If you are my firstborn child, do not read this. DO NOT. I warned you. I am not responsible if you ignore me.
So, I've been cleaning my house (which, at worst, is like picking up after a tornado, and at its best is like a treasure hunt.) I have also been packing up some of my mom's stuff at her house, and working in her yard. Mostly, working in her yard, because I love it more, and I have internal conversations with my mom - "Don't these stones look great here? I'm glad I moved them."
So, yesterday, I was pretty filthy. My arms are scratched, my legs are scratched, and I had an allergic rash, because I'd been crawling under trees and shrubs to which I am allergic. I had also packed up so many books that my car was full, even the middle passenger seats. Off we went to the used bookstore, to sell some of Mom's books. My mother, like every bright and sane individual, owned more books than any other possession. There are books on shelves, in closets, in the kitchen cupboards, on the floors, on the desks and dressers, and my husband has forbidden me to hoard them. (I intend to stay married to him anyway.)
No, I did not change or shower first.
I was standing in the aisles of the bookstore browsing (I only bought 2 books, thank you) when my daughter looked at me and frowned, then squinted. "Come here."
"Do I have twigs in my hair?" I asked.
"No. It's... a dead spider. Why do you have a dead spider in your hair?" This question is unanswerable.
She picked it out and dropped it on the ground.
Both of us went on about our business. Somewhere in the Great Beyond, I'm sure that my mother giggled.
My firstborn probably got an inexplicable chill, even hundreds of miles away in the hot Phoenix air. If she asks, I'll give her the old line about, "Someone must have walked over your grave." She'll like that explanation better than the one with the spider.
"This is the bravest thing I have ever done," I said to my son. He looked at me skeptically, to see if I was being sarcastic or ironic or blatantly exaggerated; I was, after all, standing on a cruise ship. I was not joking; I meant it.
I like the explanation that Will Smith's character delivers in the movie "After Earth" about fear. "Do not misunderstand me. Danger is very real, but fear is a choice." Bravery, we know, is not the absence of fear, but the ability to work through it or past it.
Everyone likes to believe that their own fears are reasonable, and everyone else's fears are silly. I will readily admit this in myself. My fear is water - specifically, being trapped underwater and drowning. Dark water, deep water and submerged manmade objects intensify these fears. I feel the same way about this as the explanation of fear of heights from the TV show "The Big Bang Theory" - "Fear of heights is irrational and silly. Fear of falling, however, is prudent and evolutionary." Water can kill you.
I am not afraid of spiders, snakes or germs. I realize that under some circumstances, these things can kill you, but most times, they do not. If you put a person inside a sealed box of venomous snakes or spiders, it would be possible to avoid being bitten for an extended period of time. If you are still and don't startle them, chances are that they'll leave you alone. Even if you are bitten, chances are that you won't die. Germs don't care how calm you are, but a reasonably healthy person can fight off most germs automatically, without even knowing they're there. That's the entire job of the immune system. If you put a person in a sealed box full of water, on the other hand, they will die. Not "might" or "could," not "under the right circumstances," not "if you thrash or frighten it," but "WILL, " within a matter of minutes. They will die.
I try to be sympathetic and nonjudgmental when dealing with others and their fears. Still, I sometimes find myself being impatient when the fear is not life and death. For instance, I know that the fear of public speaking usually ranks higher than the fear of death for most people, but I cannot imagine why. I don't understand fear of rodents, or fear of insects. I know someone whose biggest fear is public humiliation; that barely makes my radar. I mean, everyone will face public humiliation many times in their lives. I certainly have, and I'm not dead yet. Sometimes, I'll watch someone struggling to avoid situations they think might be embarrassing, and I'll find myself barking, "Will it be fatal?" I mean, if the answer is "No," how bad can it be? One of the first things I tell my theater or speech students is, "Don't be afraid to look silly. You'll look worse trying to avoid it than you will doing anything else."
On the other hand, darkness outdoors has never frightened me, ever, even filled with animal howls and bats. It's soothing, it's gorgeous. Indoor darkness, though, can be entirely unnerving, because it looks too close to being in a sunken ship. Not rational, but hey, there it is. So, although I recognize that my fear manifests itself in exaggerated ways - for instance, being unable to look at certain photos or film footage - I find it to be a perfectly reasonable fear.
My son wanted to go on a cruise for his high school graduation. We're only 4 hours drive from the Pacific, and he wanted to go on an Alaskan cruise. We chose one from Disney; we love anything Disney.
Then my husband found a transatlantic Disney cruise - 14 days for less money than the 7 day Alaskan cruise. Plus, we'd get to see Europe. Sounds like an easy choice, right?
And it was an easy choice, for the rest of my family. For me, not so much.
