In 10 days, I should be able to walk again. I haven't walked a single step in almost 5 weeks. Right now, nothing sounds better than being able to go up and down the stairs in my own house.
I have a huge, unwieldy cast on my left foot, up to just below my knee. It's not the kind of cast I expected - plaster or fiberglass. It's a huge steel, padding and Velcro contraption that comes on and off. For the first 3 weeks, the foot and ankle were also wrapped in gauze, stretchy bandages and a thin "sock" covering. The cast strapped on over that. I had to take it off several times a day to put ice packs on my foot, and again to shower, with a waterproof rubber boot over the wrapping.
On the one hand, it's nicer than the fiberglass or plaster cast. I don't have the unbearable itch issues that I hear are unavoidable with those. On the other hand, while there's a half inch steel plate, about 14 inches by 6 inches, under my foot, on top of my foot there's little more than padding and straps to protect the area with broken bones. If something hits it, falls on it, steps on it, the results would be painful and catastrophic, so I'm extremely protective of the entire leg.
And geez, is this thing heavy and awkward! It extends so far past my toes in order to protect my feet. I get it - so many times, I've had that part of the cast whack walls and door frames. I've even had it be stepped on in the movie theater. I know why it's there. Still, imagine having a half inch thick slab of steel on your foot. Even simple stuff like sleeping is awkward. Imagine sleeping in a steel soled snow boot, and you'll have some idea what this is like.
Since the stitches came out at three weeks, I no longer need the rubber shower boot. My family finds my new foot both creepy and fascinating. It's much narrower and straighter than it was before. I can't quite get used to the big toe's nail facing upwards. The incision sites still look pretty gruesome (my middle daughter refuses to look), but that "train track" look will fade. I've had so many stitches; I am not worried about scars on my feet.
I've explained what I've had done so many times in the past few weeks. I'm tired of repeating, but thankful for people's concern.
I had most of the bone structure in my foot rebuilt. I had bunions, collapsed arches, overlapping toes, a big toe turned at a 45 degree angle, bone spurs, and shortened tendons. That's the shortened version. Apparently, almost half of the bones in my foot were not load bearing, even though they were designed to be. My podiatrist took hold of my foot and folded it lengthwise, flapping it like a wing. "See that?" he said. "It's not supposed to do that."
What I'd noticed most, of course, was the pain. I've known that I had bunions since I was 9. The collapsed arches were diagnosed about two decades later, and suddenly so many things about my feet made sense.
I have a lot of small skeletal issues. I had TMJ (joint issues in my jawbone) as a kid. I'm knock kneed, plus my knees bow backwards. Since I was 13 and fell off of a horse onto it, one knee has been noticeably worse than the other. It aches in the cold, and both knees will occasionally collapse when overstressed. I have a mild S curve scoliosis. Its major contributions are making my hips uneven, and therefore one leg longer than the other, and causing muscle pinches in my shoulder that occasionally need treated.
Of course, any time I said, "my feet hurt" or "my back hurts" for most of my life, I'd get patronizing advice to "lose weight and exercise more." Or I'd hear, "Well, so do my mine, but I'm going out dancing anyway." The older I get, the more convinced I become that our parameters are vastly different. What some people call "pain," I call "normal" or "uncomfortable." By the time I say "pain," it's knifing, and I can barely stand to let my feet touch the ground.
I hated, too, being told that my feet would feel better if I went barefoot. "It's healthier! It's the natural state of your foot!"
"But it hurts," I'd say, and thus unleash a lecture on toughening up, or giving it a chance, or something else equally annoying. I need practically orthopedic shoes with astonishingly good arch support before my feet feel better. It's in my bone structure; whether or not the soles of my feet would toughen up was not the point.
Well, let's hope that's past tense now - "needed" orthopedic shoes. I'm hoping that the new bone structure will be fabulous.
I needed bones cut and repositioned, tendons lengthened, screws and rods and a plate installed. The doctor estimated that it would take an hour and a half; it took almost three hours. "Things were a bit more complicated than we thought," he said. "That toe gave me a hard time."
I thought that cutting the bones would be the worst part, but it wasn't. Rotating that big toe really ached. I told him that at my three week checkup, and he said, "We took out and threw away the parts of the bone that hurt. They're gone now." Oh. OK.
The doctor told me that the post-op pain would be about equivalent to a broken bone. I've had those before, so I had some sense of that. The first two days would be agonizing; after that, it would get better. That's about how it worked, too. The first two days, I didn't want anyone to even breathe on me. I couldn't let the bedclothes touch the cast - the weight was too awful. The second day, a towel fell off the rack onto my foot, and you should have heard the noise I made - "AAAAAHHHH!!!!!" How ridiculous is an existence in which a falling towel hurts? Of course, part of that reaction was also shock, and the realization that other, heavier things might fall on me.
Luckily, the only other thing that's fallen on me is a plunger. The cast was off - I was getting out of the shower - so it smarted, but I wasn't terrified. It had been over a month by then.
My worst fear was messing things up while we were still waiting for the ends of the cut bones to grow together and knit. If I ripped out the screws, or tore the healing ligaments, or something else hideous, the damage might be too great to repair. The longer it's been, the more I relax. I haven't been in any significant pain since the first week, and now, in week 5, I think that things are pretty well solidifying in there.
The worst part has been the patience of waiting this long to be able to put any weight on it. I can't put any weight at all on it until I get x-rays in another week and a half, and get the OK. While I'm not in pain, and I'm getting around really well for someone with one working leg, I am practically counting the hours until I can WALK again.
Soon, though, we'll go through the whole thing again, for my right foot. While I want it done, I can't really even think about that right now.
Tick tock!
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Saturday, December 14, 2013
School Photos
The only professional photos I ever had taken of me as a kid were school photos. We never did family portraits, or even those department store photographs. I always wanted some, and envied friends who got them, but it was simply not something that my family needed to spend money on.
I remember being so nervous the day before my kindergarten photo. I had to wear a favorite dress (despite being a tree climbing, ditch wading, scabbed knees, dirty socks, always-a-mess tomboy, I wore dresses almost exclusively until about fourth grade. Go figure.) I had to have my hair in braids, with red ribbon bows. It was a favorite hairstyle, once I was old enough to tolerate having my hair combed, and the bows were a big deal. I remember that some movie or book character inspired the ribbons, but I've long since forgotten who it was.
I loved the photo then, and I love it now.
This is me in first grade:
New front teeth, hair in curls - this is still identifiably me, but it's a more dressed up, formal version of myself. I think she's cute. I remember sleeping with my hair in foam curlers the night before. Entire generations after me have no idea what foam curlers are.
This is third grade. My favorite part of this photo was the rhinestone owls on my hair pins. I loved them so much that I wore them for two years' worth of photos in a row, even after one of the owls broke off and my dad expoxied it on the wrong way, so that one owl was upside down.
By fourth grade, I'd decided that curls and dresses were for little girls, so I looked like my everyday self.
Those are polyester knit overalls, but the way, with an applique of a girl farmer on the front. I thought that they were kind of fancy because they had ruffles on the straps. Don't mock them - I loved those overalls. I kept wearing them even after I fell, skidded down the asphalt of my cousin's street on my knees, and had to patch the holes with the only patches we could find that were big enough to cover the damage, American flags.
By fifth grade, I'd clearly hit what my older daughters refer to as the universal "awkward stage."
That's a Ten Commandments necklace; I loved it. But hello, acne, my constant companion. So nice of you to show up and stay for the rest of my life.
I was so not pleased with my fifth grade pictures that in sixth grade, I decided to revisit what had worked in the past, and go back to curls, in the hope of being adorable again.
I hated these. I barely gave any to my friends, and I disliked sending them to relatives. In retrospect, they're not as awful as I thought they were then, but it's still not my best look.
In seventh grade, I tried to look both more normal and more grown up.
Don't mock the scarf. It was 1978, and men and women alike did the knotted scarf around the neck thing. This was as fashionable as I got. (OK, I once owned white, knee high boots.)
My major reaction to these was, "Geez, I'd better get those braces on my teeth soon." I believe that I referred to myself as Fang.
Here's high school, ninth and tenth grade.
See, these look pretty normal, until you consider the time period. Every other female on the planet, it seemed, had the Farrah Fawcett hairdo - big, fluffy, feathered layers. My big sister's version was less over the top than most:
I simply could not imagine having to curl and hairspray my hair every day, or having to get it trimmed every month. At 47, I still trim my own hair, maybe three times a year, and I have no layers, highlights, dyed grays or anything else that would take actual time and effort. Who wants to fuss with their hair in the morning? If I can't be done "styling" in 2 minutes, I'm grumpy.
So, while I don't have any photos of fashion faux pas, like a mullet, if you flip through my yearbook you'll see that I (unintentionally) stand out by virtue of my lack of big hair. I graduated in 1984; almost everyone either had a mullet or big hair. (It goes without saying, doesn't it, that I also never straightened my hair or gave it a "blowout"? Too much effort! What's the point?)
This is my high school senior portrait:
Yeah, it's a beat up copy. This is the copy that my dad carried in his wallet, so it's worn out and beaten up. I actually liked the photo with the big, sunny smile better, but Dad (and my best friend) liked this one. I thought that my teeth looked too chipmunky.
I was so happy that I liked the photos from my senior portrait shoot. I'd lived in fear of hating them, and was delighted that they were flattering.
The necklace I'm wearing belonged to my mom. All of her daughters wore it in their senior portraits.
I was disappointed, at the time, to wear something besides the comedy/tragedy mask necklaces that I wore every day, but I'm a sentimentalist, and tradition is a big deal to me. (My daughters have also had photos taken, as high school seniors, wearing the heart necklace.) As time goes by, I'm even happier that I wore it.
Just as a final note, did you notice anything else about my photos? If you grew up with me, you know this without my even asking. Yep, that's right - I'm wearing blue in almost every one. I think I have 3 or 4 school portraits in a color that is not blue. Ninety percent of my wardrobe was blue.
Blue makes me happy.
