Readers of my daily blog and friends know I celebrated my 35th birthday earlier this week. 35??? Who approved that?? I don't know why 35 bothered me so much. Age is like your dress size- it's just a number. It doesn't define you. 35 is just a placeholder for the next year of my life.
But it's caused me to do a lot of thinking and soul-searching. The result is an important decision about my future.
I have always dreamed of being a writer. My parents have always been very supportive, encouraging me to write. They have always told me that I have a gift. For many years, I didn't believe them. I thought they were just doing what parents do- believing in their children.
I have grown as a writer, particularly in the past few years. When I was in high school, I wouldn't read my own stories or poems to the Creative Writing class. I would let someone else read them, but I couldn't bare to read them myself. My writing comes from my heart, and I felt that revealing such a deep, personal part of me left me incredibly vulnerable.
Slowly I have overcome this fear. I've been writing monthly columns for the magazine at work for the past two years. This magazine is read by all our members, prospects, and whomever else finds a copy. It goes out to several thousand people each month. Sure, my articles are about benefits we offer to our members, but it's still putting myself out there.
Then I started blogging. I don't know what possessed me to start sharing my posts on Facebook. There was a part of me that asked 'what are you thinking? You are inviting people to read your writing'. I still had a lot of doubt about my abilities, even though my friends consistently provided positive feedback. In fact, my friends were just as encouraging as my parents. I started thinking maybe everyone was right. When complete strangers started complimenting me, the doubts fell away like a shroud.
My confidence has been building. It reached a new high a few weeks ago. I recently won a book, The Diva Doctrine, by Patricia V. Davis through a blog giveaway hosted by one of my friends. Patricia friended me on Facebook. I read a blog post she wrote, which partially inspired my post about self-esteem issues in girls. I then shared the link to my post on her wall! The writer sitting in her room in high school, scribbling away in notebooks that she then hid from others thought it was absolutely bold of me to think a published author would be interested in anything I wrote. But that author did read my post, as did others.
Around the same time, I edited a book for a friend. She's already published one book, and is working on her second. I guess the increased confidence in my writing, the inspiration provided by my friend, and that horrible number that was looming over my birthday created a sort of perfect storm of writing. I've wanted to publish books for so long, what am I waiting for?
So, I am happy to announce I've set a goal for myself. I will have my first book published by the end of the year. I don't expect it will be a best seller which will leave me swimming in riches. It will fulfill a dream, and hopefully be the first of many. No longer am I going to say 'someday I'll be published'. Someday has come. It is my birthday gift to myself.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Power of a Card
I have always been a Hallmark junkie. I like to send cards. But the cards have to have meaning. I will often read several cards before I find the right one. I agonize over cards. If I'm looking for a card for say, Mom's birthday, it has to sound like it's from me. 'Thanks for being there' doesn't cut it. But a card that talks about the ups and downs, and how we came through as friends- that one hits me. If the card makes me tear up in the store, I know it will have the desired reaction with my mom (or whomever the recipient is).
My mother is the same way. My sister laughs at us, because she is more of a 'pick and grab' type of person. She reads the card, says 'yes, that's good' and buys it. Mom and I are still looking for just the right card when my sister has moved on to the next store.
I think the reason I do this is because I enjoy receiving cards. I keep the cards that are sent to me. My ideal plan is to have them nicely organized into a storage container- grouped by occasion. I've bought the storage container, but have yet to find all the cards and organize them. But I know I have kept the cards! I think I started keeping them when I turned 16. I have my Sweet 16 birthday cards, my high school graduation cards, the cards of encouragement Mom sent me in college. I no longer have the wedding cards. I kept them until the divorce. And I'm sure no one will blame me for pitching them.
Some cards have much more of a pull on me than others. All my life, I received birthday cards signed 'Love Grandma and Grandpa W' or 'Love Grandma & Grandpa Primeau'. My grandmothers' handwritings were different, but still had that 'old lady' look to them. Grandma Wager's was a little more hurried than Grandma Primeau's. Grandma Primeau's was a little more round. Grandma Primeau always wrote a little note wishing you the best for the coming year. It was something I didn't think about. Two cards each birthday for a granddaughter.
That all changed on my 24th Birthday. I still received the same card from Grandma and Grandpa Primeau, but the other card said 'Love, Grandma W'. Grandpa Wager passed away in February, 2000. Reading the birthday card without his name was hard. It was one of many times that it hit me he was truly gone. After a couple more years, Grandma Wager couldn't write very well, so I got a card from Grandma and Aunt Arlene. It was in Aunt Arlene's handwriting 'Love, Grandma and Aunt Arlene'. I felt another little part of my heart break.