Ten of the fourteen days would be spent entirely at sea. Not just any sea, not my calm, placid Pacific, but THE NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN. That just sounded like days of seasickness followed by death, hours away from any help.
Before I do anything, I have to ask, "What could potentially go wrong? Could I live with that?" If the answer is "Yes," I do it. If it's "No," well, I don't. Any time I leave my house, I am aware that I could be hit by a car, contract a disease, be robbed - all sorts of stuff could happen. Things could happen in my house. I know the risk is there, and I accept it.
Don't try to tell me that that's the "wrong" way to look at things. I don't tell you how to live your life. You know how everyone always says, "Live each day like it's your last. Some day, it will be"? It's true. The last time I saw my dad, my mom, friends and relatives who have passed away, it was an ordinary day. Tomorrow, anyone I know might be gone. Tomorrow, I might be gone. The only guarantee is that I'm here now. None of us will leave here alive. Live like you were dying, my friend.
Death and I made our peace years ago. When he comes for me, I will greet him as an old friend.
I have, of course, put in requests with the Almighty. I would rather be shot to death in a burning building than have my death have anything to do with water. I have also requested that I not die in a flaming ball of shrapnel falling from 30,000 feet. The Good Lord is not obligated to honor these requests, but it doesn't hurt to ask.
(My husband, on the other hand, has to be almost positive that nothing bad could possibly happen, or he is paralyzed. If he considers what might go wrong, he will be unable to make any choice at all. He is therefore, from my perspective, frequently caught off guard and left floundering. "This shouldn't have happened!" he'll say. "How could this possibly have happened?" He has no plan of action at the ready, because he never considered the possibility that he would need it. I have contingency plans for my contingency plans.)
So, in order to sail off into the Atlantic Ocean for days on end, I had to say to myself, "Am I OK with four of my seven family members, including me, drowning at sea on this trip?" Answering "yes" to that is a difficult thing to achieve.
People tried to be helpful, but they didn't "get" it. They'd say things like, "Just stay indoors. Don't look at the water." I knew they meant well, but I wanted to say, "Oh, yeah - then I'll totally forget that it exists." I'm not a toddler. I know that things exist outside of my sight. Plus, if the ship sinks, being trapped indoors is far more terrifying than being on deck. During the emergency drill, they don't tell you, "Run into an interior space and you'll be fine." No, they teach you to go out on deck to the lifeboats. Being indoors does not mean being safe - in fact, it usually means the opposite.
"It's a cruise! It'll be fun!" they said. I know that; it doesn't help.
Think of it this way - what is your very worst fear? Your "Dear God, PLEASE don't let it be" fear, the one that will wake you up in a cold sweat. I'll use my daughter's as an example; hers is needles.
She avoids medical care until it's critical, and even then the worst part of any procedure is the needle. When she had surgery, they kept trying to talk to her about the procedure itself, how safe it was, how comfortable she would be, how necessary this was. She didn't care about any of that. She only cared that the anesthesia would be administered by IV, and that thought made her frantic and combative.
So, let's think about medical needles - how often will you need one? Vaccinations, surgery, blood tests, dental anesthesia - let's say a few minutes a year on average, for 30 to 60 seconds at a time. Most people will be exposed to them less than that. I had surgery this year, and enough blood drawn that my veins are scarring from it, and all told (including the surgery itself) it probably added up to 4 or 5 hours, over 365 days.
Now, imagine being stuck by needles every minute of every day for two solid weeks. That's 168 consecutive hours, or 10,080 consecutive minutes.
If you're afraid of public speaking, imagine being onstage with a microphone for 10,080 solid minutes.
That's the equivalent of what I was facing.
And I did it.
Yes. I did it, with a smile. And I had fun!
There were a few distressing moments, like walking out onto a lower deck at 10:30 at night during a storm, looking out at waves that seemed 10 to 12 feet high in the rain and blackness and saying, "If we have to get into the lifeboats tonight, I will die of a heart attack before I'm ever off the ship. I just thought you should know."
Yes, indeed, I had fun. Here's me, my husband and our host:
I warned people: I will now be insufferable. I am congratulating myself. I am very proud.
I don't expect people to congratulate me. In fact, I expect eyerolling: "Yes, yes, you handled a luxury experience. You. Are. Incredible. I am in awe." Still, I am feeling pretty bulletproof.
One of my kids noticed that I wasn't stressed at all while facing something that usually ties me in mental knots. I just smiled and said, "Fourteen days at sea."
Bring. It. On. I can handle anything. I am Chuck freaking Norris.
"It's women like you who make it very difficult for the rest of us," the woman said, fixing me with a hard glare. I had just explained that I do not care if my husband, my kids or even, if need be, my friends, get things out of my purse. My husband especially has my permission to get anything he needs out of it, including cash. I just need a note or a heads-up so I know it's gone before I try to spend it. He can rifle it looking for receipts or pens or whatever he needs.