I remember being so nervous the day before my kindergarten photo. I had to wear a favorite dress (despite being a tree climbing, ditch wading, scabbed knees, dirty socks, always-a-mess tomboy, I wore dresses almost exclusively until about fourth grade. Go figure.) I had to have my hair in braids, with red ribbon bows. It was a favorite hairstyle, once I was old enough to tolerate having my hair combed, and the bows were a big deal. I remember that some movie or book character inspired the ribbons, but I've long since forgotten who it was.
I loved the photo then, and I love it now.
This is me in first grade:
New front teeth, hair in curls - this is still identifiably me, but it's a more dressed up, formal version of myself. I think she's cute. I remember sleeping with my hair in foam curlers the night before. Entire generations after me have no idea what foam curlers are.
This is third grade. My favorite part of this photo was the rhinestone owls on my hair pins. I loved them so much that I wore them for two years' worth of photos in a row, even after one of the owls broke off and my dad expoxied it on the wrong way, so that one owl was upside down.
By fourth grade, I'd decided that curls and dresses were for little girls, so I looked like my everyday self.
Those are polyester knit overalls, but the way, with an applique of a girl farmer on the front. I thought that they were kind of fancy because they had ruffles on the straps. Don't mock them - I loved those overalls. I kept wearing them even after I fell, skidded down the asphalt of my cousin's street on my knees, and had to patch the holes with the only patches we could find that were big enough to cover the damage, American flags.
By fifth grade, I'd clearly hit what my older daughters refer to as the universal "awkward stage."
That's a Ten Commandments necklace; I loved it. But hello, acne, my constant companion. So nice of you to show up and stay for the rest of my life.
I was so not pleased with my fifth grade pictures that in sixth grade, I decided to revisit what had worked in the past, and go back to curls, in the hope of being adorable again.
You know how some girls are effortlessly fashionable and chic, especially after they hit puberty? Not me. I totally missed out on whatever brain chemicals cause a person to know what looks good on them. I have no flair for hair, makeup, clothes - any of it.
I hated these. I barely gave any to my friends, and I disliked sending them to relatives. In retrospect, they're not as awful as I thought they were then, but it's still not my best look.
In seventh grade, I tried to look both more normal and more grown up.
Don't mock the scarf. It was 1978, and men and women alike did the knotted scarf around the neck thing. This was as fashionable as I got. (OK, I once owned white, knee high boots.)
My major reaction to these was, "Geez, I'd better get those braces on my teeth soon." I believe that I referred to myself as Fang.
Here's high school, ninth and tenth grade.
See, these look pretty normal, until you consider the time period. Every other female on the planet, it seemed, had the Farrah Fawcett hairdo - big, fluffy, feathered layers. My big sister's version was less over the top than most:
I simply could not imagine having to curl and hairspray my hair every day, or having to get it trimmed every month. At 47, I still trim my own hair, maybe three times a year, and I have no layers, highlights, dyed grays or anything else that would take actual time and effort. Who wants to fuss with their hair in the morning? If I can't be done "styling" in 2 minutes, I'm grumpy.
So, while I don't have any photos of fashion faux pas, like a mullet, if you flip through my yearbook you'll see that I (unintentionally) stand out by virtue of my lack of big hair. I graduated in 1984; almost everyone either had a mullet or big hair. (It goes without saying, doesn't it, that I also never straightened my hair or gave it a "blowout"? Too much effort! What's the point?)
This is my high school senior portrait:
Yeah, it's a beat up copy. This is the copy that my dad carried in his wallet, so it's worn out and beaten up. I actually liked the photo with the big, sunny smile better, but Dad (and my best friend) liked this one. I thought that my teeth looked too chipmunky.
I was so happy that I liked the photos from my senior portrait shoot. I'd lived in fear of hating them, and was delighted that they were flattering.
The necklace I'm wearing belonged to my mom. All of her daughters wore it in their senior portraits.
I was disappointed, at the time, to wear something besides the comedy/tragedy mask necklaces that I wore every day, but I'm a sentimentalist, and tradition is a big deal to me. (My daughters have also had photos taken, as high school seniors, wearing the heart necklace.) As time goes by, I'm even happier that I wore it.
Just as a final note, did you notice anything else about my photos? If you grew up with me, you know this without my even asking. Yep, that's right - I'm wearing blue in almost every one. I think I have 3 or 4 school portraits in a color that is not blue. Ninety percent of my wardrobe was blue.
Blue makes me happy.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Apology Accepted
There are very few people in the world that I actively dislike. I tend to genuinely like, and get along well with, all kinds of people, including people who are very different from myself.
Sometimes, though, people dislike me, or I dislike them. It's an ordinary fact of life, and I don't usually get too bothered.
Partly because of my personality, and partly because teachers tend to like good students, I usually got along well with my teachers, even teachers that the other kids disliked. It was always a surprise when there was serious personality clash.
The year I was a sophomore in high school, there was serious personality clash with my math teacher. For starters, he did not understand, or like, people who didn't like math. On the twice yearly standardized tests that the district administered, I'd been scoring at "grade 12, month 9" (or high school graduate) since 7th or 8th grade in most subjects, but in math I scored "only" two years above grade level. For me, that was struggling. Math gave me a headache.
My teacher expressed the opinion - not just privately, in conferences or on my papers, but publicly, out loud in class - that I struggled with math because, "Math is a logical, precise science. You do not have a logical mind. You have an undisciplined, chaotic mind." Way to motivate, Mr. B.
He loved to tell us that, "Everything is math. Music, sports, architecture, art - it's all math. If you can't do math, you can't do anything." My strong suit, language, was apparently an undesirable gift. In English classes, I got As without even trying. In math, I knocked myself out for Bs. My teacher was unamused.
The fact that I was a theater student opened me up to more ridicule. It was particularly fierce when my drama teacher decided to produce "A Midsummer Night's Dream." The first day I walked into class with my script, without referencing me in particular - or, for that matter referencing math, the subject of the class - our math teacher delivered a lecture about the pointlessness of studying any work by an author who'd been dead for centuries.
He always called us up to see our grades on the Friday before report cards came out. It was my last required semester of math, and I didn't care too much about the grade. Still, it was painful to see a C. I had never gotten a C, in anything. I couldn't recall more than a couple of assignments that I'd gotten Cs on. I must have really tanked the final, I decided, for it to negate all the Bs and the few As I'd gotten. So, I gritted my teeth, thanked my lucky stars that I was done with math, and sat back down.
Monday came; report cards were handed out. I had an F in math.
AN F. I had never gotten an F on even a single assignment, in my entire life. I was stunned.
I went up to him after school to question it. "On Friday, you showed me your book, and it said I had a C."
I will never forget his answer. "That's what you earned, but this is what I thought you deserved."
Wow.
My mother was even more furious than I was. A brilliant woman, she was also, deeply, a pacifist. She tried not to make waves, rock the boat, upset the apple cart - whatever your stock cliche for stirring up trouble is. She believed in making nice and smoothing over and turning the other cheek. And yet, she made an appointment for herself and me with the school principal.
She explained the problem. "So, what do you want me to do?" the principal asked.
"Require him to give her the grade that she earned."
He was aghast. "I can't get involved in the grading process! I can't tell teachers what grades they can and can't give!"
Mom demanded to know what the official school, or district, policies were. She wanted to know if it was possible to get my grades from the gradebook, or my assignments, and recalculate. The only answer she got was, "Grading is up to the individual teacher. I can't get involved."
"So, there's no oversight? What are the assignments for? Why have tests? Are you telling me that a child can earn As all year, then be handed a F on a report card, just because the teacher feels like it?"
"Well, yes. I can't get involved in the grading process."
We left angrier than we were when we arrived. Mom vetoed my suggestion of complaining to someone at the district level - "It'll just be more of the same." The next year, I took a semester of one of the easiest math classes offered, just to fill my credit requirement. I thought, and said, very uncomplimentary things about both the teacher and the (now retired) principal.
My senior year, I was asked to be on the tech crew for the school's first faculty play. It's now a pretty standard practice in our area, but at the time, it was a brand new idea: have the faculty act in a play to raise money for scholarships. The students would be the crew, since we already know what to do.
My old math teacher, Mr. B, was in the play.
I could not get over the irony. After all the hours I'd had to listen to him say things like, "I don't know why the school even has a fine arts department. We're supposed to be in the business of education," now he was acting?
Still, I'm polite. I treated him as though there was no bad blood between us. Actually, I treated him as if I'd never met him before. I was polite, I was informative and helpful when I needed to be, but I was not friendly. I was one of those kids who got along well with teachers, so with some, there was joking and laughter, almost as if they were my peers. Not with Mr. B. If you didn't know either of us, I don't think you would have noticed anything amiss. (Maybe I'm kidding myself, and I was glaring daggers, but I don't think so.) He never brought up the fact that he knew me before we were introduced at rehearsals. The distant-but-cordial thing worked for me.
One day, as we neared the performance dates, he walked up and stood next to me as I watched the action onstage. He didn't look at me; he looked straight ahead at the show. I wondered why he'd chosen that spot to stand in, but I said nothing. It's a free country; the man could stand wherever he chose.
We never made small talk - anything we'd said to each other had been show related. Now, after standing there for a few minutes, he said, while still staring straight ahead, "I can see why you like this - this sort of thing."
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I briefly considered snapping something like, "About darned time," but I didn't. Also looking straight ahead, I said, in a conversational tone, "It's a lot of fun, isn't it?"
"Yes. It is." He stayed there for another few seconds, then nodded, still looking out at the stage, and walked away.
Message received. I knew that had been an apology. I also knew that it must have been agonizing for him to say anything. He didn't have to. It must have been a very difficult thing to do. From his nod, it seemed that the corresponding answer had also been received - apology accepted.
When I told one of my best friends (one who knew the backstory), she was furious. "That's not good enough! If he wants to apologize, he needs to look you in the eye and actually apologize!"
"No, he doesn't. He didn't have to say anything." Two years' worth of my anger was erased.
