still feel like I've seen the therapist. And it's FREE! I love the interwebs!
The weather kept me in. Not because I didn't think it was safe to go outside, but because I just felt so... cold. I'm not a fan of extreme cold, so I stayed inside, mostly upstairs in my room, and only stepped out once - to get the mail.
Now, I find myself in need of verbal release. Since I'm not a socialite (fear social gatherings most of the time), I find solace in writing. Putting my thoughts down on paper has always been cathartic to me.
It began when I moved to Monett from Aurora (Missouri, people. Keep up!), just before the third grade. My best friend Stephaine (no, that's not a typo; her parents got creative) and I started writing one another letters. At first these were simple one-page "Hi. How are you? I am fine. Next week is Christmas. Are you excited? I am." kind of letters. From there, our letters evolved to novellas at times, ranting over something horrible the kids at school did, a boy we liked so much it hurt, or describing a trip in MUCH detail.
During this time, I also started journal writing. Sporadic at best, my diary was nothing short of inconsequential. Besides, I didn't need the diary because I was writing to Steph nearly every week! My favorite gifts were of the stationary sort during those formative years.
When we were old enough to drive, we didn't need to write. Instead, we'd meet at least once a month to hang out. In fact, we had some friends in common (since our houses were a mere 20 minutes away from one another), and often ended up at the same parties. It was then that I started finding fiction to be my genre of choice when writing. I tried my hand at horror (Stephen King was my favorite author from age 11 to 14), and then at romance (which didn't work out because I lack the romantic sensibility necessary for lovey-dovey stories).
What I have found to be my biggest obstacle in writing fiction is my own criticism. I am excellent at editing and commenting on others' writing. I hardly ever allow incorrect grammar or spelling in my own writing (you might have noticed that). When it comes to ideas, I have plenty. I've explored many of those ideas on paper. If starting a novel or short story could be a lucrative career choice, I would excel. Finishing one, on the other hand...
So now I write just because. I like the blog format. I can allow my ideas to spill from my brain, post for everyone or no one to read, and still feel like I've seen the therapist. And it's FREE! I love the interwebs!
Monday, January 10, 2011
Re-do
I began, and then deleted, blogging about my snow day today. Bah-or-ing! Even though I can tell it all using humor and candor and all the trappings of popular writing today, I just don't feel it, ya dig?
Anywho, several friends have been asking about these grandiose plans of mine to get all knocked up and such. Apparently, my blog (and subsequent posting of a note directing said friends to this blog) piqued the curiosity of a few. Cool.
So here goes another.
This is less of an update, however, for there isn't really MUCH to update. I've been occupied by the beginning of second semester and the routine of everyday living to do a whole lot. I did finish the paperwork. I even got the hubby to help with his medical history forms and sign (his life away) on three forms for the fertility clinic. He still says I'm crazy, and Oprah even verified that the spouse of someone crazy is just as crazy to allow craziness, so he's certifiable as well. (I typed that in one breath.)
I have an appointment with my regular GP on Wednesday, although I may call tomorrow to see if I can't get in a day early since we have another SNOW DAY Tuesday. (Let's hear it for the superintendent who recognizes the lack of driving ability of the personage in his district!)
Here's where I'm a little baffled. My doc has to verify that I have had a screen and vaccination for the Rubella virus in order for me to begin fertility treatments. Now, if I've had said vaccination in the last few years (say, the last 3-5), will I have to get it again? I suppose I'll find this out in a day or two, but ugh! I will have to wait an entire month before I can begin treatments if I have to get the vaccine again.
In case my reader(s) do not know this about me, I must reveal a little-known fact: I am IMPATIENT.
It's true. I am. Waiting at stoplights just about gives me an aneurysm. I read a book or magazine or the mail or my Kindle in the drive-thru. I check my email while brushing my teeth and drying my hair. My hubby says I've got ADD because I have to be doing something all the time, most often while watching TV. (Sorry, it just isn't interactive enough for me!) I record EVERYTHING so I don't have to wait for commercials. If I get stuck watching something that hasn't been delayed, I'll pause it so that I can have "buffer" enough to fast forward later. (Hey, it's the perfect time to go fix a snack, start some laundry, or tuck the kids in. Don't hate.) So, waiting for a month once I get the ball rolling on this fertility stuff is likely to kill me.
I really should take up knitting.
But it's OK. I have plans to fax the forms to the clinic tomorrow. (I love Kinko's! They don't close due to inclement weather or bad drivers.) Then, oh, then, can I call and set up the appointment. The BIG appointment.
The first one will be BIG. Like 4 hours big. I think there's some tests - probably an ultrasound, maybe a peek at the respective reproductive (ahem) organs - both of us have to be there. There will likely even be some discussion of procedures, time lines, fees and payment options (yeah, we'll need those options, thanks). I'm not positive what all happens in this 4-hour time period, but I know one thing: I'm bringing a book!
Anywho, several friends have been asking about these grandiose plans of mine to get all knocked up and such. Apparently, my blog (and subsequent posting of a note directing said friends to this blog) piqued the curiosity of a few. Cool.