Just so we're clear, this isn't one sided. I have similar permission to go through his lunch pail, the "man purse" he carries on vacation, his wallet or his pants pocket. He usually goes to bed hours before I do, so I occasionally take cash from his pants pocket while he sleeps, and leave a note: "Hey, I took $X."
Her husband had gotten something simple like gum out of her purse, the woman had told me, in a tone of horror that made it clear that I was expected to gasp, put my hand to my mouth and exclaim, "NO!" She told me, "It's more of an invasion of privacy than a gynecological exam."
I tried to be suitably sympathetic, but I just don't "get it."
I don't understand most gift giving presumptions, either.
On a message board for mothers, I recently read a very angry letter about a gift from a child's dad. Dad had been out of the picture for years and had recently resumed contact. Daughter was 5; he hadn't seen her since she was 2. For her birthday (or maybe it was Christmas), he bought her a sweater. Mom was outraged. "A SWEATER! Nothing for 3 years, then a sweater! I'm so angry I'm thinking of telling him he can't come over when he calls next!"
I'm aware that, since this involves custody issues and hard feelings, it's probably not about the actual sweater. It's probably about unpaid child support and court hearings. Still, the reaction seemed over the top.
I wrote back: "Men are notoriously bad at figuring out gift giving issues, especially when the gift is for a female." That "female" thing isn't exclusive, though. My father in law once gave his 15 year old son a Daniel Boone style fake coonskin cap. It would have been a great gift for a kid half that age. We have photos of my son delightedly wearing his through Frontierland at Disney World when he was 7. For a 15 year old, though, it was worse than no gift.
I offered my opinion that Sweater Dad was probably patting himself on the back. He was probably thinking, "It's practical, it's in her favorite color, she'll wear it every day." Unless told, I said, he would be unaware that anyone would look at that gift and think, "What is wrong with him?"
The mom who wrote the question didn't take issue with my answer, but others did. One woman wrote back that I (names are available on the site, and yes, she called me by name) was " a b***h." "Just because your husband is a loser doesn't mean that the rest of us have to put up with that s**t," she said.
Wow. I thought we were talking about a little girl's sweater.
I polled my friends. "Am I wrong about this?" Most responses were like this one, from a friend since high school - "If my wife didn't buy them, no one would get gifts from me."
It's not the first time I've felt that a stranger was unnecessarily penalizing my husband in matters unrelated to him.
Years ago, while reading a book chronicling the crimes of a serial killer, I noticed that the author seemed to be betraying a bit of bias. The killer's wife, unaware of what her husband did away from home, thought that he was "perfect." She waxed eloquent about how thoughtful and gentle he was.
The author felt it necessary to note, in some detail, though, that he was not the kind of husband who brought flowers home or surprised his wife with jewelry. "If he wanted to get me a gift, we went shopping for it together," the wife said. That made total sense to her. It makes total sense to me - that way, he won't buy the wrong size, brand, color or item.
The author said, in a veiled way, that the woman should have known that something was not right with her husband if he never sent flowers or brought home an unexpected gift. Surely, the (female) author thought, this was a sign that he was insensitive in general and devalued women in particular.
I think that's a huge leap.
In almost 30 years, my husband has sent me flowers twice. This is because I have been very clear on the subject - I don't much care for flower arrangements (or corsages). If he wants to buy me flowers, it should be the kind that I can plant in my garden. Then, they last for years. They're also cheaper.
I'm also not a big fan of jewelry. Almost always, the only thing I wear is my wedding ring. I have made it perfectly, abundantly clear that, if my husband wants to spend a lot of money on me, there had better be plane tickets involved. I do not want a shiny bit of something when I could be on a beach, or a boat, or climbing a pyramid, or seeing a waterfall. I want to go places.
I would almost always value experiences over things. For my birthday and my anniversary, I want taken out on a date.
Friends have tried to explain to me why I'm wrong. "Dates last for a few hours. Vacations last for a week or two. Jewelry lasts forever! You can hand it down to your children."
My kids are out of luck. I own costume jewelry; they're welcome to it. My mom left one piece of "real" jewelry, her wedding ring. (She has three daughters, seven granddaughters, a granddaughter in law and a great granddaughter.)
Another friend tried to explain that, "Jewelry is an investment! It will only go up in value." Uh huh. I know people who've lost jobs and homes lately, and tried to sell their jewelry to come up with a bit of much needed cash. They're usually offered far less than what they paid. That, again, makes sense to me. I can't eat a jewel, wear it, use it to keep warm, live in it - if times are hard, its value is next to nothing. I can't even trade it for much in the case of societal collapse, because no one else can do any of those things with it, either. An apple tree - now that's a commodity with value.