As I got older, and learned more about psychology and gender differences, I learned that most women are not OK with typically male communication like that - no eye contact, no mention of the actual subject at hand - but I knew what it must have cost him, dignity-wise, to even attempt to say such a thing, and to a student, no less. It was as good as it was ever going to get, and it was good enough for me.
I did hope that, maybe, he'd be a little less harsh the next time a linguistically competent, number challenged student landed in his class. Maybe, now, he'd be less scathing. I sincerely hoped that he'd never again fail a student because of a personality clash. I have no way of knowing if he did or not, but I like to think that he changed a bit. Even teachers are in school to learn.
After that, he got the same smiles, the same "break a leg," even some of the joking that I gave the other teachers in the cast. I could be wrong, but it seemed to make him happy.
Even a little sincere apology goes a long way.
Sometimes, though, people dislike me, or I dislike them. It's an ordinary fact of life, and I don't usually get too bothered.
Partly because of my personality, and partly because teachers tend to like good students, I usually got along well with my teachers, even teachers that the other kids disliked. It was always a surprise when there was serious personality clash.
The year I was a sophomore in high school, there was serious personality clash with my math teacher. For starters, he did not understand, or like, people who didn't like math. On the twice yearly standardized tests that the district administered, I'd been scoring at "grade 12, month 9" (or high school graduate) since 7th or 8th grade in most subjects, but in math I scored "only" two years above grade level. For me, that was struggling. Math gave me a headache.
My teacher expressed the opinion - not just privately, in conferences or on my papers, but publicly, out loud in class - that I struggled with math because, "Math is a logical, precise science. You do not have a logical mind. You have an undisciplined, chaotic mind." Way to motivate, Mr. B.
He loved to tell us that, "Everything is math. Music, sports, architecture, art - it's all math. If you can't do math, you can't do anything." My strong suit, language, was apparently an undesirable gift. In English classes, I got As without even trying. In math, I knocked myself out for Bs. My teacher was unamused.
The fact that I was a theater student opened me up to more ridicule. It was particularly fierce when my drama teacher decided to produce "A Midsummer Night's Dream." The first day I walked into class with my script, without referencing me in particular - or, for that matter referencing math, the subject of the class - our math teacher delivered a lecture about the pointlessness of studying any work by an author who'd been dead for centuries.
He always called us up to see our grades on the Friday before report cards came out. It was my last required semester of math, and I didn't care too much about the grade. Still, it was painful to see a C. I had never gotten a C, in anything. I couldn't recall more than a couple of assignments that I'd gotten Cs on. I must have really tanked the final, I decided, for it to negate all the Bs and the few As I'd gotten. So, I gritted my teeth, thanked my lucky stars that I was done with math, and sat back down.
Monday came; report cards were handed out. I had an F in math.
AN F. I had never gotten an F on even a single assignment, in my entire life. I was stunned.
I went up to him after school to question it. "On Friday, you showed me your book, and it said I had a C."
I will never forget his answer. "That's what you earned, but this is what I thought you deserved."
Wow.
My mother was even more furious than I was. A brilliant woman, she was also, deeply, a pacifist. She tried not to make waves, rock the boat, upset the apple cart - whatever your stock cliche for stirring up trouble is. She believed in making nice and smoothing over and turning the other cheek. And yet, she made an appointment for herself and me with the school principal.
She explained the problem. "So, what do you want me to do?" the principal asked.
"Require him to give her the grade that she earned."
He was aghast. "I can't get involved in the grading process! I can't tell teachers what grades they can and can't give!"
Mom demanded to know what the official school, or district, policies were. She wanted to know if it was possible to get my grades from the gradebook, or my assignments, and recalculate. The only answer she got was, "Grading is up to the individual teacher. I can't get involved."
"So, there's no oversight? What are the assignments for? Why have tests? Are you telling me that a child can earn As all year, then be handed a F on a report card, just because the teacher feels like it?"
"Well, yes. I can't get involved in the grading process."
We left angrier than we were when we arrived. Mom vetoed my suggestion of complaining to someone at the district level - "It'll just be more of the same." The next year, I took a semester of one of the easiest math classes offered, just to fill my credit requirement. I thought, and said, very uncomplimentary things about both the teacher and the (now retired) principal.
My senior year, I was asked to be on the tech crew for the school's first faculty play. It's now a pretty standard practice in our area, but at the time, it was a brand new idea: have the faculty act in a play to raise money for scholarships. The students would be the crew, since we already know what to do.
My old math teacher, Mr. B, was in the play.
I could not get over the irony. After all the hours I'd had to listen to him say things like, "I don't know why the school even has a fine arts department. We're supposed to be in the business of education," now he was acting?
Still, I'm polite. I treated him as though there was no bad blood between us. Actually, I treated him as if I'd never met him before. I was polite, I was informative and helpful when I needed to be, but I was not friendly. I was one of those kids who got along well with teachers, so with some, there was joking and laughter, almost as if they were my peers. Not with Mr. B. If you didn't know either of us, I don't think you would have noticed anything amiss. (Maybe I'm kidding myself, and I was glaring daggers, but I don't think so.) He never brought up the fact that he knew me before we were introduced at rehearsals. The distant-but-cordial thing worked for me.
One day, as we neared the performance dates, he walked up and stood next to me as I watched the action onstage. He didn't look at me; he looked straight ahead at the show. I wondered why he'd chosen that spot to stand in, but I said nothing. It's a free country; the man could stand wherever he chose.
We never made small talk - anything we'd said to each other had been show related. Now, after standing there for a few minutes, he said, while still staring straight ahead, "I can see why you like this - this sort of thing."
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I briefly considered snapping something like, "About darned time," but I didn't. Also looking straight ahead, I said, in a conversational tone, "It's a lot of fun, isn't it?"
"Yes. It is." He stayed there for another few seconds, then nodded, still looking out at the stage, and walked away.
Message received. I knew that had been an apology. I also knew that it must have been agonizing for him to say anything. He didn't have to. It must have been a very difficult thing to do. From his nod, it seemed that the corresponding answer had also been received - apology accepted.
When I told one of my best friends (one who knew the backstory), she was furious. "That's not good enough! If he wants to apologize, he needs to look you in the eye and actually apologize!"
"No, he doesn't. He didn't have to say anything." Two years' worth of my anger was erased.
As I got older, and learned more about psychology and gender differences, I learned that most women are not OK with typically male communication like that - no eye contact, no mention of the actual subject at hand - but I knew what it must have cost him, dignity-wise, to even attempt to say such a thing, and to a student, no less. It was as good as it was ever going to get, and it was good enough for me.
I did hope that, maybe, he'd be a little less harsh the next time a linguistically competent, number challenged student landed in his class. Maybe, now, he'd be less scathing. I sincerely hoped that he'd never again fail a student because of a personality clash. I have no way of knowing if he did or not, but I like to think that he changed a bit. Even teachers are in school to learn.
After that, he got the same smiles, the same "break a leg," even some of the joking that I gave the other teachers in the cast. I could be wrong, but it seemed to make him happy.
Even a little sincere apology goes a long way.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
The Eye
Photographers and artists talk about having "the eye." My friend Linda told me a story about going along with a photographer friend while he shot photos. He'd set the camera up on a tripod, frame his shot, then call her over to look through the viewfinder.
"I'd look, and I'd say, 'Where is that?' He'd point, and say, 'Right there,' but I could never find what I saw in the camera. I'd be standing right there, and I still couldn't see it."
We have always handed cameras to our kids, especially on vacation. When they were too small to handle a "real" camera, or when they were headed somewhere that we thought one might get lost or stolen (like summer camp), we gave them disposable cameras.
When our son was 3, we were headed with him to a nearby lake to take photos while the "big kids" were in school. We stopped at the home of a friend of my husband's family; she needed help with something, and my husband had volunteered. She had a rug made from the skin of a wolverine, and my son was fascinated. He asked her, "Can I take a picture of that?"
"Sure," she said.
We reminded him to turn on the flash indoors, and he said, "I know." Then he squatted down right in front of the rug, and shot it head on, with the wolverine's glass eyes looking right into the lens. My husband and I looked at each other and said, "He has it." Most people, even adults, would have stood over the rug and shot downwards, getting the whole thing in view. Not my kid; he knew, instinctively, where the good angle, the dramatic angle, was.
We usually have more than one camera going at any one time. My husband and I take jobs solo when the schedule dictates it, but it's always best to have both of us. A week ago, we were photographing our niece's wedding. One of us had the telephoto lens, good for zooming in for closeups, and the other had the wide angle lens, good for group shots and sweeping vistas. It saves time; at the exact moment that one of us is taking this shot
the other is shooting this.
Sometimes, though, we'll be thinking the same thought at the same moment. Then the photos from the two cameras look like this:
"I'd look, and I'd say, 'Where is that?' He'd point, and say, 'Right there,' but I could never find what I saw in the camera. I'd be standing right there, and I still couldn't see it."
We have always handed cameras to our kids, especially on vacation. When they were too small to handle a "real" camera, or when they were headed somewhere that we thought one might get lost or stolen (like summer camp), we gave them disposable cameras.
When our son was 3, we were headed with him to a nearby lake to take photos while the "big kids" were in school. We stopped at the home of a friend of my husband's family; she needed help with something, and my husband had volunteered. She had a rug made from the skin of a wolverine, and my son was fascinated. He asked her, "Can I take a picture of that?"
"Sure," she said.
We reminded him to turn on the flash indoors, and he said, "I know." Then he squatted down right in front of the rug, and shot it head on, with the wolverine's glass eyes looking right into the lens. My husband and I looked at each other and said, "He has it." Most people, even adults, would have stood over the rug and shot downwards, getting the whole thing in view. Not my kid; he knew, instinctively, where the good angle, the dramatic angle, was.
We usually have more than one camera going at any one time. My husband and I take jobs solo when the schedule dictates it, but it's always best to have both of us. A week ago, we were photographing our niece's wedding. One of us had the telephoto lens, good for zooming in for closeups, and the other had the wide angle lens, good for group shots and sweeping vistas. It saves time; at the exact moment that one of us is taking this shot
the other is shooting this.