Two years ago, I knew there would only be one card. Grandma Wager joined Grandpa in Heaven in October, 2008. So when my birthday rolled around eight months later, I had prepared myself. Or so I thought. My other Grandma had gotten so busy helping her church prepare for their annual turkey dinner (which is always the first Saturday in June), that she forgot my birthday. There were many birthdays of mine that my Grandparents missed (at her funeral, the other 14 grandchildren said she never missed a birthday. But the truth is- they missed most of mine. They came to my sister's, but not mine. I have struggled with this, wondering if I should even write about it. I know some of my family members read my blog. But I think I have to mention it. It hurt deeply. It hurt each year June 6 came and my Grandparents were in Montreal at a baseball game. And it hurt in February, listening to 14 of her 15 grandchildren talk about her making every birthday party; wondering why she didn't come to mine. But I have made my peace with her. I still had incredible birthday parties, I don't hate her for not coming. I have other things that the others do not have- the links to the family history. A better sense of who we are and who I am. So I'm ok.)
I digress. Anyway, I was used to my Grandparents not being around for my birthday, and Grandma being busy with her church supper. But she had always sent a card. Sometimes, thanks to the mail delivery, it arrived a couple days late. But it always came. So when it didn't come by my birthday, I didn't think anything of it. Then Grandma called that night and told me she hadn't bought me a card because she forgot about my birthday. I admit, I got upset with my Grandmother. They were the only Grandparents I had left, that year in particular, it would have meant so much to have a birthday card signed 'Love, Grandma and Grandpa'.
Last year I did get a card. I have saved it, just like I save all of them. I didn't know it would be the last card until this year, when Grandma died. One of my Aunt's made a calendar for Grandpa with everyone's birthdays on it, and their phone number so he could call them. I knew she was doing this, because she asked for my phone number. So I expected a phone call, I didn't expect a card.
I came home yesterday, and there was a greeting card addressed to me on the table. I didn't recognize the handwriting, but the postage stamp was 'Albany, NY'. Well- that could be just about anyone because all the mail gets the Albany post stamp. Then I saw the address label, and it was Grandpa's address. I paused a moment before opening it, preparing myself. Just as you can never truly prepare yourself for the death of a loved one, you can't prepare for this either. I opened the card, and I have to say, I didn't even read the words inside. My eyes went immediately to the bottom of the card, which was signed 'Love, Gramp'. As the tears flowed, I realized I had never seen my Grandfather's writing. He sent a check too. I told my Grandparents years ago that they didn't have to send me money for my birthday, a card was enough. I worried about them spending money they didn't have. I worried about both sets of Grandparents- Mom's parents who had the good retirements but major health issues, and Dad's parents who had the huge family. Grandma's budget was always $25 per grandchild. With 15 grandchildren, that's a small fortune to put out for Christmas and Birthdays! I told them I didn't need the money, I appreciated it, but I wished they would keep it in case they needed it. It really was the thought that meant more to me. Grandma and Grandpa Primeau kept sending money. She said she wanted to, and Dad told me to let her. I had told her it wasn't necessary, and she was doing it because it made her happy. So the tradition continued.
I saw the check, not written in Grandma's round old lady script, but rather in Grandpa's almost illegible scrawl. Signed by Grandpa. Grandpa's first name is Aubrey, so looking at how he wrote my name- so similar to his own, it just touched me. How have I lived 35 years and never seen this man's handwriting? Then I remembered how Grandpa left school in 8th grade to help support his family during the Depression. I wonder if all the grandkids know that? To say emotions flooded me would be an understatement. I put the check back in the card and closed the card. Just as I closed it, I caught a glimpse of the top of the check, and Grandma's name is still on it. The tears flowed again.
The whole thing was sweet and sad and overwhelming. I couldn't call my parents and talk about it, I was too emotional. Every time I caught a glimpse of that card last night, I burst into tears again. I can't tell you how many times I've stopped while typing this to get a Kleenex. I am so touched by this card, by Grandpa's action. I have no doubt one of my Aunts bought the card and told him to send it. But it is still touching. I will keep it, just as I have kept all the others, but I will treasure it in a very different way.
My mother is the same way. My sister laughs at us, because she is more of a 'pick and grab' type of person. She reads the card, says 'yes, that's good' and buys it. Mom and I are still looking for just the right card when my sister has moved on to the next store.
I think the reason I do this is because I enjoy receiving cards. I keep the cards that are sent to me. My ideal plan is to have them nicely organized into a storage container- grouped by occasion. I've bought the storage container, but have yet to find all the cards and organize them. But I know I have kept the cards! I think I started keeping them when I turned 16. I have my Sweet 16 birthday cards, my high school graduation cards, the cards of encouragement Mom sent me in college. I no longer have the wedding cards. I kept them until the divorce. And I'm sure no one will blame me for pitching them.
