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Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

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Nice Guys and Misfits Still Win

I love Claymation Christmas specials. I grew up on The Little Drummer Boy, The Year Without a Santa Claus, Jack Frost… but I’ve always especially loved Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. Maybe, subconsciously (long before I was an English major) the alliteration appealed to me.

Then, in November of 2008, Rudolph went down in history as my all-time favorite when Mike made the romantic gesture to end all romantic gestures. He brought along a digital projector, a Rudolph dvd, and a portable player to Caitlin’s med school interview to take all our minds off an extraordinarily stressful and momentous situation. The motel room was moldy, the carpet was spongy, the drapes were dingy, but I knew right then and there that Mike Candela was a keeper. He had brought us Rudolph for the road.

Growing up, I wanted to live in Rudolph’s soft focus, pulled-felt world.  I wanted to be Clarice, the fuzzy, long-lashed doe with the French name. She was spunky and kind-hearted, and she had the most amazing polka dot, red bow.

And then, to top it all off, she fell in love with the misfit – the social outcast with the blinking beacon. I’ve always been one to go for the oddball, too. (Sorry, Mike, but you’re one of the weird ones. It’s okay – I am, too).

Image result for rudolph and clarice

But even though Clarice was my goal, I think Rudolph was my reality. I am, and always have been, the ultimate misfit. For one thing, as a kid, I was in that crazy cult – it doesn’t get any odder than that! And I was tall –5’10’—which was way taller than almost any girl my age. (Still am, for that matter). And, since I suffered from acne, I had that whole glaringly red facial imperfection thing kicking, too..

Even now, after having outlived my awkward early years (sort of) and bizarre cult activities, I still find myself a misfit. I’m a mother of four-year-olds at the age when most of my friends have children in their teens or beyond. (Oh, I have those kinds, too!)

But now, along with my grown girls, I have fifteen-to-thirty years on all the other moms. (Case in point — several of the young parents at our boys’ school were actually the friends of my daughters growing up!) So, yeah, I’m still a misfit.

I also sport those hesitant, herky-jerky movements of stop action film. Not because of bad joints (I may be fifty-something, but I’m not arthritic), but because so very often I stop action in the middle of my errand because I don’t remember what in the sam hill I was about to do.  Because even though I’m a new mother again after nearly a quarter of a century, my brain isn’t new again!  It has a whole nother quarter century stamped and imprinted deep within its gray matter since the last time I gave child-rearing a go.

But mainly, the one thing I love most about Rudolph is how everyone who is targeted as a misfit – those who don’t fit within society’s expectations or generalizations – is welcomed with open arms by the story’s end. One, great, big, felt-covered happily-ever-after. It fits so nicely with my oh-so-progressive bleeding heart.

But then, watching it again with the boys, I’ve realized it isn’t quite the idyllic, little anti-bullying, feel-good statement piece I remember. For one, Donner is a sexist son of a bovid. And two, Santa is an absolute donkey’s rear. (Now, neither of the nouns I just used to label these characters are as colorful as what I would like to use, but Clarice is the only French word I’ve vowed to use in this particular blog entry, so you may read between the italices, here.)

So how is Donner sexist?  You may not realize it – because I’m fairly certain they’ve cut this line from the television broadcast — but on the dvd version, he rejects his wife and Clarice’s offer to help find Rudolph by proclaiming, “This is man’s work.” Yup. MAN’S work. WTF?!?! (btw, those are initials, my dear reader, and if you heard French, it’s because YOU – that’s right YOU — provided the fancy foreign phrase there, not I. So I’m still technically sticking to my G-Rated guidelines…) Yep. Donner’s a piece of work.

And the offensiveness doesn’t stop there. The narrator kicks in some misogynistic commentary as well. It is after Clarice and Mrs. Donner (the only name she is ever given…) successfully find Rudolph –despite Donner’s orders –only to find themselves in the clutches of the abominable snow monster.