We do this without actively communicating what we're doing. After so many years, it's a well rehearsed dance.
Sometimes, though, we'll be thinking the same thought at the same moment. Then the photos from the two cameras look like this:
When my son was 16, he went to Paris. We sent one of the good cameras, of course. There was no way a member of our family was going to Europe without decent equipment. While on a tour bus, he took this shot:
Two years later, I took this from a Paris tour bus:
Genetics? Training?
I didn't see the images together until months after we got back home. It was a nice moment to say, "Yep. That's my kid."
Sunday, November 17, 2013
"That's Just Not Normal."
I'm missing church today - car trouble, don't ask - so I've been reading my scriptures and otherwise trying to have churchy moments at home. That got me started thinking about a recent conversation I had with one of my childhood friends.
"How did you live a Mormon life in a household that was very definitely not Mormon?" she asked.
"I don't know that I can explain it to you. It was the only choice that made sense to me," I told her.
Her response: "That's just not normal."
I don't know that I worried about "normal" then any more than I do now. "Normal" is beside the point. I was sure it was the right thing to do, so I did it. I didn't care that much about whether other people did, or would do, the same in my place. I didn't know why, either, they'd care if I agreed with them.
I was seven years old when my best friends, our neighbors, took me to church with them for the first time. Back then, they had children's meetings on Tuesdays after school, and it seemed like it took forever for them to get home so that we could play again. "You could always come with us," they'd say, but we, my sister and I, turned them down. Finally, I agreed to go.
I remember the lesson from that day clearly. It was the story of the "pearl of great price" found in the Bible in the book of Matthew. A merchant, searching for pearls, finds one exquisite pearl, and sells everything he possesses in order to buy this single, perfect pearl. The teacher explained that it was a metaphor for giving up something good for something better, but I was a very literal child. I could not wrap my head around the idea of having a pearl, but no food, clothing, place to live, or money. What good would the pearl do?
Metaphor is a method of communication that grows on a person.
It only took a year or so of tagging along with my friends to decide that I wanted to be a member of the church. My dad said that I was too young, and that he wouldn't give permission until I was 12. I think he thought that it was a phase that I'd grow out of. I didn't; I was baptized at 12.
When my neighbors moved away, other friends took me to church with them. When they moved away, my mother started driving me to and from my meetings; she did it for years, without griping of any kind.
My dad thought that my new religion was odd. He said repeatedly that, "They're good, hard working, honest people," but he didn't necessarily wanting me believing what they believed. My mother opined that, "The Bible was written for people who are less educated than we are," but she saw no real harm in letting her kids figure out what they believed, and why.
I was puzzled, as a kid, when people would ask me why I was doing this, or not doing that, "when your parents won't even care." It wasn't about what my parents thought or did, for me. It was about what I thought was right.
Besides, my parents weren't likely to complain about my adopting a code of behavior that was stricter than that of my peers.
It was never about rebellion, either. I am, by nature, a rule follower. I have always known those people who would never have considered a particular course of action until they were told that they couldn't do it. The word "no" is a huge catalyst for those people. That was never me.
Some people were sure that it was about conformity, about doing what would impress my friends. It wasn't. Anyone who really values conformity isn't likely to choose a strange, unpopular religion. When people were surprised that I kept attending church after the friends who introduced me moved away, I thought that was strange. I'd made a choice; why wouldn't I continue to act on it?
I value free will too much to want to have knee jerk reactions of any kind. Having obvious hot buttons, like either rebellion or conformity, makes a person far too easy to manipulate.
Trying to impress others isn't really on my radar, at all.
I never really thought that choosing and living my religion was easier or harder for me than it was for other people. Sure, I had anti-Mormon literature dropped in my locker at school. I had a family member say, in soothing, pitying tones, "You realize that your church is a cult, don't you?" Still, there's always somebody who disagrees with everybody, and most people aren't shy about letting you know.
Sometimes, my friends would gripe - "I can't believe I have to sit through Conference!" - and I would think, "What is wrong with you? I had to ask permission to be here." Other kids didn't "get" me.
As an adult, I discovered that most religious families - families practicing any religion - spend time and effort helping their family members figure out ways to cope with negative attitudes or behaviors. I became more and more aware that most people are uncomfortable having either society at large or their loved ones disagree with them. I can't imagine making important, moral choices by taking an opinion poll.
People would say, "Well, you know that most people disagree," as if they expected me to 1. gasp in horror at this startling revelation, and 2. change everything I thought and did, if I wasn't on the side of the majority (or at least, in whatever group people thought it was important to impress). Of course I knew that most of the world's population didn't agree with me. That's like knowing that it's two o'clock; true, but irrelevant.
Sometimes this would lead to conversations that would be funny if the other party wasn't deadly serious. What, exactly, I would ask, did they expect me to do about the fact that someone disagreed with me? Usually the answer was, in some form, that I should change my opinion (so that I'd be like "everybody else").
"Oh, so if someone disagrees, then other people should change their minds?"
"Yes. Once you've been educated about your errors, you should correct them."
"So, you'll be changing your opinion to mine."
"No!"
"Why not? I can explain why you should."
"But you're wrong!"
"What makes me wrong?"
"Most people disagree with you!"
"So, it's a numbers thing."
"No! It's about who's right."
"How do you know who's right?"
"I can show you all kinds of people and all kinds of sources that say that I'm right!"
"I can show you millions of people worldwide, and lots of scholarly sources, that say that I'm right."
"But you're not!"
"But you told me it was all about how many people agreed with an opinion."
It's just ludicrous.
I tried to prepare my kids for those moments in their lives. Still, when all is said and done, they need to decide, by themselves, what they believe and what they will do.
I'm happy to explain to people why I think and behave as I do. If someone wants to know, I'm happy to tell them. It's pretty obvious from the things I do, as well. My religion affects every choice I make - the clothes I wear, the groceries I buy, the movies I watch. I think that people would be happier if they made the same choices I do.
Of course, I'm also happy to let others make their own choices, because I cherish that right myself, and recognize it as sacred.
I learned that not only from my church, but from my mother.
So, OK. I'm not normal. I can live with that.
"How did you live a Mormon life in a household that was very definitely not Mormon?" she asked.
"I don't know that I can explain it to you. It was the only choice that made sense to me," I told her.
Her response: "That's just not normal."
I don't know that I worried about "normal" then any more than I do now. "Normal" is beside the point. I was sure it was the right thing to do, so I did it. I didn't care that much about whether other people did, or would do, the same in my place. I didn't know why, either, they'd care if I agreed with them.
I was seven years old when my best friends, our neighbors, took me to church with them for the first time. Back then, they had children's meetings on Tuesdays after school, and it seemed like it took forever for them to get home so that we could play again. "You could always come with us," they'd say, but we, my sister and I, turned them down. Finally, I agreed to go.
I remember the lesson from that day clearly. It was the story of the "pearl of great price" found in the Bible in the book of Matthew. A merchant, searching for pearls, finds one exquisite pearl, and sells everything he possesses in order to buy this single, perfect pearl. The teacher explained that it was a metaphor for giving up something good for something better, but I was a very literal child. I could not wrap my head around the idea of having a pearl, but no food, clothing, place to live, or money. What good would the pearl do?
Metaphor is a method of communication that grows on a person.
It only took a year or so of tagging along with my friends to decide that I wanted to be a member of the church. My dad said that I was too young, and that he wouldn't give permission until I was 12. I think he thought that it was a phase that I'd grow out of. I didn't; I was baptized at 12.
When my neighbors moved away, other friends took me to church with them. When they moved away, my mother started driving me to and from my meetings; she did it for years, without griping of any kind.
My dad thought that my new religion was odd. He said repeatedly that, "They're good, hard working, honest people," but he didn't necessarily wanting me believing what they believed. My mother opined that, "The Bible was written for people who are less educated than we are," but she saw no real harm in letting her kids figure out what they believed, and why.
I was puzzled, as a kid, when people would ask me why I was doing this, or not doing that, "when your parents won't even care." It wasn't about what my parents thought or did, for me. It was about what I thought was right.
Besides, my parents weren't likely to complain about my adopting a code of behavior that was stricter than that of my peers.
It was never about rebellion, either. I am, by nature, a rule follower. I have always known those people who would never have considered a particular course of action until they were told that they couldn't do it. The word "no" is a huge catalyst for those people. That was never me.
Some people were sure that it was about conformity, about doing what would impress my friends. It wasn't. Anyone who really values conformity isn't likely to choose a strange, unpopular religion. When people were surprised that I kept attending church after the friends who introduced me moved away, I thought that was strange. I'd made a choice; why wouldn't I continue to act on it?
I value free will too much to want to have knee jerk reactions of any kind. Having obvious hot buttons, like either rebellion or conformity, makes a person far too easy to manipulate.
Trying to impress others isn't really on my radar, at all.
I never really thought that choosing and living my religion was easier or harder for me than it was for other people. Sure, I had anti-Mormon literature dropped in my locker at school. I had a family member say, in soothing, pitying tones, "You realize that your church is a cult, don't you?" Still, there's always somebody who disagrees with everybody, and most people aren't shy about letting you know.
Sometimes, my friends would gripe - "I can't believe I have to sit through Conference!" - and I would think, "What is wrong with you? I had to ask permission to be here." Other kids didn't "get" me.
As an adult, I discovered that most religious families - families practicing any religion - spend time and effort helping their family members figure out ways to cope with negative attitudes or behaviors. I became more and more aware that most people are uncomfortable having either society at large or their loved ones disagree with them. I can't imagine making important, moral choices by taking an opinion poll.
People would say, "Well, you know that most people disagree," as if they expected me to 1. gasp in horror at this startling revelation, and 2. change everything I thought and did, if I wasn't on the side of the majority (or at least, in whatever group people thought it was important to impress). Of course I knew that most of the world's population didn't agree with me. That's like knowing that it's two o'clock; true, but irrelevant.