Some cards have much more of a pull on me than others. All my life, I received birthday cards signed 'Love Grandma and Grandpa W' or 'Love Grandma & Grandpa Primeau'. My grandmothers' handwritings were different, but still had that 'old lady' look to them. Grandma Wager's was a little more hurried than Grandma Primeau's. Grandma Primeau's was a little more round. Grandma Primeau always wrote a little note wishing you the best for the coming year. It was something I didn't think about. Two cards each birthday for a granddaughter.
That all changed on my 24th Birthday. I still received the same card from Grandma and Grandpa Primeau, but the other card said 'Love, Grandma W'. Grandpa Wager passed away in February, 2000. Reading the birthday card without his name was hard. It was one of many times that it hit me he was truly gone. After a couple more years, Grandma Wager couldn't write very well, so I got a card from Grandma and Aunt Arlene. It was in Aunt Arlene's handwriting 'Love, Grandma and Aunt Arlene'. I felt another little part of my heart break.
Two years ago, I knew there would only be one card. Grandma Wager joined Grandpa in Heaven in October, 2008. So when my birthday rolled around eight months later, I had prepared myself. Or so I thought. My other Grandma had gotten so busy helping her church prepare for their annual turkey dinner (which is always the first Saturday in June), that she forgot my birthday. There were many birthdays of mine that my Grandparents missed (at her funeral, the other 14 grandchildren said she never missed a birthday. But the truth is- they missed most of mine. They came to my sister's, but not mine. I have struggled with this, wondering if I should even write about it. I know some of my family members read my blog. But I think I have to mention it. It hurt deeply. It hurt each year June 6 came and my Grandparents were in Montreal at a baseball game. And it hurt in February, listening to 14 of her 15 grandchildren talk about her making every birthday party; wondering why she didn't come to mine. But I have made my peace with her. I still had incredible birthday parties, I don't hate her for not coming. I have other things that the others do not have- the links to the family history. A better sense of who we are and who I am. So I'm ok.)
I digress. Anyway, I was used to my Grandparents not being around for my birthday, and Grandma being busy with her church supper. But she had always sent a card. Sometimes, thanks to the mail delivery, it arrived a couple days late. But it always came. So when it didn't come by my birthday, I didn't think anything of it. Then Grandma called that night and told me she hadn't bought me a card because she forgot about my birthday. I admit, I got upset with my Grandmother. They were the only Grandparents I had left, that year in particular, it would have meant so much to have a birthday card signed 'Love, Grandma and Grandpa'.
Last year I did get a card. I have saved it, just like I save all of them. I didn't know it would be the last card until this year, when Grandma died. One of my Aunt's made a calendar for Grandpa with everyone's birthdays on it, and their phone number so he could call them. I knew she was doing this, because she asked for my phone number. So I expected a phone call, I didn't expect a card.
I came home yesterday, and there was a greeting card addressed to me on the table. I didn't recognize the handwriting, but the postage stamp was 'Albany, NY'. Well- that could be just about anyone because all the mail gets the Albany post stamp. Then I saw the address label, and it was Grandpa's address. I paused a moment before opening it, preparing myself. Just as you can never truly prepare yourself for the death of a loved one, you can't prepare for this either. I opened the card, and I have to say, I didn't even read the words inside. My eyes went immediately to the bottom of the card, which was signed 'Love, Gramp'. As the tears flowed, I realized I had never seen my Grandfather's writing. He sent a check too. I told my Grandparents years ago that they didn't have to send me money for my birthday, a card was enough. I worried about them spending money they didn't have. I worried about both sets of Grandparents- Mom's parents who had the good retirements but major health issues, and Dad's parents who had the huge family. Grandma's budget was always $25 per grandchild. With 15 grandchildren, that's a small fortune to put out for Christmas and Birthdays! I told them I didn't need the money, I appreciated it, but I wished they would keep it in case they needed it. It really was the thought that meant more to me. Grandma and Grandpa Primeau kept sending money. She said she wanted to, and Dad told me to let her. I had told her it wasn't necessary, and she was doing it because it made her happy. So the tradition continued.
I saw the check, not written in Grandma's round old lady script, but rather in Grandpa's almost illegible scrawl. Signed by Grandpa. Grandpa's first name is Aubrey, so looking at how he wrote my name- so similar to his own, it just touched me. How have I lived 35 years and never seen this man's handwriting? Then I remembered how Grandpa left school in 8th grade to help support his family during the Depression. I wonder if all the grandkids know that? To say emotions flooded me would be an understatement. I put the check back in the card and closed the card. Just as I closed it, I caught a glimpse of the top of the check, and Grandma's name is still on it. The tears flowed again.