So here goes another.
This is less of an update, however, for there isn't really MUCH to update. I've been occupied by the beginning of second semester and the routine of everyday living to do a whole lot. I did finish the paperwork. I even got the hubby to help with his medical history forms and sign (his life away) on three forms for the fertility clinic. He still says I'm crazy, and Oprah even verified that the spouse of someone crazy is just as crazy to allow craziness, so he's certifiable as well. (I typed that in one breath.)
I have an appointment with my regular GP on Wednesday, although I may call tomorrow to see if I can't get in a day early since we have another SNOW DAY Tuesday. (Let's hear it for the superintendent who recognizes the lack of driving ability of the personage in his district!)
Here's where I'm a little baffled. My doc has to verify that I have had a screen and vaccination for the Rubella virus in order for me to begin fertility treatments. Now, if I've had said vaccination in the last few years (say, the last 3-5), will I have to get it again? I suppose I'll find this out in a day or two, but ugh! I will have to wait an entire month before I can begin treatments if I have to get the vaccine again.
In case my reader(s) do not know this about me, I must reveal a little-known fact: I am IMPATIENT.
It's true. I am. Waiting at stoplights just about gives me an aneurysm. I read a book or magazine or the mail or my Kindle in the drive-thru. I check my email while brushing my teeth and drying my hair. My hubby says I've got ADD because I have to be doing something all the time, most often while watching TV. (Sorry, it just isn't interactive enough for me!) I record EVERYTHING so I don't have to wait for commercials. If I get stuck watching something that hasn't been delayed, I'll pause it so that I can have "buffer" enough to fast forward later. (Hey, it's the perfect time to go fix a snack, start some laundry, or tuck the kids in. Don't hate.) So, waiting for a month once I get the ball rolling on this fertility stuff is likely to kill me.
I really should take up knitting.
But it's OK. I have plans to fax the forms to the clinic tomorrow. (I love Kinko's! They don't close due to inclement weather or bad drivers.) Then, oh, then, can I call and set up the appointment. The BIG appointment.
The first one will be BIG. Like 4 hours big. I think there's some tests - probably an ultrasound, maybe a peek at the respective reproductive (ahem) organs - both of us have to be there. There will likely even be some discussion of procedures, time lines, fees and payment options (yeah, we'll need those options, thanks). I'm not positive what all happens in this 4-hour time period, but I know one thing: I'm bringing a book!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Mine-R-Craft
My hubby and kiddos have been playing a new game this week, one that has kept them busy (especially my dear spouse) for hours on end. Since they love to share their time with me and like to include me despite my general disdain for all video games that require a vantage point other than one steady, unmoving view, they have been begging me all week to join them; they KNOW I will love this game.
MineCraft. This in the new game. As its title suggests, it is a game which requires one to mine for resources. It is a game of strategy and survival. The enemy is not another player, but night (and all the creatures who go bump in it, including spiders, skeletons, and ghouls - my youngest calls them "creepers"). To humor them, I have watched them play a few minutes at a time.Unlike many of their other games, this one IS somewhat interesting to me. I was, and am, a little intrigued.
In fact, I played it today. For 4 hours.
It is a vortex in which all time and space disappears, and where one is left feeling slightly (or in my case, greatly) nauseated and in need of a vision break after a while.
It is not a game which those who play most of today's slick games for their amazing graphics would necessarily like. However, it is definitely for someone who appreciates the skills required for survival. The expanse is incredible, too. There is enough "space" in this game to cover 8 earths.
OK, now I'm starting to sound like a gamer nerd. I'm not. I can barely play video golf without needing a Dramamine. Therefore, I don't often play too many games, unless they're those horribly repetitive and frustrating Facebook games that make me wonder why I waste my time.
I have to say, though, this game is a little addictive. OK, quite possibly VERY addictive. It's a darn good thing it makes me nauseous to play it. Thank goodness for my inner ear issues!
MineCraft. This in the new game. As its title suggests, it is a game which requires one to mine for resources. It is a game of strategy and survival. The enemy is not another player, but night (and all the creatures who go bump in it, including spiders, skeletons, and ghouls - my youngest calls them "creepers"). To humor them, I have watched them play a few minutes at a time.Unlike many of their other games, this one IS somewhat interesting to me. I was, and am, a little intrigued.
In fact, I played it today. For 4 hours.
It is a vortex in which all time and space disappears, and where one is left feeling slightly (or in my case, greatly) nauseated and in need of a vision break after a while.
It is not a game which those who play most of today's slick games for their amazing graphics would necessarily like. However, it is definitely for someone who appreciates the skills required for survival. The expanse is incredible, too. There is enough "space" in this game to cover 8 earths.
OK, now I'm starting to sound like a gamer nerd. I'm not. I can barely play video golf without needing a Dramamine. Therefore, I don't often play too many games, unless they're those horribly repetitive and frustrating Facebook games that make me wonder why I waste my time.
I have to say, though, this game is a little addictive. OK, quite possibly VERY addictive. It's a darn good thing it makes me nauseous to play it. Thank goodness for my inner ear issues!
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