Sometimes this would lead to conversations that would be funny if the other party wasn't deadly serious. What, exactly, I would ask, did they expect me to do about the fact that someone disagreed with me? Usually the answer was, in some form, that I should change my opinion (so that I'd be like "everybody else").
"Oh, so if someone disagrees, then other people should change their minds?"
"Yes. Once you've been educated about your errors, you should correct them."
"So, you'll be changing your opinion to mine."
"No!"
"Why not? I can explain why you should."
"But you're wrong!"
"What makes me wrong?"
"Most people disagree with you!"
"So, it's a numbers thing."
"No! It's about who's right."
"How do you know who's right?"
"I can show you all kinds of people and all kinds of sources that say that I'm right!"
"I can show you millions of people worldwide, and lots of scholarly sources, that say that I'm right."
"But you're not!"
"But you told me it was all about how many people agreed with an opinion."
It's just ludicrous.
I tried to prepare my kids for those moments in their lives. Still, when all is said and done, they need to decide, by themselves, what they believe and what they will do.
I'm happy to explain to people why I think and behave as I do. If someone wants to know, I'm happy to tell them. It's pretty obvious from the things I do, as well. My religion affects every choice I make - the clothes I wear, the groceries I buy, the movies I watch. I think that people would be happier if they made the same choices I do.
Of course, I'm also happy to let others make their own choices, because I cherish that right myself, and recognize it as sacred.
I learned that not only from my church, but from my mother.
So, OK. I'm not normal. I can live with that.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Dress Code
One of the theater companies in my town has a tradition during the first rehearsal. As well as the nitty gritty of passing out schedules, contact lists and scripts, they do a round of introductions. Everyone tells their name, the part they'll play, and maybe a line or two about themselves - for instance, "This is my first show here, and I'm excited to work with all of you." Depending on the show, these introductions can be a lot of fun, like hearing my friend say, "I'm Blair, and I'm playing God."
Years ago, I worked on a production of "Pericles," and I introduced myself this way: "I'm Sharon. I'll be a costume runner, and any time I can work with men in skirts, it's a good day."
Anyone who's known me for any length of time knows about my love for men in kilts or Polynesian wrap skirts. Togas are nice; gladiator skirts are better. YUM.
Drag is an entirely different thing, and it doesn't affect me the same way. Drag is the equivalent of pageant hair and makeup; overdone, not necessarily feminine or attractive. I occasionally look at drag queens and wonder, "Is that how you view being female?" Most women I know spend their day in jeans and sneakers, not heels and sequins. Still, I had a drag queen do my makeup for my engagement photos specifically because he was better at doing makeup than I was. Anyway, I just want to be clear that I'm talking about men in skirts made for men, not ones in clothes made for women.
"Pericles" was nice for me, because our male cast spent the entire time in short (about mid-thigh) tunics and leather sandals. It was visually very appealing - which is good, because, as a member of the costume crew, I had to help clean the dressing rooms. They're lucky that I was feeling positive about them when I had to clean up after them. You don't want to clean a dressing room that's been occupied by lots of men in full body makeup. Just mucking out the showers was quite an experience.
I enjoy almost any opportunity to hang around with men in skirts.
These are my friends, Bruce and Bryan, and Bruce's brother, at a friend's wedding.
How fabulous is that? Bruce got married in that outfit.
I love traveling to Hawaii. The scenery is gorgeous, and the men know how to dress.
Sometimes, I even get to see men dressed this way here, on the mainland.
I love photos of David Tennant, Sean Connery and John Barrowman in their kilts, especially with tuxedo shirts, jackets and ties. I loved it when Patrick, one of the hosts of one of my husband's favorite TV shows, "Screen Savers," wore his utilikilt on the air. I repeat, YUM.
I have tried for years to talk my husband into being Zeus, or Caesar or a gladiator for Halloween, with no luck. He won't even consider it. SIGH.
Come on, men. Come on, designers. There's an untapped market here. They're comfortable. They're cool. They're easy access, and you'll never zip yourself into a zipper with one of these babies. I live in the desert; maybe we can talk men here into tunics.
No?
SIGH.
It's OK. I'm used to disappointment.
Years ago, I worked on a production of "Pericles," and I introduced myself this way: "I'm Sharon. I'll be a costume runner, and any time I can work with men in skirts, it's a good day."
Anyone who's known me for any length of time knows about my love for men in kilts or Polynesian wrap skirts. Togas are nice; gladiator skirts are better. YUM.
Drag is an entirely different thing, and it doesn't affect me the same way. Drag is the equivalent of pageant hair and makeup; overdone, not necessarily feminine or attractive. I occasionally look at drag queens and wonder, "Is that how you view being female?" Most women I know spend their day in jeans and sneakers, not heels and sequins. Still, I had a drag queen do my makeup for my engagement photos specifically because he was better at doing makeup than I was. Anyway, I just want to be clear that I'm talking about men in skirts made for men, not ones in clothes made for women.
"Pericles" was nice for me, because our male cast spent the entire time in short (about mid-thigh) tunics and leather sandals. It was visually very appealing - which is good, because, as a member of the costume crew, I had to help clean the dressing rooms. They're lucky that I was feeling positive about them when I had to clean up after them. You don't want to clean a dressing room that's been occupied by lots of men in full body makeup. Just mucking out the showers was quite an experience.
I enjoy almost any opportunity to hang around with men in skirts.
These are my friends, Bruce and Bryan, and Bruce's brother, at a friend's wedding.
How fabulous is that? Bruce got married in that outfit.
I love traveling to Hawaii. The scenery is gorgeous, and the men know how to dress.
Sometimes, I even get to see men dressed this way here, on the mainland.
I love photos of David Tennant, Sean Connery and John Barrowman in their kilts, especially with tuxedo shirts, jackets and ties. I loved it when Patrick, one of the hosts of one of my husband's favorite TV shows, "Screen Savers," wore his utilikilt on the air. I repeat, YUM.
I have tried for years to talk my husband into being Zeus, or Caesar or a gladiator for Halloween, with no luck. He won't even consider it. SIGH.
Come on, men. Come on, designers. There's an untapped market here. They're comfortable. They're cool. They're easy access, and you'll never zip yourself into a zipper with one of these babies. I live in the desert; maybe we can talk men here into tunics.
No?
SIGH.
It's OK. I'm used to disappointment.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
To K or Not to K?
I know what I should do, I think. I should either stop reading message boards, or I should at least stop being surprised or baffled.
Still, there's a reason that I used to say that my autobiography should be titled, "Deep and Profound Alienation."
(As an aside, there's reasons that I stopped saying that, as well. Some people thought I was kidding; I'm not. Some people knew that I wasn't kidding, and decided that I was deeply depressed and feeling unloved; I'm not.)
Human interaction is tough.
I had my oldest children in the mid 1980s. That was the first era, at least, in my memory, in which parents started obsessing about preschools. I'd read newspapers and magazines, and be totally amazed that people were signing their kids up for "the right schools" in utero. Sometimes, they'd have to wait until the baby was actually born, and they'd worry that some child born two hours earlier would get the last spot at a choice school. They'd fork over money equivalent to college tuition for a toddler's classes. There were huge waiting lists, tutors to help your kid master the interview, tutors to help parents master the interview... it was madness, in my opinion.
Of course, people didn't want my opinion. I was a young and inexperienced parent, in a backwater rural area of a state that's often a punch line. I'd be taking walks in the park, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and taking naps, and even people who loved me occasionally worried that I was doing everything all wrong and dooming my children.
Of course, cocaine use was also rampant in the 80s, and I figured that I'd take my word over a strung out New Yorker's any day.
Even people who knew and liked me personally occasionally said things like, "It'll be OK because you're an involved parent, and you provide opportunities for intellectual stimulation." I called those "opportunities" by other names, like "playing with toys," but whatever. Semantics.
I thought that I did a good job of trusting myself and not getting my feathers ruffled, and I still think so. I find, though, that even decades later, there are things that still annoy me.
I hate it - any stay at home parent hates it - when someone says, "You don't work," or, "You've never had a job." I had a job. I have a job; actually, more than one. My main job, my career, the one I felt was most important and into which I poured the most time and attention, was one for which I got no pay and no recognition. People who talked to me earnestly and frequently about a woman's right to chart her own course and be whatever she wanted to be did not value my choices. That was irritating. OK, infuriating.
So, too, was assuming that my choices were not actual choices, but inertia or ignorance - that I was where I was, doing what I was doing, because I felt that I had no other options. Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how hard it was, in the age of Power Suits, to swim upstream, against the prevailing theories and practices? It was HARD. I did it because I had chosen to. It would have been so much easier, and more socially acceptable, to do almost anything else.
My kids didn't attend preschool because I didn't think that they needed it. Every now and then, we'd be invited to some Mommy and Me group or other; I'd attend, because I didn't want to turn down a sincere invitation, but I don't think that I ever went more than once. I don't do groups well. We had friends, we had church; my kids were fine and I was fine.
I do NOT think that everyone's choices should be the same as mine. I do NOT think that my kids are the same as everyone else's. I do NOT think that parents who choose a preschool program are bad parents, or that they're shirking their responsibilities, or that they don't love their kids. I think that one size will never fit all. I thought, silly me, that other people thought the same thing, and that they'd be just as uninvested in our choices as I was in theirs. I was wrong.
"But early learning is key! Children learn best before they're three! They need every advantage if you want them to get into a good college! Even if they don't need the academics, they need the socialization!" people would say. "Your kids will be behind when they get to kindergarten!"
The thing is, my kids were learning. We never, ever did flashcards or tutors or workbooks, because that's not how small children learn best. They learn best by playing and experiencing.
(I thought about linking to studies that say as much, but you know what? If you agree, you'll agree without them. If you don't agree, you'll disagree even with them. If you want to see if such studies exist, that's what Google is for.)