Last Christmas, a friend said, "My wife asked for a vacuum. I got her a sapphire ring instead." As far as I know, his wife was thrilled and he was trying very hard to be considerate. Still, if I asked my husband for a vacuum and he bought me a sapphire ring, I'd be furious. I'd say things like, "Do you ever LISTEN to me? Did you just meet me yesterday?"
My husband values surprise; I do not. He will not make wish lists or give hints, because he doesn't want to know what he's getting. I truly do not value surprise all that much.
At least we listen to what the other wants. Many, many times, my husband and I misunderstand each other, but not about gifts.
It's hard for me to talk to other people, though. I'm not going to be overwrought about a sweater. I will not be impressed by a diamond tennis bracelet. (Why are they "tennis" bracelets, anyway? Does anyone play tennis while wearing them?) When people ask what I got for my anniversary and I say, "Dinner out," I won't understand why they say, "And?"
And for crying out loud, I'm not going to suspect that my husband's a serial killer because he doesn't send flowers.
When I was a kid, houses just didn't have cooling of any kind. Even "rich" families had no more than shutters and fans to combat summer heat.
Our house stayed cooler than many others. Its largest walls faced east/west, and there were large shade trees to the south, so it often felt cool even in the middle of summer. That was in the daytime, though; at night, it was often hot and stuffy.
I can't stand the sensation of wind on my body, or "white noise," so fans were never the solution. An open window just seemed to funnel every traffic noise straight into my head. I absolutely must have covers, at least from the knee down, and preferably from the waist down, even when I'm broiling. Summer nights, it goes without saying, could be miserable, especially when you shared a room and a double bed with a sibling.
I was probably about 11 or 12 when I first asked my mom if I could please, for the love of all that's holy, just sleep outside. It was misery inducing to be playing outdoors in the dark - and I was always outdoors as a kid - and then walk into our comparative oven of a house and be expected to sleep. My sister loved everything that I hated - an open window, a fan and no covers - so sharing a bed made us both, um, grouchy.
We lived on a fairly busy street, but since my parents had purchased the property when it was "way out in the sticks," on a dirt road, they had an acre and a third. We had a huge fenced back yard, and it was impossible to see even the next door neighbors.
I've always been a very solitary being, so the thought of being alone did not disturb me in the slightest. I would have been deeply disconcerted to be within view of the neighbors or passersby on either street (we lived on a corner lot). I felt perfectly safe in the yard. Plus, there were two dogs in the long, narrow kennel that separated the back yard from the horse pasture, and they'd sound the alarm if there were any intruders. I was a tiny bit nervous about the fact that the back door had to be left unlocked, so I could go in and use the bathroom, but the risk seemed small.
We took vacations every year, week long excursions to mountains, lakes, deserts and rivers. Until I was 16, I had only spent two nights in motel rooms; we camped everywhere we went. Even when we weren't camping, we'd be someplace like my cousin's cabin at Mount Shasta, so cots and sleeping bags were familiar. The chaise in the back yard was more comfortable and more padded than sleeping on the ground, which was the vacation norm. I have never been a prissy girl, afraid of bugs and bats or the dark.
The first night was a relief beyond description. It was cool, quiet, private and blissful. "Can I do that every night?" I wanted to know the next morning.
I loved those nights lying on the chaise, looking up at the sky. Staring up into the night sky has never made me feel small and insignificant; it makes me feel connected to everything and everyone. I loved the sound of the crickets, and the occasional songs of frogs. It was just blissful.
I would lie awake and think, and think, and ponder. It was beautiful.
I started spending every summer night in the back yard. It was always a little disappointing when it got too cold to sleep outside, some time around the beginning of the school year.
By the time I was about 14, I could accurately tell you the time any time between about 9:00 p.m. and midnight just by looking up. I had spent so many hours watching the stars crawl across the sky that I knew that if they were in this position, it was about 9:45; if they were here, it was about 11.
Once when I was in high school, a group of us had just left the movies, and someone wanted to know what time it was. I looked up and said, "It's about 10:30." I was instantly subject to all kinds of teasing. "What was that?" "What are you doing?" "How can you tell?" "Do you think you're Magellan or something?"
"No. I just know. See, those stars over there..."
"AH HA HA HA HA!" My peers were unimpressed and unconvinced.
Someone looked at their watch and said, "You're wrong! It's 10:40!"
"First of all, I said, 'about.' And we've been standing here arguing for almost five minutes."
"You just estimated based on what time the movie started."
Well, smartypants, then figure out what time it is on your own. See if I trot out my parlor tricks.
Sometimes, I really miss those nights of lying outside, looking at the stars. My home now is a two story house between other two story houses - I can't do anything in my yard without someone watching. Not that they'd be interested in watching me sleep; I just can't be comfortable in view of so many windows.