The whole thing was sweet and sad and overwhelming. I couldn't call my parents and talk about it, I was too emotional. Every time I caught a glimpse of that card last night, I burst into tears again. I can't tell you how many times I've stopped while typing this to get a Kleenex. I am so touched by this card, by Grandpa's action. I have no doubt one of my Aunts bought the card and told him to send it. But it is still touching. I will keep it, just as I have kept all the others, but I will treasure it in a very different way.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Alone with my Mind
My brain never shuts off. When I'm at work, when I'm driving, when I'm trying to sleep: my mind is always going what feels like 100 miles an hour. I jokingly tell people that it can get scary inside my head. Last night I had to go to the hospital after work to have an MRI done. My neurologist is still trying to figure out why I'm losing feeling in my hands. I had an MRI years ago, when I first sought treatment for the headaches. It has been probably at least 8 years, so while I vaguely remembered what an MRI is like, I forgot how much fun it really is.
You have to lie down on this narrow cot like thing. It's not truly a cot, but part of the MRI machine. Your head goes into a little cradle. The technician asked if I wanted to listen to music, and I said 'sure'. So I was fitted with gigantic headphones. I told her any music was fine, so she put it on the 'warm' station- which plays a mix of 90's, 00's, and today (remember when the mix used to be 70s, 80s, and 90s?). She put this contraption over my face which resembled the face mask of a football helmet. She explained this holds the pictures. The technician told me to stay very still, and it would probably only take about 10 minutes. Of course, I knew, if I moved, it would take longer. I closed my eyes (which made me feel less claustrophobic), and took a deep breath while the 'bed' moved my head into the tube of the MRI machine. And then my mind started chirping. It raced from one topic to another and went a little something like this:
I just heard this song on the radio in the car. They play this song too much. The radio plays the same songs over and over. How long is this song? How long have I been in here? The average song is 3 minutes long. How do I know that? Seems like I picked that piece of trivia up somewhere. So if I get through three songs, I will be almost done. This song isn't over yet? Oh good, news. Chance of severe weather again tonight. I hope we don't get any, really don't want to go in the pantry. Stay still. Don't move. I need to take a deep breath, I think it's ok, obviously you are supposed to breathe in here. Another song. I like this song. Don't move. Don't try to sing along with the song. Just stay still and listen to the song. Why did I decide to clasp my hands like this? My fingers are sore and I now I can't move. If I move I'm going to hear that nice lady's voice tell me 'stay still'. I wonder if I'm her last patient tonight. The hospital is pretty quiet at 5pm, this is the time to come for tests. But if I move, it will take longer, and if I am her last patient, I'll be keeping her here longer. My right leg seems to be at an odd angle, it hurts. It's getting hot in here. I feel like I could fall asleep. How can I feel so rested while it sounds like a jackhammer is going off next to my head? I'm glad I took one of my migraine pills this afternoon. I can't fall asleep. What if I jerk my body as I fall into a deep sleep? Then I would mess it up and I'd have to be here longer. Oh, we're on the third song.
And then the technician's voice said 'Ok, we're done'. As I was backed out of the tube, my mind said 'Already? That was quick!' I was grateful to have the sound of something other than my own thoughts to listen to!
You have to lie down on this narrow cot like thing. It's not truly a cot, but part of the MRI machine. Your head goes into a little cradle. The technician asked if I wanted to listen to music, and I said 'sure'. So I was fitted with gigantic headphones. I told her any music was fine, so she put it on the 'warm' station- which plays a mix of 90's, 00's, and today (remember when the mix used to be 70s, 80s, and 90s?). She put this contraption over my face which resembled the face mask of a football helmet. She explained this holds the pictures. The technician told me to stay very still, and it would probably only take about 10 minutes. Of course, I knew, if I moved, it would take longer. I closed my eyes (which made me feel less claustrophobic), and took a deep breath while the 'bed' moved my head into the tube of the MRI machine. And then my mind started chirping. It raced from one topic to another and went a little something like this:
I just heard this song on the radio in the car. They play this song too much. The radio plays the same songs over and over. How long is this song? How long have I been in here? The average song is 3 minutes long. How do I know that? Seems like I picked that piece of trivia up somewhere. So if I get through three songs, I will be almost done. This song isn't over yet? Oh good, news. Chance of severe weather again tonight. I hope we don't get any, really don't want to go in the pantry. Stay still. Don't move. I need to take a deep breath, I think it's ok, obviously you are supposed to breathe in here. Another song. I like this song. Don't move. Don't try to sing along with the song. Just stay still and listen to the song. Why did I decide to clasp my hands like this? My fingers are sore and I now I can't move. If I move I'm going to hear that nice lady's voice tell me 'stay still'. I wonder if I'm her last patient tonight. The hospital is pretty quiet at 5pm, this is the time to come for tests. But if I move, it will take longer, and if I am her last patient, I'll be keeping her here longer. My right leg seems to be at an odd angle, it hurts. It's getting hot in here. I feel like I could fall asleep. How can I feel so rested while it sounds like a jackhammer is going off next to my head? I'm glad I took one of my migraine pills this afternoon. I can't fall asleep. What if I jerk my body as I fall into a deep sleep? Then I would mess it up and I'd have to be here longer. Oh, we're on the third song.