At this point, Yukon Cornelius, keeper of sled dogs, an open-carry revolver, and elaborate facial hair (evidence, once again, of the potency and divine might of beards) sweeps in to save the day, sending himself and Bumbles tumbling into a giant abyss. The narrator then proclaims people are  “very sad at the loss of their friend, but realize that the best thing to do is get the women back to Christmas town.” Ugh.

And then finally, there’s Santa. The mean-spirited, faultfinding, curmudgeonly Santa who pokes fun of tiny infant Rudolph, right out of his mama’s belly. I mean, it’s to be expected that the other reindeer will call him names — it’s in the lyrics, after all. But Santa?

Santa is Father Christmas! He’s a saint, for Christmas sake!!  He’s supposed to be all jolly and twinkly and eat cookies and go Ho Ho Ho! and bring along a sack full of goodies everywhere he goes.

But not in Rudolph. In Rudolph, he’s mean to the elves when they give him a Christmas concert. He’s mean to Rudolph when his shiny nose is too bright for sore eyes. He’s mean enough to banish handicapped toys to an island for misfits. He’s even mean enough to almost cancel Christmas — all because of a little storm! That’s not the Santa I remember!

I swear, I think they’ve edited a lot of the unfortunate 1960’s political incorrectness out of the broadcast version because I don’t remember any of the patronizing gender roles and rude behavior when I was little.

Then again, I was programmed and conditioned to overlook male misconduct. Plus, I wasn’t allowed to believe in Santa – so I didn’t pay him much mind, anyway. Instead, I hung onto every word out of Clarice and Rudolph’s felted wool muzzles, along with those physically deformed and bullied misfit toys. Those parts are still as awesomely iconic and compellingly relevant as ever.

Yeah, the show isn’t quite what I remembered from my childhood. But will that keep me from curling up on my sofa with a soft, flannel throw and my boys at my side, watching it every single Christmas season? Of course not.

The way I look at it, I’m a mom and I’m a teacher. And the fallibility of the cautionary tale gives it that much more impact. It provides so many teachable moments. I have a responsibility “to train up a child in the way he should go” so that “when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

And the way I want my boys to go is that same generous-hearted, progressive route of their father – who appreciates women, who respects women, who listens to the insights of women, and who values the opinions of women.

He sees my strengths, even when I find myself blinded by the conditioning of my youth. He knows that my worth is so much more than my ability to flutter long lashes and dress in comely red finery.

He doesn’t believe in Woman’s Work or Man’s Work. He just believes in hard work. And he’s a man who truly appreciates that my fluency in French far outshines his own – a rare find, indeed. Yes, Rudolph will provide me some pretty, solid, serious teaching moments for me and our boys for years to come.

So things are never quite the same as you remember from your childhood, I guess… But despite all the flaws and imperfections (funny, I guess the show is ironically a bit of a misfit itself) Rudolph still has a happy ending. That hasn’t changed. The nice guys and the misfits still win in the end.

Yes, yes they do.

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Three-Ring, Four-Quarter Circus

So we all know that popular phrase, not my circus, not my monkeys? Yeah, well, I can’t say that. As a mother of toddler twin boys, I have my own little Barnum and Bailey reality show right under my feet – literally right under my feet – every single day.  So step right up! (But watch your step, please.) Come on in! I’ll give you a grand tour of our crazy, snack-filled, action-packed circus under the glaring lights and the colorful crowds of our Friday nights.

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And by the way, tonight may bear witness to one of the most exciting, most daring, most challenging of all Friday nights. The Canes are on the road for Round Three of our bid for the State Title!

So, nope, our circus won’t happen out there on the football field. Our circus takes place up there in the stands. Up in one tiny, little corner of the stands. Where — if you zoom in tight — you’ll see the disheveled circus trainer as her two little, manic monkeys jump – no, rephrase — pound on her one and only final surviving nerve…

But before the show begins… a little backstory. The Cartersville Purple Hurricanes are travelling to Woodward Academy. It’ll be a tough match up – one that experts claim is worthy of a final match up, rather than the quarterfinal game that it actually is. Both teams have skills for days and Division 1 prospects coming out the wazoo.  Both programs have coaching staffs who know the science of  football, who have solid schemes, firm discipline, and good, old-fashioned love of the game and love for their boys.  This game’s going to be one for the history books, folks.