When it's dark and cool, and the crickets are chirping, everything in my body relaxes. I'd love a chaise, or a hammock, or better yet, a big comfy bed, out under the stars.
It's starting to get uncomfortably warm at night. Last night it was hot and stuffy, and I missed my days on the back yard chaise.
If I'm ever in a nursing home some day, and they complain that I wander off at night, just tell them to let me sleep on the patio. Trust me - we'll all be happier that way.
I wrote this over a decade ago. I felt sure that I'd shared it on the blog already, but I can't find it. One of my friends (young, pretty, pregnant with Baby #5) shared an article about how many expectant and young mothers didn't feel that society supported them. "I'm with you, sister!" was my reaction, even though I'm so old now that my daughters are the age I was when I had children in grade school. "Young" is far behind me.
Takeaway lesson, folks: there really is such a thing as "none of your business." Please don't ever be the busybody in the canned goods aisle.
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Two times in my life I have been totally unprepared for everyone around me to have such strong feelings about my life, and to express those feelings so frequently and strongly. The first was when I was getting married. I could never have imagined that others would be so emotionally invested in the color of my bridesmaids' dresses or what flowers I carried. People I barely knew would be vehement about what I should and shouldn't do. People who had planned their wedding with more attention to detail than went into the moon landing were apparently not burnt out by it, because now they wanted to do the same to mine. This came as a complete shock.
The second time came close on its heels – the birth of my children; especially the older two, since they were born during the first two years we were married. I had been somewhat prepared for our families and close friends to have strong opinions, but even then I was unprepared for those opinions to be foisted upon us with such zeal. And I was completely unprepared for total strangers to feel so invested in my choices. If someone had tried to warn me, I would not have believed them.
The first time a total stranger walked up to me and my pregnant tummy in the grocery store and demanded to know, "How old are you?" I thought they were an anomaly. I also thought, silly me, that when they found out that I was an adult and married, they'd feel rather silly and maybe even apologize. Nope.
"How old are you?" was inevitably followed by, "You're too young to be having babies!" Even now, years later, I cannot fathom what these women – it was usually women – thought these pronouncements would do. I was quite obviously past the stage for abortion to be an option, even if I agreed with abortion and even if such a discussion should be brokered by total strangers in the canned goods aisle. Did they want me to suddenly realize that I didn't want the baby or babies and give them up? Were they hoping I would resent the child for taking my youth? What result, exactly, did they hope this conversation would produce?
My sister in law tried to make sense of it by explaining, "When I see someone doing something that I think is wrong, I feel it's my job to educate them." Aside from the fact that I find that stance to be extremely presumptuous, how was I supposed to feel "educated?" I was the age I was, and the baby was clearly coming. I couldn't make myself older or make the baby disappear. If the conversation would ever have been appropriate, it would have been before I got pregnant. I'm also still and forever convinced that it is simply not the job of total strangers to start those kinds of conversations, before, during or after a pregnancy.
A girlfriend of mine said, "It's not as if you're on welfare." Even if I was, why would that involve people I'd never met before and would never see again in my personal decisions? They weren't social workers handing me information about classes, they were busybodies who should have left me alone to buy my food in peace. Would being on welfare mean that everyone else was entitled to walk up to me and make pronouncements?
It became harder and harder to greet supposed humor with any kind of civility. Every time someone said, "Have you figured out what causes that yet?" they acted as though it was both wildly witty and original. It was neither. I was delighted by the response my husband gave when a coworker said it to him after we'd had our second daughter – "Yeah, but is that any reason to stop doing it?" I swore that would be my standard answer from then on.
I did start saying, with a smile, "Apparently not," when I was told I was too young for childbearing. It often caught people off guard, which was a bonus.
I could not believe how many strangers asked me about birth control, or offered birth control advice. I got the distinct impression that they thought I was somehow unaware of contraceptives and their use. It's just unacceptable to expect a complete stranger to discuss such things with you, unless you're a health care professional and they are your patient. It's also unreasonable to imagine that because someone is pregnant they are ignorant.
It's just as unreasonable to assume that someone having a baby hasn't thought it through. Even if that were true, that's another conversation that should only take place with those you are close to, and before a woman is pregnant. Once the baby's on the way, it's "ready or not, here I come." Yet people wanted to engage me in those conversations – or rather, deliver those lectures - while I was picking up laundry detergent, assuming that they were somehow enlightening me. It was maddening. "Do you realize what it costs to raise a child?" people would ask. Of course I did. I also knew I didn't need the total sum in cash in order to take the baby home from the hospital.