And then the technician's voice said 'Ok, we're done'. As I was backed out of the tube, my mind said 'Already? That was quick!' I was grateful to have the sound of something other than my own thoughts to listen to!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Being a Woman
Five years ago, when my sister found out her first child was a girl, we were thrilled. We were very familiar with girls. My mom is one of two girls, and she had two girls. Girls seemed to run in the family. The family story is that when my sister was born, and Dad and Grandpa found out they would only have the two girls, my Grandfather was pleased. Supposedly he said boys are nothing but trouble.
It was exciting to shop for the pretty frilly dresses. I knew I could share the books I had loved with my niece. She could read the Little House books, Little Women, and when she was old enough Are You There God, It's Me Margaret. The books that left an impact on me as a girl in ways that other books didn't touch me. I looked forward to playing with Barbies and My Little Ponies. I couldn't wait to buy her that first Cabbage Patch doll. It was familiar, and kind of like reliving my childhood. It was exciting.
I was also cautious. For as a woman, I know the road she faces will not be easy. She will struggle with her appearance, trying to measure up to a 'norm' that really isn't the norm. She'll see girls on TV or in magazines, and think she should be like them. She will question her weight, scrutinize her face closely in the mirror looking for breakouts, and since her hair is curly and beautiful, she will wish it were straight.
What I did not realize is that it would start so early. She has an adorable, toothy smile that is perfect for a small child. Her teeth are a little crooked, and she has a gap between her two front teeth. It is the sweetest smile that you expect on a four and a half year old. The problem is, kids have been teasing her at school about the gap in her teeth. So she started smiling with her lips closed. That's a shame, because her smile lights up her face and goes straight to your heart. My sister asked their dentist last year and he told her that her teeth are fine. We've tried to tell her that the gap is not a problem. Mom used the example of her mother and I. I did not have a gap between my teeth, and I ended up in braces. Laura had a gap, and never had to have braces. Sydney could not be convinced. Today my sister took her to their new dentist, a female, who assured Sydney her teeth are fine, and now Sydney is happy. I am hoping she will smile that disarming smile more, and I'm hoping her self- esteem issues about her looks will be put aside until she's at least a pre-teen. Somehow, I don't think that's going to be the case.
There was a news story recently about a mother giving her eight year old beauty queen daughter botox. There are so many things wrong with that sentence. Eight year olds should not be beauty queens. I don't think there should be beauty queens: whether they are eight, eighteen, or twenty-eight. I think focusing on the outside causes you to miss the best part: what's on the inside. Then there's the mother giving her young daughter poison, and the child wanting to be beautiful and have a boob job. The whole thing is just appalling. Although, you only need to flip through the cable box to find shows such as Toddlers & Tiaras and Glamour Belles to know there are other moms who probably share this twisted view.
Let them be kids! Eight year olds should be dreaming of new bikes and sleepovers with their friends, not boob jobs. The insecurities of our gender will creep in soon enough: when you're the last in your class to get a bra. Or, in my case, if you're the first in your class! And if that doesn't make you insecure, that moment you cross the threshold and become a woman will certainly throw you into a tailspin. Let the children enjoy childhood without these extra burdens.
I wouldn't be surprised to find these women who press their daughters to be 'beautiful' at such a young age were also pushed by their own mothers. I had girlfriends whose mothers were always on their case- watching every pound. I always felt so badly for them. If their mother had been popular and pretty in school, they wanted the same for their daughters.
I was incredibly fortunate. My mother did not hassle us about our weight. She didn't tell us to wear our hair a certain way. She only asked that we keep it out of our eyes, and if we didn't, she took us to the hairstylist. If she made a pan of brownies, it wasn't off limits to us. Perhaps Mom knew from her own weight struggle how hard it was to be a girl. Even now, when I think I've put on a few pounds, mom says 'you look good!' Dad may comment that I've gained a little (and his comments are never appreciated- but he's a man and doesn't realize how hurtful it is), but mom never does. She notices when I've lost, as I do for her. And if she thinks I'm too thin, she feeds me.
My mother made us comfortable in our own skin. Or tried to. It took a while for her lessons to sink in. As you know, girls hit their growth spurts earlier than guys. So when I was taller than the guys, waiting for them to catch up, and the first person in my circle of friends to have braces, I was not comfortable in my own skin. I felt like the biggest dork. I was also certain I was invisible, or that people only saw me as a brain. It took a long time for me to get comfortable with me. Perhaps now I am too comfortable, because I honestly don't care what people think when they look at me. If you're too hung up on the size of my clothing, I think it is your loss. You are missing out on the great person underneath the clothes.