Think about it. Did you ever give your child formal lessons to teach them who Mama and Dada were? Did they need time at a desk to learn what a doggy, a cookie, a ball were? No; they learned it in context from everyday activities, and repetition. If you're even halfway on the ball, kids learn other stuff the same way. "What a cute black doggy!" and, "I love those blue flowers" and the like will eventually teach colors. I once heard a teacher say that her students came to school not knowing colors or shapes; how is that even possible? How do you prevent a child from learning those things? We could have actively tried to thwart our kids, and they would have picked up their full name, address and the like as well.
We never gave penmanship lessons to our little ones, but they all picked up writing by watching us. My oldest printed her name for the first time at age 2 1/2. She was coloring in a coloring book, and she labeled the page the same way she'd seen me do it over and over, with her name. She had an upper case L, followed by a circle with a tail (a lower case a), an arch (a lower case n) and another circle with a tail (a). I enthused all over her. "You wrote your own name! You did such a good job!"
She gave me a pitying look. "That's not good, Mama. That's a Q," she said, stabbing her finger at her "a." (And, technically, she was right.)
"You did a very good job! It says 'Lana,' " I said. She would have none of my enthusiasm. She was completely unimpressed with her amateurish efforts.
We were having dinner in a restaurant the first time my toddler son wrote his name. One of his sisters said something about how little he was, saying, as an example, that he couldn't even write his own name. "Yes, I can!" he insisted.
"Have you ever?"
"No. But I can."
"You can not!"
"Yes, I can!"
"Mom! Tell him he can't."
"Give me that," he insisted, pointing at the keno tickets and crayons on the casino restaurant table.
"OK. Show me!" his sister said, handing him a crayon and paper. He carefully and neatly printed "Alex."
"When did he learn to do that? Did you show him that?" His sisters were astonished.
"I didn't," I told them. He'd simply seen me write it often enough that he could recognize and mimic it.
As far as "socialization," a concept which I find to be fairly ridiculous, and usually synonymous with "institutionalized behavior," my kids had plenty of positive opportunities to be in a group. At church, for example, they were in their own classes from the age of 18 months. Even in nursery, ages 18 months to 3 years, the kids have not only play time but story time, music time and arts and crafts. By three, they're expected to sit quietly in their chairs and raise their hands during 45 minute lessons and 45 minute "sharing time" that includes singing and games. My kids also had cousins and friends with whom they could practice the finer points of sharing and taking turns.
They got to play in the dirt and make messes. We explored bugs, trees and plants. We went on walks and fed ducks at the pond. They had toys and TV like Sesame Street. (As an aside, the creators of Sesame Street hoped that it would deliver "a free, high quality preschool experience" to low income kids, allowing them to start school equal to their more privileged peers.) We hung an alphabet wallpaper border in their bedrooms. They had books, books and more books, writing utensils, paper, art supplies and parents who ate meals with them and modeled table manners. (Almost every time we were in a restaurant, someone would come by and compliment my toddlers' behavior.)
When they started kindergarten, we told them (all 4, born over a 12 year period) that the readiness screening was a "meet your teacher" event. When she (they were always women, the kindergarten teachers) asked them to perform a task, they viewed it as either games or simple conversation. The teachers would then always tell us how "advanced" our kids were.
My kids are smart - I'm not discounting that - but intelligence is only potential. You can't guarantee an outcome based on possibility.
I'm thinking of all of this because I again responded to a mom's question on a message board. Her son was having trouble with all day kindergarten. After lunch, he would be surly, argumentative and combative, hitting and biting. The counselor suggested that they cut him back to a half day, and things improved dramatically. There's never been any problem in the mornings, and now that he leaves before he's worn out, everybody's happier.
His mom was thinking of taking him out of kindergarten, though, based in part on the teacher's statement that he'd have to repeat kindergarten next year. "Why send him if he'll just have to do it again?" she wondered. She also listed other reasons that she thought it might be a good idea to take him out, including the fact that he's one of the younger kids in class, and she has to wake her baby in order to pick up her son at school.
I wrote back and said that if their lives would run smoother and be happier with him at home, she should take him out and bring him home. Then I read the other comments. At the time, I was comment 17 out of 17, and every other one said, "Leave him in!" I checked back later, and it was up to 27 responses, 24 of them saying, "Leave him in."
I didn't expect that. Not every child is ready for the same things at the same time, and that's OK. Considering the needs of other family members is OK. Being outside the curve of "normal" is OK. Really, folks. It's OK if we aren't all exactly the same.
Most responders gave some variation of, "He needs the structure." I understand that thinking, but I don't agree with it. I think that we've become so terrified of doing anything "wrong," or of being unqualified, that we collectively feel the need to turn even our young children over to "experts" and then breathe a sigh of relief that we're doing "the right thing."
Some people, though, were outright nasty. Take this comment - "I suggest you take some parenting classes ASAP. Problems with children this young most often reflect problems with the parenting and issues between the parents."
WHAT?
The kid is FIVE YEARS OLD. Calm down! Kids this age are impulsive and tire easily. Yes, they get tired. This same responder also said, "You've been blaming his behavior on him being 'tired,' but I knew that wasn't the issue the first time you said it." I'm so glad that your crystal ball works, but we mortals generally require getting to know someone before we can "know" anything about them. Sometimes we even take the drastic step of actually meeting people in person before we "know" them.
I'm sorry, I'm getting snarky, and I try not to do that. I assume that everyone is well intentioned and at least reasonably well informed (I know, right?), and I try to treat them that way. I try not to generalize or jump to conclusions. But GEEZ!
I've got to assume that people who suggest everything from taking the kid to a psychologist to changing his diet to changing his bedtime are honestly trying to help. I may not agree with them, but, again, that's OK. There is no law of God or man that compels us to agree before we can be good people and good parents. Plus, what worked for one of my kids didn't necessarily work for their siblings, and these are kids with the same genetic makeup, being raised in the same environment. There is no way at all that every person on the planet needs the exact same things, or will respond to circumstances in the exact same way.
That's Issue 1: let individuals be individuals! That may even mean that they (gasp!) make different choices than you do. That doesn't mean that they're wrong or bad or incapable or immoral or ignorant.
Issue 2: It's kindergarten! It's not Harvard Law! Take a deep breath, OK? Kids are still eating paste and picking their noses! It's not required by law for a reason.
When I was in kindergarten, it was only available half days, and there was mandatory nap time. There was not only no homework, there was little book work. I know, I know, that was in the Dark Ages, and we're more enlightened now, and K is more academic, and we have to keep up with other nations, yada yada yada. Tell me: has educational achievement gone up or down in the years since the 1970s, when I lay awake on my nap mat waiting for the teacher to turn the lights back on? If these changes had brought about incredible achievement that had sent our students soaring, I'd say, "OK, I'm on board." They haven't. Plus, I heard the same things when my older kids were young, and again when their younger siblings started school. (There's a 12 year gap between my oldest and my youngest.) We heard frequently that "that may have worked in the past, but it won't work now." Children don't develop any differently than they did in the past, do they?
And let me tell you about tired kids. The only time any of my kids were ever completely beastly was when they were tired. When my youngest child was 4, one of the children's ministry leaders brought her to me and said, "She needs to sit with you. She bit her teacher." Sigh. So she sat with me in the women's meeting, and fell asleep in less than a minute. When she woke up, she was cheery and sunshiny. One of my kids gave up naps at one, and one needed them until six. Again, not everyone's the same.
At this point, though, when I have three adult children and a high school student, I get to stand on my laurels a little. My kids were school ready. They were college ready. A huge part of that is their own doing, but a small part is mine. I gave them opportunities that worked for them. Two have college degrees and one is attending a university.
Without a "quality preschool program." While staying home with mommy. LIGHTEN UP, everybody. It's possible to do a good job with your kids at home. even if you take your kid out of kindergarten.
It's also possible to do a good job, be a good parent, be involved and loving while enrolling your kids in a school starting at age one.
So, if this mom wants to take her son out of kindergarten, THAT'S OK, even if OTHER moms leave their kids in.
BREATHE!
Still, there's a reason that I used to say that my autobiography should be titled, "Deep and Profound Alienation."
(As an aside, there's reasons that I stopped saying that, as well. Some people thought I was kidding; I'm not. Some people knew that I wasn't kidding, and decided that I was deeply depressed and feeling unloved; I'm not.)
Human interaction is tough.
I had my oldest children in the mid 1980s. That was the first era, at least, in my memory, in which parents started obsessing about preschools. I'd read newspapers and magazines, and be totally amazed that people were signing their kids up for "the right schools" in utero. Sometimes, they'd have to wait until the baby was actually born, and they'd worry that some child born two hours earlier would get the last spot at a choice school. They'd fork over money equivalent to college tuition for a toddler's classes. There were huge waiting lists, tutors to help your kid master the interview, tutors to help parents master the interview... it was madness, in my opinion.
Of course, people didn't want my opinion. I was a young and inexperienced parent, in a backwater rural area of a state that's often a punch line. I'd be taking walks in the park, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and taking naps, and even people who loved me occasionally worried that I was doing everything all wrong and dooming my children.
Of course, cocaine use was also rampant in the 80s, and I figured that I'd take my word over a strung out New Yorker's any day.
Even people who knew and liked me personally occasionally said things like, "It'll be OK because you're an involved parent, and you provide opportunities for intellectual stimulation." I called those "opportunities" by other names, like "playing with toys," but whatever. Semantics.
I thought that I did a good job of trusting myself and not getting my feathers ruffled, and I still think so. I find, though, that even decades later, there are things that still annoy me.
I hate it - any stay at home parent hates it - when someone says, "You don't work," or, "You've never had a job." I had a job. I have a job; actually, more than one. My main job, my career, the one I felt was most important and into which I poured the most time and attention, was one for which I got no pay and no recognition. People who talked to me earnestly and frequently about a woman's right to chart her own course and be whatever she wanted to be did not value my choices. That was irritating. OK, infuriating.