The woman who took the cake was the one who marched up to me as I was putting my oldest in a shopping cart. I had a huge, protruding tummy; I was about seven months along, which would have made my older daughter ten months old. This woman planted herself right in front of my cart, so I had to stop to avoid hitting her. She looked pointedly from my baby to my tummy and back again, and finally up at my face. "Well, at least you're done now!" she said, none too kindly. I was flabbergasted. At that moment I found myself speechless. Later, when people would say such rude things to me, I would say, with my best sugary smile and voice, "Actually, we're planning on more." It was absolutely none of their business, but I enjoyed returning the favor and making them uncomfortable. And, it was true.
We had to wait seven years for the birth of our next child. It was not our choice to wait; it was just a biological hiccup. I hoped that, since I was approaching thirty and therefore too old for the "you're too young" speech, that people would leave me alone. I was wrong.
I've always been a peacemaker, and my husband has a deep dislike for confrontation, but the older I got, the less I was willing to put up with this sort of rudeness without making a reply. When I went to a family wedding with my body swollen with my third child, my cousin looked at me and said, "Oh, you're not, are you?" I brightened as though he'd just given me a compliment and said, "That's right! I am!" I kept smiling and looked expectantly at him, as though I thought he would congratulate me. I knew better; he's stubborn and a father of one. I just wanted him to squirm a bit.
When a niece and nephew came to live with us, the comments from strangers intensified. They look very much like our own children; we had little blond stair steps. The first time they lived with us, I was pregnant. The second time that baby, our third, was one year old. Most of the comments were simply snarky and rhetorical – "Well, you've got your hands full, don't you?" Sometimes they were out and out rude – "What were you thinking?"
We were in a mall in California during a vacation when a woman reeking of alcohol walked up to me. Looking at our four little blond children and my very pregnant self she demanded, "Wha' are you gonna do wi' anuzzer one?"
I looked her right in the eye and said, "Love it."
She looked puzzled, but couldn't think of anything else to say. She wandered away, and my husband came up to pat me on the back. "Good answer, honey, good answer," he said. I felt as if I was playing "Family Feud."
When I told this story at home, one response I got made me just as angry as the original comment. "Just explain to people that you're a foster parent," the listener said. "That way they'll admire you. They'll know you're part of the solution."
I know the speaker meant well, but that made me angry. "It is nobody's business whether or not I gave birth to those children!" I told her. She couldn't understand why I thought so. To her, explaining that two of them were with us temporarily was the perfect idea. It just made me angry.
When someone asked how many children I had, I said five. Whether or not I gave birth to them, adopted them, or simply babysat them for an afternoon, it was totally unacceptable for anyone outside of a very small circle to say anything at all to us about it. After all these years, I still cannot fathom why a complete stranger would feel the need to walk up to me and express disapproval. I don't walk up and douse their cigarettes, dump their alcoholic drinks or ask if their tax returns are accurate.
I felt much better about another friend's response to the story. I was telling her why I rejected the idea of explaining that I was a foster parent. "Well, of course!" she said. "Isn't the whole point to make them feel like they belong? Why would anybody want you to single them out that way? Think of the damage that would do." Exactly.
Another instance that made me see red happened when I was expecting our fourth child; believe it or not, it happened more than once. People would look at our family and not be able to understand why I was pregnant. "But, you already have your boy," they would say, as if having a male child was the only reason for procreation. I wanted to slap them.
When I had our second daughter, I was in the hospital for five and a half days afterward. One of the night nurses was never outright rude, but it was obvious that she was a bit dismayed by attending to a 21 year old mother of two. One night, she began to tell me that it was wrong to have more children. She recited a litany of ills plaguing the Earth. Then she explained why she and her husband were childless. "The world is such a terrible place. We feel that it would it be wrong to bring any more children into it."
I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Really? My husband and I think that our children may be the ones to fix some of those problems."
"I cannot understand," I said to the poor, hapless young woman on the phone, "why it takes an act of Congress to shut off my mother's phone."
My mother died five months ago. Her oldest two children live hundreds of miles away, and her third has health issues including heart problems and a pacemaker. Thus, she chose her youngest, me, to be the trustee of her estate, since it was most likely that I would be alive, well and available when she passed away. (As a bonus, I only live two blocks away from her home.)
My Grandmother Henriette, my mother's mother, had Alzheimer's. After having to deal with all the legalities and mess of having the court declare her mother unable to manage her own affairs, and then appoint someone to do so, my mom made her choices about how she would handle putting her own affairs in order. She put my name on her bank account after my dad died and long before she worried that she might be going senile. She sold herself everything she owned and held it all in trust, and appointed me the successor trustee. As these things go, it has been as smooth and painless as it could be, with everything already set up the way she wanted it. I've had to make very few decisions.