I feel as a woman, I have a duty to my niece. To all younger women, really. I must help them see they are each a wonderful unique creature. Every woman is worth something. Your worth is not determined by the color of your hair or the size of your waist. It is not determined by your job, your car, your bank account, or your boyfriend. It is your heart, your soul, your personality. Once we, as women, like the person looking back at us in the mirror, we can share that security with other women. And hopefully, we will stop passing these toxic beliefs on to our daughters.
It was exciting to shop for the pretty frilly dresses. I knew I could share the books I had loved with my niece. She could read the Little House books, Little Women, and when she was old enough Are You There God, It's Me Margaret. The books that left an impact on me as a girl in ways that other books didn't touch me. I looked forward to playing with Barbies and My Little Ponies. I couldn't wait to buy her that first Cabbage Patch doll. It was familiar, and kind of like reliving my childhood. It was exciting.
I was also cautious. For as a woman, I know the road she faces will not be easy. She will struggle with her appearance, trying to measure up to a 'norm' that really isn't the norm. She'll see girls on TV or in magazines, and think she should be like them. She will question her weight, scrutinize her face closely in the mirror looking for breakouts, and since her hair is curly and beautiful, she will wish it were straight.
What I did not realize is that it would start so early. She has an adorable, toothy smile that is perfect for a small child. Her teeth are a little crooked, and she has a gap between her two front teeth. It is the sweetest smile that you expect on a four and a half year old. The problem is, kids have been teasing her at school about the gap in her teeth. So she started smiling with her lips closed. That's a shame, because her smile lights up her face and goes straight to your heart. My sister asked their dentist last year and he told her that her teeth are fine. We've tried to tell her that the gap is not a problem. Mom used the example of her mother and I. I did not have a gap between my teeth, and I ended up in braces. Laura had a gap, and never had to have braces. Sydney could not be convinced. Today my sister took her to their new dentist, a female, who assured Sydney her teeth are fine, and now Sydney is happy. I am hoping she will smile that disarming smile more, and I'm hoping her self- esteem issues about her looks will be put aside until she's at least a pre-teen. Somehow, I don't think that's going to be the case.
There was a news story recently about a mother giving her eight year old beauty queen daughter botox. There are so many things wrong with that sentence. Eight year olds should not be beauty queens. I don't think there should be beauty queens: whether they are eight, eighteen, or twenty-eight. I think focusing on the outside causes you to miss the best part: what's on the inside. Then there's the mother giving her young daughter poison, and the child wanting to be beautiful and have a boob job. The whole thing is just appalling. Although, you only need to flip through the cable box to find shows such as Toddlers & Tiaras and Glamour Belles to know there are other moms who probably share this twisted view.
Let them be kids! Eight year olds should be dreaming of new bikes and sleepovers with their friends, not boob jobs. The insecurities of our gender will creep in soon enough: when you're the last in your class to get a bra. Or, in my case, if you're the first in your class! And if that doesn't make you insecure, that moment you cross the threshold and become a woman will certainly throw you into a tailspin. Let the children enjoy childhood without these extra burdens.
I wouldn't be surprised to find these women who press their daughters to be 'beautiful' at such a young age were also pushed by their own mothers. I had girlfriends whose mothers were always on their case- watching every pound. I always felt so badly for them. If their mother had been popular and pretty in school, they wanted the same for their daughters.
I was incredibly fortunate. My mother did not hassle us about our weight. She didn't tell us to wear our hair a certain way. She only asked that we keep it out of our eyes, and if we didn't, she took us to the hairstylist. If she made a pan of brownies, it wasn't off limits to us. Perhaps Mom knew from her own weight struggle how hard it was to be a girl. Even now, when I think I've put on a few pounds, mom says 'you look good!' Dad may comment that I've gained a little (and his comments are never appreciated- but he's a man and doesn't realize how hurtful it is), but mom never does. She notices when I've lost, as I do for her. And if she thinks I'm too thin, she feeds me.
My mother made us comfortable in our own skin. Or tried to. It took a while for her lessons to sink in. As you know, girls hit their growth spurts earlier than guys. So when I was taller than the guys, waiting for them to catch up, and the first person in my circle of friends to have braces, I was not comfortable in my own skin. I felt like the biggest dork. I was also certain I was invisible, or that people only saw me as a brain. It took a long time for me to get comfortable with me. Perhaps now I am too comfortable, because I honestly don't care what people think when they look at me. If you're too hung up on the size of my clothing, I think it is your loss. You are missing out on the great person underneath the clothes.