Which means this sideshow ringleader is already in the process of packing up Mike’s truck like a travelling circus on a long-distance tour.  I’ve got the Radio Flyer wagon loaded up in the bed already – there’s no telling how far we’ll have to navigate from visitor’s parking to stadium steps and walking in crowds with my boys – well, I’d rather swallow flames or lie on a bed of nails. It is a hazardous, torturous affair. They shuffle and shy away from each “Hello” or welcoming smile they receive. And, as twins, they get lots of them. They’re like my own little private set of circus freaks. Folks gather ‘round them and stare and point and wait for a sideshow. But the boys don’t oblige. No tricks, no performance, not even a wave. All they want to do is hide behind their mama’s legs and contort themselves in unlikely angles to avoid detection. So, I pile them in their little red wagon, and away we go, bags and blankets and snack packs galore.

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Now the snacks are the most important ingredient in our little circus.  My sideshow freaks need lots and lots of snacks to keep them in prime condition. Their diets are quite precise, and packed oh-so-carefully according dietary needs. And by needs, I mean cravings – primarily sweet tooth cravings, but we’ve got carbs covered, too. There are teddy grahams, and cereal bars, cookies and muffins, goldfish and cheerios, raisins and juice boxes — the only two semi-healthy items in the whole horde. The suckers on the other hand (oops, let me be clear, by suckers, I’m referring to the dum-dums… um, again, let me clarify — the round, candy-flavored confections on a stick, NOT my boys), but the suckers… the dozens and dozens and dozens of suckers I bring, those ensure that I see at least one of every four downs in a series. Because my boys LOVE suckers. And by suckers, this time I’m pretty sure I mean me…

Because no one but a sucker would willingly give two rowdy, sloppy, drooly, toddler boys an unlimited supply of syrup on a stick, knowing full well that her little twin acrobats keep their favorite climbing apparatus with them at all times – namely their MOTHER.  On any given Friday night, one can find them climbing up and over and under and (I’m fairly certain) through my body for the entire duration of a sixty minute football game.  And tonight – with both teams being spread teams, there’s gonna to be a heckuva a lot of passes thrown, and a heckuva a lot of first downs made, and a heckuva lot of stopped clocks, and a heckuva lot of chains moved, and a heckuva lot of kickoffs received, and a heckuva lot longer football game played than the traditional sixty minutes allotted. This sucker’s gonna go on for a good, long while. Einstein’s theory — it’s all relative. So relatively speaking, here, I’m the sucker.

Now every circus comes with music, usually involving some type of prancing, staccato-beat, calliope tune. But not this circus. This one plays Cartersville’s fight song after every touchdown, which is a spot-on rendition of “On Wisconsin,” and which I’m assuming somehow translates into “Purple Hurricanes, Purple Hurricanes something, something, something, something something … “  Maybe?   Feels like there would be a dropped syllable in there somewhere. I’m not quite sure… Anyway, that fight song plays often – seeing as how we’ve averaged forty points a game this year – and then, in between the fight song, Tate belts out his ubiquitous “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” complete with jazz hands. We are truly an eclectic show.

So we’ve got the sideshow freaks, contortionists, circus monkeys, acrobats — all of whom are the same principal characters in our diversely talented ensemble. But of course, there’s one key member I haven’t truly addressed yet.  The Ring Leader.

Every circus has one. At least, that’s what I’ve always observed.  But I must confess that this particular circus ring leader is not necessarily cut out for her job. She seems to have zero control of her monkeys, the staff appears to run over the top of her quite regularly, and I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain that if you look closely, you’ll find traces of sucker stains on her clothes and in her hair. Which, I guess is better than the muffin that the day care found buried in in one of her little monkey’s heads this week. The director kindly extracted the said blueberry treat, but not before sending a picture and some thinly-veiled laughter in a private message. I am enclosing the picture as evidentiary proof that this ring leader is definitely not up to the challenge of such a daunting and daring occupation.