So, too, was assuming that my choices were not actual choices, but inertia or ignorance - that I was where I was, doing what I was doing, because I felt that I had no other options. Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how hard it was, in the age of Power Suits, to swim upstream, against the prevailing theories and practices? It was HARD. I did it because I had chosen to. It would have been so much easier, and more socially acceptable, to do almost anything else.
My kids didn't attend preschool because I didn't think that they needed it. Every now and then, we'd be invited to some Mommy and Me group or other; I'd attend, because I didn't want to turn down a sincere invitation, but I don't think that I ever went more than once. I don't do groups well. We had friends, we had church; my kids were fine and I was fine.
I do NOT think that everyone's choices should be the same as mine. I do NOT think that my kids are the same as everyone else's. I do NOT think that parents who choose a preschool program are bad parents, or that they're shirking their responsibilities, or that they don't love their kids. I think that one size will never fit all. I thought, silly me, that other people thought the same thing, and that they'd be just as uninvested in our choices as I was in theirs. I was wrong.
"But early learning is key! Children learn best before they're three! They need every advantage if you want them to get into a good college! Even if they don't need the academics, they need the socialization!" people would say. "Your kids will be behind when they get to kindergarten!"
The thing is, my kids were learning. We never, ever did flashcards or tutors or workbooks, because that's not how small children learn best. They learn best by playing and experiencing.
(I thought about linking to studies that say as much, but you know what? If you agree, you'll agree without them. If you don't agree, you'll disagree even with them. If you want to see if such studies exist, that's what Google is for.)
Think about it. Did you ever give your child formal lessons to teach them who Mama and Dada were? Did they need time at a desk to learn what a doggy, a cookie, a ball were? No; they learned it in context from everyday activities, and repetition. If you're even halfway on the ball, kids learn other stuff the same way. "What a cute black doggy!" and, "I love those blue flowers" and the like will eventually teach colors. I once heard a teacher say that her students came to school not knowing colors or shapes; how is that even possible? How do you prevent a child from learning those things? We could have actively tried to thwart our kids, and they would have picked up their full name, address and the like as well.
We never gave penmanship lessons to our little ones, but they all picked up writing by watching us. My oldest printed her name for the first time at age 2 1/2. She was coloring in a coloring book, and she labeled the page the same way she'd seen me do it over and over, with her name. She had an upper case L, followed by a circle with a tail (a lower case a), an arch (a lower case n) and another circle with a tail (a). I enthused all over her. "You wrote your own name! You did such a good job!"
She gave me a pitying look. "That's not good, Mama. That's a Q," she said, stabbing her finger at her "a." (And, technically, she was right.)
"You did a very good job! It says 'Lana,' " I said. She would have none of my enthusiasm. She was completely unimpressed with her amateurish efforts.
We were having dinner in a restaurant the first time my toddler son wrote his name. One of his sisters said something about how little he was, saying, as an example, that he couldn't even write his own name. "Yes, I can!" he insisted.
"Have you ever?"
"No. But I can."
"You can not!"
"Yes, I can!"
"Mom! Tell him he can't."
"Give me that," he insisted, pointing at the keno tickets and crayons on the casino restaurant table.
"OK. Show me!" his sister said, handing him a crayon and paper. He carefully and neatly printed "Alex."
"When did he learn to do that? Did you show him that?" His sisters were astonished.
"I didn't," I told them. He'd simply seen me write it often enough that he could recognize and mimic it.
As far as "socialization," a concept which I find to be fairly ridiculous, and usually synonymous with "institutionalized behavior," my kids had plenty of positive opportunities to be in a group. At church, for example, they were in their own classes from the age of 18 months. Even in nursery, ages 18 months to 3 years, the kids have not only play time but story time, music time and arts and crafts. By three, they're expected to sit quietly in their chairs and raise their hands during 45 minute lessons and 45 minute "sharing time" that includes singing and games. My kids also had cousins and friends with whom they could practice the finer points of sharing and taking turns.
They got to play in the dirt and make messes. We explored bugs, trees and plants. We went on walks and fed ducks at the pond. They had toys and TV like Sesame Street. (As an aside, the creators of Sesame Street hoped that it would deliver "a free, high quality preschool experience" to low income kids, allowing them to start school equal to their more privileged peers.) We hung an alphabet wallpaper border in their bedrooms. They had books, books and more books, writing utensils, paper, art supplies and parents who ate meals with them and modeled table manners. (Almost every time we were in a restaurant, someone would come by and compliment my toddlers' behavior.)
When they started kindergarten, we told them (all 4, born over a 12 year period) that the readiness screening was a "meet your teacher" event. When she (they were always women, the kindergarten teachers) asked them to perform a task, they viewed it as either games or simple conversation. The teachers would then always tell us how "advanced" our kids were.
My kids are smart - I'm not discounting that - but intelligence is only potential. You can't guarantee an outcome based on possibility.
I'm thinking of all of this because I again responded to a mom's question on a message board. Her son was having trouble with all day kindergarten. After lunch, he would be surly, argumentative and combative, hitting and biting. The counselor suggested that they cut him back to a half day, and things improved dramatically. There's never been any problem in the mornings, and now that he leaves before he's worn out, everybody's happier.
His mom was thinking of taking him out of kindergarten, though, based in part on the teacher's statement that he'd have to repeat kindergarten next year. "Why send him if he'll just have to do it again?" she wondered. She also listed other reasons that she thought it might be a good idea to take him out, including the fact that he's one of the younger kids in class, and she has to wake her baby in order to pick up her son at school.
I wrote back and said that if their lives would run smoother and be happier with him at home, she should take him out and bring him home. Then I read the other comments. At the time, I was comment 17 out of 17, and every other one said, "Leave him in!" I checked back later, and it was up to 27 responses, 24 of them saying, "Leave him in."
I didn't expect that. Not every child is ready for the same things at the same time, and that's OK. Considering the needs of other family members is OK. Being outside the curve of "normal" is OK. Really, folks. It's OK if we aren't all exactly the same.
Most responders gave some variation of, "He needs the structure." I understand that thinking, but I don't agree with it. I think that we've become so terrified of doing anything "wrong," or of being unqualified, that we collectively feel the need to turn even our young children over to "experts" and then breathe a sigh of relief that we're doing "the right thing."
Some people, though, were outright nasty. Take this comment - "I suggest you take some parenting classes ASAP. Problems with children this young most often reflect problems with the parenting and issues between the parents."
WHAT?
The kid is FIVE YEARS OLD. Calm down! Kids this age are impulsive and tire easily. Yes, they get tired. This same responder also said, "You've been blaming his behavior on him being 'tired,' but I knew that wasn't the issue the first time you said it." I'm so glad that your crystal ball works, but we mortals generally require getting to know someone before we can "know" anything about them. Sometimes we even take the drastic step of actually meeting people in person before we "know" them.
I'm sorry, I'm getting snarky, and I try not to do that. I assume that everyone is well intentioned and at least reasonably well informed (I know, right?), and I try to treat them that way. I try not to generalize or jump to conclusions. But GEEZ!
I've got to assume that people who suggest everything from taking the kid to a psychologist to changing his diet to changing his bedtime are honestly trying to help. I may not agree with them, but, again, that's OK. There is no law of God or man that compels us to agree before we can be good people and good parents. Plus, what worked for one of my kids didn't necessarily work for their siblings, and these are kids with the same genetic makeup, being raised in the same environment. There is no way at all that every person on the planet needs the exact same things, or will respond to circumstances in the exact same way.
That's Issue 1: let individuals be individuals! That may even mean that they (gasp!) make different choices than you do. That doesn't mean that they're wrong or bad or incapable or immoral or ignorant.
Issue 2: It's kindergarten! It's not Harvard Law! Take a deep breath, OK? Kids are still eating paste and picking their noses! It's not required by law for a reason.
When I was in kindergarten, it was only available half days, and there was mandatory nap time. There was not only no homework, there was little book work. I know, I know, that was in the Dark Ages, and we're more enlightened now, and K is more academic, and we have to keep up with other nations, yada yada yada. Tell me: has educational achievement gone up or down in the years since the 1970s, when I lay awake on my nap mat waiting for the teacher to turn the lights back on? If these changes had brought about incredible achievement that had sent our students soaring, I'd say, "OK, I'm on board." They haven't. Plus, I heard the same things when my older kids were young, and again when their younger siblings started school. (There's a 12 year gap between my oldest and my youngest.) We heard frequently that "that may have worked in the past, but it won't work now." Children don't develop any differently than they did in the past, do they?
And let me tell you about tired kids. The only time any of my kids were ever completely beastly was when they were tired. When my youngest child was 4, one of the children's ministry leaders brought her to me and said, "She needs to sit with you. She bit her teacher." Sigh. So she sat with me in the women's meeting, and fell asleep in less than a minute. When she woke up, she was cheery and sunshiny. One of my kids gave up naps at one, and one needed them until six. Again, not everyone's the same.
At this point, though, when I have three adult children and a high school student, I get to stand on my laurels a little. My kids were school ready. They were college ready. A huge part of that is their own doing, but a small part is mine. I gave them opportunities that worked for them. Two have college degrees and one is attending a university.
Without a "quality preschool program." While staying home with mommy. LIGHTEN UP, everybody. It's possible to do a good job with your kids at home. even if you take your kid out of kindergarten.
It's also possible to do a good job, be a good parent, be involved and loving while enrolling your kids in a school starting at age one.
So, if this mom wants to take her son out of kindergarten, THAT'S OK, even if OTHER moms leave their kids in.
BREATHE!
Monday, September 30, 2013
Phrases That Irritate
Today, we're going to talk about phrases that really annoy me. I hear them frequently, and I take exception to them, every time.
"Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach."
We've all heard that one. Maybe we've even said it. It's not true. Remember, first, that everyone who "does" - every surgeon, painter, musician, teacher, parent - learned from someone. Sometimes it's by watching another's example, or by examining their work, or by formal instruction. Sometimes, they learn how to be better at what they do, and sometimes, they learn what to avoid, but none would be who they are without teachers.