I feel as a woman, I have a duty to my niece. To all younger women, really. I must help them see they are each a wonderful unique creature. Every woman is worth something. Your worth is not determined by the color of your hair or the size of your waist. It is not determined by your job, your car, your bank account, or your boyfriend. It is your heart, your soul, your personality. Once we, as women, like the person looking back at us in the mirror, we can share that security with other women. And hopefully, we will stop passing these toxic beliefs on to our daughters.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Sharing a Room
My sister's Facebook status tonight was: "she might look like her father but she is so my daughter- only my sister can understand this... last night Syd is in bed and I hear her talking thinking it was to me but no, it was to Ruby, her doll!"
I have blogged before about the joys of having a sister. Someone who gets you. Someone who understands why you laughed at that moment. A sister is also someone who keeps your secrets. No one knows you like your sister. And that can be good and bad.
My sister, Laura, and I are two and a half years apart. She is the younger one. Growing up, most of our friends had to share a room with a sibling or two. Our friends either had smaller houses, or more siblings. Laura and I were envious that they got to share a room, while we slept in separate rooms across the hall from each other. Mom and Dad's 1000 square foot house has three bedrooms. One is connected to Mom & Dad's by a door, so that was the nursery. As the oldest, I was kicked out when Laura came along, and put in the third room. Laura and I begged our parents to let us room together. Finally, when I was about 7 or 8, they gave in.
Laura and I spent the summer in Florida with our Grandparents. While we were there, Mom and Dad redid the nursery (aka Laura's room). They put down new pink carpet and painted the walls a cheery pink. Dad moved my bed into Laura's room. We had our twin beds, and between them was a nightstand. Our dressers were moved into my old room, which became our play room. Mom topped off the renovation with new bedding- matching vertical rainbow striped comforters and shams. It wasn't a bold rainbow, more of a muted pastel. Mom picked them out. She thought they looked grown up and still girlish.
We came home from Florida, super excited to be sharing a room. It did not take long before I found out what it was really like to share a room with my sister. My sister would wake up in the middle of the night and play with her dolls. She lined them up on the edge of her bed that was against the wall and played house. She talked to her dolls: full blown conversations.
It didn't take long- maybe only a couple of months- before I begged Mom and Dad to let me have my own room back. They said no. They had put a lot of work into the rooms, and I had to stay put. I tried to tell them about the dolls. It didn't matter. So I stayed, and night after night listened to my sister talk to Annie and Thomas and the others (I forget their names). Finally, my parents agreed to redo my room for my tenth birthday. New bedding, new carpet, fresh paint, and even better- no one talking to their dolls at night.
I laughed when I read Laura's status. Sydney is her mother's daughter. Laura said she couldn't tell what Sydney was saying, so she muted the television, and heard Sydney say 'Stop laughing, Ruby!' She has such a great imagination. It's a shame she doesn't have a sister to share this experience with her. After all, who will remind her about it years from now?
I have blogged before about the joys of having a sister. Someone who gets you. Someone who understands why you laughed at that moment. A sister is also someone who keeps your secrets. No one knows you like your sister. And that can be good and bad.
My sister, Laura, and I are two and a half years apart. She is the younger one. Growing up, most of our friends had to share a room with a sibling or two. Our friends either had smaller houses, or more siblings. Laura and I were envious that they got to share a room, while we slept in separate rooms across the hall from each other. Mom and Dad's 1000 square foot house has three bedrooms. One is connected to Mom & Dad's by a door, so that was the nursery. As the oldest, I was kicked out when Laura came along, and put in the third room. Laura and I begged our parents to let us room together. Finally, when I was about 7 or 8, they gave in.
Laura and I spent the summer in Florida with our Grandparents. While we were there, Mom and Dad redid the nursery (aka Laura's room). They put down new pink carpet and painted the walls a cheery pink. Dad moved my bed into Laura's room. We had our twin beds, and between them was a nightstand. Our dressers were moved into my old room, which became our play room. Mom topped off the renovation with new bedding- matching vertical rainbow striped comforters and shams. It wasn't a bold rainbow, more of a muted pastel. Mom picked them out. She thought they looked grown up and still girlish.
We came home from Florida, super excited to be sharing a room. It did not take long before I found out what it was really like to share a room with my sister. My sister would wake up in the middle of the night and play with her dolls. She lined them up on the edge of her bed that was against the wall and played house. She talked to her dolls: full blown conversations.
It didn't take long- maybe only a couple of months- before I begged Mom and Dad to let me have my own room back. They said no. They had put a lot of work into the rooms, and I had to stay put. I tried to tell them about the dolls. It didn't matter. So I stayed, and night after night listened to my sister talk to Annie and Thomas and the others (I forget their names). Finally, my parents agreed to redo my room for my tenth birthday. New bedding, new carpet, fresh paint, and even better- no one talking to their dolls at night.