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Be that as it may… she is still an exuberant supporter of her crazy, careening circus and of her talented, ravishingly handsome coaching husband, as well as an enthusiastic and loud-mouthed Purple Hurricanes fan. Therefore, she’s readied her caravan and she’s geared up for her three-ring, four-quarter circus.

Oh, but she has one sweet feather in her big top hat, her best, bestie is riding shotgun tonight, offering moral support and monkey-training skills. She’s a pro. She teaches sophomores non stop daily. So there’s that.

So I’m the Ring Leader and these ARE my monkeys and this IS my circus. Step right up and come on in! For the greatest show on earth — the Georgia High School 4-A football quarterfinals — oh, and my little, three-ring sideshow.

 

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Belching out Injustices from the Bottom of the Turtle Stack…

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This may not be my most well-crafted of blogs, and I apologize if I’m off my game. I’m currently in mourning for the state of our not-so-fair country. And I believe the first stage of grief is anger. And boy, am I.

This morning, like every morning, our school day began with the Pledge of Allegiance. But will there ever be liberty and justice for all — as our Pledge of Allegiance claims? There hasn’t been yet, and my fears are that we are simply “Making America Racist Again” – as if we ever left it behind in the first place…

I’ve never put so much of myself into an election. Ever. And now that it’s over, I’m a sore loser, metaphorically speaking. Today finds me bruised and battered and feeling broken. But feeling broken and being broken are not the same thing.

I feel like I’ve never had so much to lose in an election before. And those I love have never had so much to lose. And now that it’s over, I’m expected to be a gracious loser? Nope. Not happening.

I can accept the results of the election. I won’t be like Trump and throw “rigged” into the equation (although it’s flawed, that’s for damned sure), and I won’t demand a gazillion recounts. So, yes, I will accept the presidential results. But I will not accept the resulting racial and social intolerance that is sure to grow ever-stronger now that there’s a bigot at the helm.  Something’s rotten in the state of the nation – and I will fight like hell against the injustice. I will make my voice heard – because that is one inalienable right all of us have been given. But right now, so many voices are muffled and muted and ignored. Right now, not all voices are truly heard.

The popular vote was won by Hillary, but (just like sixteen years ago) with the electoral college comes the spoils. And by spoils, I mean spoiled. As in, we are rank with injustice up in these parts. But I will rail against the machine. I will demand change. I will shout it to the rooftops until my voice, and ALL voices, are heard. Because, Good Lord willing (yes, I will pray for change, too) maybe in my lifetime, all voices will finally matter.

So whose voices don’t matter and whose voices do? Well, I’ll start with the man (woman, actually) in the mirror. Mine doesn’t matter. Nor, apparently, do millions of other women’s voices. Our votes meant nothing. And while I know we live in a democracy, where majority supposedly rules… majority does not rule.  Money rules. And ignorance rules. Those two things rule.

How do I know? Because those were two of the primary motivating forces behind the majority of Trump votes.

Trump got the uneducated white man’s vote – big time. And with that vote came the uneducated white man’s wife.  Middle-class, suburban, high-school-educated (or less), small-town, white folks voted for Trump.(Others, too. I know that. But I’m looking at demographics, here.) So those people have a voice. Their votes count. But then, white voices always matter, so no surprise there.

Trump also got the vote of the energy states: Texas, Oklahoma, Wyoming, North Dakota, Ohio, Louisiana, Arkansas, West Virginia… So Big Oil votes count. And so does Coal. And manufacturing states, too, like Wisconsin and Indiana and Iowa and Michigan — they went to Trump. So, in other words, money talks. It’s a voice that is heard… Money is really persuasive, really good at tempting souls toward damnation. It’s the root of all evil, if I recall correctly.