Most of her accounts closed with just a notification from me. Some, including her utilities, transferred easily to her granddaughter, the current caretaker of her home. The phone, though, has been an ongoing headache.
I mean, how tough should it be? I wrote a form letter: "Mrs. Smith has passed away. Please close all accounts in her name." I paid all her bills as they came in, and sent the letter out with each one. Pretty simple, right?
Some of the businesses wanted to know, "Would you like this account transferred to your name?" A polite offer, to be sure, and useful for things like her electric bill. But, I am old school and I can't quite wrap my head around having three phones for the four people who live in my house; I do not need another phone, especially if it's a landline at a residence that I do not occupy.
Besides, we heard nothing from the phone company; we just got another bill a month later. A record keeping screwup, I thought. We called the automated phone number and left a voicemail telling them to close the account. When did it become impossible to talk to a human operator, anyway?
The next month, we got a nasty notice with the bill. So, we called the number, AGAIN, and left a message AGAIN, plus we went online, as the bill urged us to do, even giving us the web address. Once you get into the site, though, it informs you that you cannot disconnect a phone online. Excuse me? YOU referred me here!
By the third month, we were repeating all the steps again, my husband, myself, and my daughter, in case the call had to come from the number in question. Calling the number printed ON THE BILL for Customer Service took you to an automated system that hung up on me after I'd been on hold for too long, and informed my husband in a prerecorded voice when he called from his cell phone that "it is not possible to disconnect a line over the phone." What?
By the fourth month, the notices in the bill were getting increasingly hostile, and so were we.
Were they not checking ANY of the systems that THEY put in place? Did no one actually work at the phone company? Were they noticing that the only calls made on that line, for literally months, were to their own system? I mean, they're supposed to know things, right? There's supposed to be some level of monitoring, right?
By now, we're all pretty ticked off. My husband kept saying, "We have to actually go into the office," but the thing is, there is no local office of AT&T. So, one day, I went to an AT&T store. At least there, there would be humans.
We walked in, my husband and I, and the employee chirped, "May I help you?" I surely hoped so, I told him, and explained the problem. "Oh. We can't do that. We don't have access."
*&^%($#!@+&!!!!!!
"We can call, though."
"Is it a different number? Because, believe me, we've already called."
Yes, he assured me, he could get a human on the phone. So, I went with him to the phone, waited while he went through elaborate steps that all but took a DNA sample, and he handed me a phone playing the melodious muzak of "hold." Soon, a human actually picked up.
"With whom am I speaking?" she trilled. I know they're trained - in fact, required - to ask this first, but it would be so nice, and timesaving, if they let me tell them what I need. Instead, I gave her my name.
"Thank you. And what is the telephone number?" Sigh. I gave it to her. Tiny pause, then an irritated voice: "I don't show you as the account holder."
"No. It's my mother's phone."
Irritated voice again. "I'm sorry, I can't - "
Enough. I need to stop you from being helpful so I can tell you why I've called. "She's been dead for months. I've been trying to turn her phone off since then. Her name is..." and I provided the name that should now be on her screen.
"I don't show your mother as the account holder, either."
Oh, for the love of Mike! "Well, my dad's been dead for 25 years," I told her, then provided his name.
"Oh. Yeah, that's it. I guess they never got around to changing it." No, I guess "they" didn't.
Then I explained what I wanted, and the steps I'd taken to get there. "I know that this isn't your fault, and that you don't make company policy, but I'm understandably irritated by now."
"I understand. Did you go online?"
I did not say, "Did you listen?" I said, "Yes. More than once." I then repeated that we'd also phoned and sent in a letter.
"What address did you send it to?" I told her. "Oh. That's the wrong address."
"Well, if someone had let me know that, I would happily have mailed one to the correct address. Do you have that address, so I can mail another one?" She did not. "Did anyone notify me that the address was incorrect? Did they forward it to the correct department? Has anyone made any attempt to communicate with me at all?"
"I don't have that information. I can't access that."
"Can you transfer me to someone who can?" She could not.
We went around and around, me trying not to bite the girl's head off, and her becoming more flustered. I did fairly bite her head off when she said, "I can take care of the bill. We'll have to prorate it..."
"NO. There is NO money actually owing. I notified you within DAYS of her death. I PAID the final bill in full. There is NO money owing at all."
"No, ma'am, I can reverse most of these charges, but you'll still owe from the day she died until the day you first notified us." Good gravy.
"OK. Fine. That'll be maybe a week." Far be it from me to keep the company from getting ten bucks or so.
At one point she said, "I don't think you're lying to me, ma'am. It's just that I have policies I have to follow." That's the problem. Do you ever feel that you're lost in the morass of a huge conglomerate that has lost touch with reality and humanity?
Poor kid, she couldn't do what I needed. I couldn't do what I wanted. How is that even possible? It's a friggin' PHONE, not the nuclear launch codes or somebody's life support.