I laughed when I read Laura's status. Sydney is her mother's daughter. Laura said she couldn't tell what Sydney was saying, so she muted the television, and heard Sydney say 'Stop laughing, Ruby!' She has such a great imagination. It's a shame she doesn't have a sister to share this experience with her. After all, who will remind her about it years from now?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Examples of Love
I read a newspaper column today about unlearning what our parents taught us about love. The column is about relationships, and I frequently read it. I thought it would be that my generation has had to learn love isn't a fairy tale, sometimes things go bad. Instead, the two people who had written in for this column described the examples their parents gave them: loveless marriages, marriages of convenience or necessity, non-stop arguing, cheating fathers, and all kinds of abuse. It was horrifying. I thought these people must have grown up in the unhappiest of homes.
I keep hoping the next installment of this column will be people who had better examples. I don't want to think this column represents the norm, the average. The thought that perhaps it does makes me very sad.
I had a wonderful example of love. My parents dated for just two weeks before Dad proposed. They were married four months later. It was a whirlwind romance that people in both families said wouldn't last. They were wrong. Mom and Dad have been married for more than 36 years. I know it hasn't always been easy for them. Like most young families, they struggled. My sister and I didn't know it then. I've only learned about their struggles since I've become an adult and we talk about things. For example, the year they couldn't afford Christmas gifts for each other. Mom said I was old enough to read, and noticed Mom and Dad didn't have gifts under the tree. So Mom went to their room, and found a bottle of perfume of hers that was still mostly full, and a new package of underwear in Dad's drawer, so she wrapped those and put them under the tree. She didn't want her girls to think they couldn't afford Christmas. That story still makes me cry.
I never doubted that my parents loved each other. They are still very much in love, and sometimes even act more like newlyweds than an old married couple. If they are walking along, even just in the mall, it is not uncommon to see them holding hands. Sure, they argue. They irritate each other. And yes, we heard them argue. They weren't the kind who hid it from us. But the arguments were rare, it wasn't a constant event in our house. Most of the time, they were kind to each other and to us. My father calls mom Sweetheart. They say "I love you" when they hang up the phone, or if one of them walks out the door. When Dad left for work each morning, Mom gave him a kiss and said "I love you".
Mom and Dad have many of the same interests. They enjoy traveling and seeing different things. They take pride in the yard and the house- making it a showplace. They are both very strong in their faith. My mother converted to Catholicism when she married Dad, but her faith is no less than his. They have at times, played golf together, although that took a backseat after Dad's injury four years ago. They take walks. They sit outside by the fire and just relax. Mom has adopted some of Dad's interests: baseball and racing come to mind. And now, they enjoy grandchildren together.
They were a wonderful example of what a marriage could be. As were both sets of my Grandparents. None of their marriages were all roses and sunshine, but they showed us what it means when you promise for better or for worse. And even though my marriage failed, the example set for me by my parents and grandparents gives me hope.
I keep hoping the next installment of this column will be people who had better examples. I don't want to think this column represents the norm, the average. The thought that perhaps it does makes me very sad.
I had a wonderful example of love. My parents dated for just two weeks before Dad proposed. They were married four months later. It was a whirlwind romance that people in both families said wouldn't last. They were wrong. Mom and Dad have been married for more than 36 years. I know it hasn't always been easy for them. Like most young families, they struggled. My sister and I didn't know it then. I've only learned about their struggles since I've become an adult and we talk about things. For example, the year they couldn't afford Christmas gifts for each other. Mom said I was old enough to read, and noticed Mom and Dad didn't have gifts under the tree. So Mom went to their room, and found a bottle of perfume of hers that was still mostly full, and a new package of underwear in Dad's drawer, so she wrapped those and put them under the tree. She didn't want her girls to think they couldn't afford Christmas. That story still makes me cry.
I never doubted that my parents loved each other. They are still very much in love, and sometimes even act more like newlyweds than an old married couple. If they are walking along, even just in the mall, it is not uncommon to see them holding hands. Sure, they argue. They irritate each other. And yes, we heard them argue. They weren't the kind who hid it from us. But the arguments were rare, it wasn't a constant event in our house. Most of the time, they were kind to each other and to us. My father calls mom Sweetheart. They say "I love you" when they hang up the phone, or if one of them walks out the door. When Dad left for work each morning, Mom gave him a kiss and said "I love you".
Mom and Dad have many of the same interests. They enjoy traveling and seeing different things. They take pride in the yard and the house- making it a showplace. They are both very strong in their faith. My mother converted to Catholicism when she married Dad, but her faith is no less than his. They have at times, played golf together, although that took a backseat after Dad's injury four years ago. They take walks. They sit outside by the fire and just relax. Mom has adopted some of Dad's interests: baseball and racing come to mind. And now, they enjoy grandchildren together.
They were a wonderful example of what a marriage could be. As were both sets of my Grandparents. None of their marriages were all roses and sunshine, but they showed us what it means when you promise for better or for worse. And even though my marriage failed, the example set for me by my parents and grandparents gives me hope.
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