People who choose to teach professionally truly love what they do. They wouldn't bother otherwise.
When Tom Hanks thanked his high school acting teacher while accepting an Academy Award, it was an amazing moment.
More recently, Kristin Chenoweth graciously shared her stage, and her applause, with a teacher. The video went viral.
Teachers do, every day.
"It's perfectly natural. How can you say that something natural is wrong?"
Almost three years ago, I wrote this in a blog post: "I'm tired of hearing about what is 'normal.' Cancer is normal. It's afflicted humans (and animals) throughout history. All disease, filth, decay and death is normal. Does that mean that we elevate it to the status of desirable?"
Behaviorally, selfishness, greed and violence are natural. Birth defects and mental illness are naturally occurring, most times dictated in utero by body chemistry. They are not dictated by a person's choices or actions. Yet, no one would ever say to a schizophrenic, "Well, you wouldn't have the voices in your head unless you were supposed to embrace them." I want to know if things are beneficial, not whether or not they're natural.
The blog post I just quoted was about bullying, but a family member and I recently had this same conversation about monogamy. (She believes that monogamy is completely unnatural, but extremely desirable and beneficial.) There are many other areas in which it applies equally. "Natural" or "normal" is many times immaterial.
"Since I don't have a uterus (or vagina), I don't get to have an opinion."
I've seen this frequently lately, and I've seen people applaud it. I can't imagine why. This is a sibling sentiment to, "Not in my back yard." It says, "As long as it doesn't affect me personally, I don't care." That's appalling. When people are indifferent to the suffering of others, we decry the idea that it's OK not to care as long as you yourself aren't affected. So why would it be OK in this case, or any case?
More to the point: I do not have a penis, and I never will, but I have very clear ideas about what someone who has one should, and should not, do with it. There are definite rules about when and where its owner should use it. There are acts that it should never participate in.
Chief among these "don'ts" are rape and pedophilia. Virtually everyone agrees that these things are wrong, whether they personally have a penis or not. This consensus is generally accepted to be a good thing. One reason for this is that those acts affect another person besides the owner of the offending penis, people who do not always get a choice in what that penis does.
The above statement is usually used in discussions about either birth control or abortion. These things also affect more than one person. Birth control is only necessary when a man and a woman engage in sexual activity with each other. One plus one equals two people. Abortion is only an issue when a pregnancy has resulted; one plus one plus one equals three people. (This, of course, leaves out siblings, grandparents, and extended family and society at large - the same kinds of people who are affected by sexual assault.) I do not think that the man's opinion, or the opinion of other family or citizens, outweighs the woman's in these decisions, but I think that they certainly do - or should - factor in. Then there's the fact that, with an abortion, the child will be the individual most affected, and we cannot ask them to weigh in. This is true whether you believe that the fetus is a full fledged person, or whether you think that it is potential only. It exists.
I do use birth control, but that is a joint decision that my husband and I make together. I do think that there are circumstances in which abortion would be acceptable, but I think that those circumstances are few and far between.
I also think that, even in circumstances in which abortion would be acceptable or understandable, it is not necessarily the only correct choice. Amanda Berry has reason, if ever anyone had one, not to want to bear a rapist's child. Yet she, and her family, consider the existence of her daughter to be the one good thing that resulted from Amanda's captivity. Bearing and raising such a child is not easy, but I am sure that Amanda feels that it's worth it. Jaycee Dugard's biggest fear in reuniting with her family after 18 years in captivity was whether or not they'd accept her daughters, because "I would never leave my children." They are hers, regardless of the genetic contribution of a man who is both a rapist and a pedophile.
I know many adoptive parents; they, too, are glad that someone did for them what they could not do for themselves, and carried and delivered their child (or children).
"He's a good father and a good provider. Isn't that enough?"
No. It isn't. Honestly. It's a good start, but it is not everything needed to be a good husband. A good dad, maybe, but that's a different job description. That's like saying, "Bob is a great mechanic, so he's obviously an excellent automobile designer (or manufacturer or assembly line worker or driver)." They might be related fields, but they are not the same.
"Love is all you need."
I wrote an entire post about this. It's like a politician's promise - it sounds good, but it fails to hold water.
Tune in next time for more Phrases That Irritate. There are more out there.
"Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach."
We've all heard that one. Maybe we've even said it. It's not true. Remember, first, that everyone who "does" - every surgeon, painter, musician, teacher, parent - learned from someone. Sometimes it's by watching another's example, or by examining their work, or by formal instruction. Sometimes, they learn how to be better at what they do, and sometimes, they learn what to avoid, but none would be who they are without teachers.
People who choose to teach professionally truly love what they do. They wouldn't bother otherwise.
When Tom Hanks thanked his high school acting teacher while accepting an Academy Award, it was an amazing moment.
More recently, Kristin Chenoweth graciously shared her stage, and her applause, with a teacher. The video went viral.
Teachers do, every day.
"It's perfectly natural. How can you say that something natural is wrong?"
Almost three years ago, I wrote this in a blog post: "I'm tired of hearing about what is 'normal.' Cancer is normal. It's afflicted humans (and animals) throughout history. All disease, filth, decay and death is normal. Does that mean that we elevate it to the status of desirable?"
Behaviorally, selfishness, greed and violence are natural. Birth defects and mental illness are naturally occurring, most times dictated in utero by body chemistry. They are not dictated by a person's choices or actions. Yet, no one would ever say to a schizophrenic, "Well, you wouldn't have the voices in your head unless you were supposed to embrace them." I want to know if things are beneficial, not whether or not they're natural.
The blog post I just quoted was about bullying, but a family member and I recently had this same conversation about monogamy. (She believes that monogamy is completely unnatural, but extremely desirable and beneficial.) There are many other areas in which it applies equally. "Natural" or "normal" is many times immaterial.
"Since I don't have a uterus (or vagina), I don't get to have an opinion."
I've seen this frequently lately, and I've seen people applaud it. I can't imagine why. This is a sibling sentiment to, "Not in my back yard." It says, "As long as it doesn't affect me personally, I don't care." That's appalling. When people are indifferent to the suffering of others, we decry the idea that it's OK not to care as long as you yourself aren't affected. So why would it be OK in this case, or any case?
More to the point: I do not have a penis, and I never will, but I have very clear ideas about what someone who has one should, and should not, do with it. There are definite rules about when and where its owner should use it. There are acts that it should never participate in.
Chief among these "don'ts" are rape and pedophilia. Virtually everyone agrees that these things are wrong, whether they personally have a penis or not. This consensus is generally accepted to be a good thing. One reason for this is that those acts affect another person besides the owner of the offending penis, people who do not always get a choice in what that penis does.
The above statement is usually used in discussions about either birth control or abortion. These things also affect more than one person. Birth control is only necessary when a man and a woman engage in sexual activity with each other. One plus one equals two people. Abortion is only an issue when a pregnancy has resulted; one plus one plus one equals three people. (This, of course, leaves out siblings, grandparents, and extended family and society at large - the same kinds of people who are affected by sexual assault.) I do not think that the man's opinion, or the opinion of other family or citizens, outweighs the woman's in these decisions, but I think that they certainly do - or should - factor in. Then there's the fact that, with an abortion, the child will be the individual most affected, and we cannot ask them to weigh in. This is true whether you believe that the fetus is a full fledged person, or whether you think that it is potential only. It exists.
I do use birth control, but that is a joint decision that my husband and I make together. I do think that there are circumstances in which abortion would be acceptable, but I think that those circumstances are few and far between.
I also think that, even in circumstances in which abortion would be acceptable or understandable, it is not necessarily the only correct choice. Amanda Berry has reason, if ever anyone had one, not to want to bear a rapist's child. Yet she, and her family, consider the existence of her daughter to be the one good thing that resulted from Amanda's captivity. Bearing and raising such a child is not easy, but I am sure that Amanda feels that it's worth it. Jaycee Dugard's biggest fear in reuniting with her family after 18 years in captivity was whether or not they'd accept her daughters, because "I would never leave my children." They are hers, regardless of the genetic contribution of a man who is both a rapist and a pedophile.
I know many adoptive parents; they, too, are glad that someone did for them what they could not do for themselves, and carried and delivered their child (or children).
"He's a good father and a good provider. Isn't that enough?"
No. It isn't. Honestly. It's a good start, but it is not everything needed to be a good husband. A good dad, maybe, but that's a different job description. That's like saying, "Bob is a great mechanic, so he's obviously an excellent automobile designer (or manufacturer or assembly line worker or driver)." They might be related fields, but they are not the same.
"Love is all you need."
I wrote an entire post about this. It's like a politician's promise - it sounds good, but it fails to hold water.
Tune in next time for more Phrases That Irritate. There are more out there.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Pacific Coast Highway
Sunset magazine's current cover story is the Pacific Coast Highway, Highway 1 down the California coast.
It's a familiar destination for our family. We're only 4 hours away from the coast, and we've spent many hours on the PCH. In fact, my kids have gotten a little bit blase' about it. We have family on the central coast, and occasionally drive from there to the LA area on vacation. It's faster to go inland, but prettier to stay on the coast. Sometimes we'll opt for the beauty, and my kids will say, "Do we have to? It takes so much longer!"
"It'll be fun. We'll stop and see the seals," we tell our desert dwelling children.
In honor of the Pacific Coast Highway, I thought I'd offer a photo essay. Here's some memories along the PCH:
All photos copyright: The Reflection Works Photography
It's a familiar destination for our family. We're only 4 hours away from the coast, and we've spent many hours on the PCH. In fact, my kids have gotten a little bit blase' about it. We have family on the central coast, and occasionally drive from there to the LA area on vacation. It's faster to go inland, but prettier to stay on the coast. Sometimes we'll opt for the beauty, and my kids will say, "Do we have to? It takes so much longer!"
"It'll be fun. We'll stop and see the seals," we tell our desert dwelling children.
In honor of the Pacific Coast Highway, I thought I'd offer a photo essay. Here's some memories along the PCH:
All photos copyright: The Reflection Works Photography
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