"With every other account, I got, 'So sorry for your loss,' and then they cancelled the account."
"We really are sorry for your loss, ma'am!" She was sounding shrill and slightly distraught.
Sorry. That ship has sailed. You do not get to be sorry for my loss unless it's one of the first things you say to me.
She tried, repeatedly, to transfer me to her manager, who was "on another line," and finally told me that he'd call me at home. Poor kid, I told her several times, "I know this is not your fault." But I am starting to contemplate drastic action, like sending in another letter, but this time sprinkling talcum powder in the envelope, so it will get noticed and sent up the chain of command. I won't do it, but oh, my gosh!
Her manager never called. They finally turned off the phone, but the nasty note with the bill tells me that it was "suspended for non-payment."
AT&T, here's a Handy Business Tip: you may not want to threaten for months on end before you finally take action. Don't be hysterical and cut it off if payment is a day (or even a month) late, but we're headed into month six. You lose some credibility when people can mooch for months.
Assuming that they want to mooch. Assuming that they haven't tried to sever the relationship repeatedly over those months. You are the equivalent of a stalker ex, AT&T. Know when to let go!
I recently read an article in the local paper about underage prostitution. Local law enforcement said that, when they apprehend an underage girl engaging in prostitution, their first priority is to separate the girl and her pimp for as long as possible, in order to convince the girl that the pimp doesn't really love her. Only then, the thinking goes, will she be willing to leave "the life."
I have great respect for law enforcement, social services and others who work in these areas, but it seemed to me that they were missing the point here. I realize that they have years of experience, and often education and degrees that I do not, but I would approach things differently.
First, it will be extremely difficult to convince a girl that her boyfriend or father figure doesn't love her. Ironically, the worse she has been treated, the tougher it will be. She will hang on tighter and tighter if someone tries to "take him away." The idea of not being loved is so unthinkably painful that she will avoid that conclusion at all costs, especially if she's used to being let down, disappointed, exploited or feeling unloved.
The thing is, I don't think it matters if he loves her. Sometimes, as much as these damaged men are capable, they do care about the girls. Sometimes, they do treat them better than anyone else ever has. It still doesn't matter. Whether he loves her is irrelevant.
I would tell her that, with all due respect to the songwriting genius of John Lennon, philosophically he had it all wrong. Love is not all you need. It's a nice starting point, but it's not necessary in order for someone to treat you well.
If someone is asking you to do something illegal, potentially dangerous or potentially harmful, it doesn't matter if they love you. It is wrong of them to ask you. Especially if it goes against your wishes, it is extraordinarily wrong for them to either ask again or force the issue. It does not show love on your part if you say "yes" to such a request. It shows a lack of good judgement, and probably a tragic lack of self esteem.
I wouldn't waste my time trying to convince her that her pimp doesn't love her. I'd tell her, "It's irrelevant. It doesn't matter."
I feel the same way about people who are violent or controlling or otherwise abusive toward their partners. I cannot believe it when people excuse that behavior by saying, "But I know that he loves me. He doesn't really mean it (the bad behavior)." Everyone has bad days, loses their cool, hurts your feelings. That's part of being human. Broken bones, threats of death, hospital stays and more - these things are not OK. It truly, completely does not matter who loves whom.
People say, "But he loves me," or, "But I love her," as though it means that everyone will say, "Oh, well, OK then, that changes everything." No. It is irrelevant. It may be a fact, but it's a fact like, "Water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit." It has zero bearing on the situation at hand.
Just because you love someone, or they love you, does not mean that the relationship is healthy. If the relationship is unhealthy, it's bad for both of you, and both of you will benefit if it is ended. Feeling in pain because it ended or missing them does not mean that you did the wrong thing ending it or that you should have stayed. It means that you're human. If it's unhealthy, get out.
Some people do not believe in monogamy, and those people should only be in relationships with partners who also do not believe in monogamy. If cheating or multiple partners are a problem for one partner, then the relationship is unhealthy if the other partner insists on going outside the marriage for intimacy (whether or not the other partner knows about it). It does not matter if you love each other.
This is another situation in which, "But I love you," or, "But he loves me," are deeply irrelevant. I cannot imagine what people are thinking when they attempt to explain straying by saying to a distraught partner, "But I love you," or, "But I don't love him/her." You might as well say, "I had my teeth cleaned on Tuesday." It's a fact, but an irrelevant one. "He loves me, he's a good father and provider, and he comes home every night," also falls into this category. Bully for him. That doesn't mean that he can do no wrong.
Never let someone tell you that if you love them and they love you, anything goes. They are wrong.
Practice saying it - "That is irrelevant." Practice meaning it. Sometimes, love is irrelevant.