So let’s look at the other side. Who voted for Hillary, demographically speaking? Well, she got the minority vote, which ironically makes up the democratic majority these days: she got the African American vote; the LGBT vote; the Latino vote; the college-educated white female vote.

The common denominator, when you line all of these votes up in a pretty row, is that as the paradoxical minority majority, none of these voices were heard. But then, nothing new there. These groups are traditionally silenced. And while yes, I know that college-educated white women absolutely benefit from white privilege, and we often have a much stronger voice than the others in this list – we are also not treated the same as our white male counterparts. (i.e., the glass ceiling phenomena… the gender pay gap… the more qualified, better educated, more temperately-suited candidate did not get the presidency last night…)

As I ponder the pandemonium of our situation, I’m reminded of a favorite Dr. Seuss book: “Yertle the Turtle.” Like most of his books, it’s a satire about a megalomaniac who gains power and control over hopeful, obedient masses blinded by the glitter and promise of his reign. This book and the Trump campaign merge into one big cautionary tale to me. Yertle knows business. He knows money. He is successful and powerful. He can move and shake and control and corral. Wall Street is his mistress. She bends over at his command. And she puts out. So THIS is leadership. THIS is what the country needs. Therefore, millions voluntarily step up so the Turtle King can climb atop their backs and build his throne. And boy, do they come — “swimming by dozens… whole families of turtles, with uncles and cousins.” Surely, as he’s raking in the coin, as he’s building his wealth and his power and might, some of those riches will trickle down to help alleviate the drought at the bottom of the pond. But the only thing that trickles down that “great heavy stack” is pain and misery and the impending doom of cracked shells and broken hearts.

Why would these turtles have done such a thing? Why have WE done such a thing? I ask myself this continuously. The only answer I can come up with is that we have become an unbelievably materialistic society that believes implicitly in instant gratification. Not content with our recovering economy, our gradual, yet markedly-improved quality of life, we are driven by dreams of easy money. The American Dream has become a crude wet dream, and Trump is our golden boy. He’s all that glitters. He is the poster boy of reality television: selfish and prideful and controlling and manipulative, and he gets what he wants by stepping on the shells of those around him. And, apparently, American citizens believe that all of those qualities are perfectly okay. Why? Because he’s a star. He’s a razzle, dazzle, reality super star. And he’s turned reality television into the new reality. Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you, if you’re cruel at heart. You, too, can have whatever you want, as long as you’re willing to play dirty – to behave horribly, to degrade others, to threaten violence, to COMMIT violence, to assault women, to refuse to pay your fair share… Basically, as long as you’re willing to railroad anyone and everyone in your path to get there (a fitting metaphor, since I have heard “Trump Train!” at least a dozen times today in the halls of my blue-collar, white suburban, middle class high school campus), you can have it all.  I am horrified and I am ashamed

Yes, America showed last night that it is far more concerned with its back pocket and its purse strings – than its humanity. And that is not okay with me.

And, yes, I am a bleeding-heart liberal. I admit it. Hell, I embrace it.  My heart weeps and bleeds for those who are targeted and treated unfairly. I’ve been there, remember? I know what it means to not have a voice. And I’m right back there again. This time, with a voice I’m not afraid to use, but one that remains unheard. And there are so many of us in these United States who are in this sad situation.

So, as a bleeding-heart liberal, my heart weeps for my Muslim friends and students. To be despised because of your faith – to be racially and religiously profiled because of your love for God – it is reprehensible. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart weeps for my gay and lesbian friends and family and students. To have your love judged, to have your personal happiness threatened by a resurgence of bigotry and blind dogma — it is unforgivable. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart weeps for my black friends and my black students.  To be held suspect – or ignored – or targeted — or unfairly tried — or injured — or killed, all because of the hoodie on your back, or the plaits in your hair, or the pigment in your skin… it is an absolute abomination. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart bleeds for my fellow-females. To have our autonomy threatened, our merits and strengths and choices and progress potentially peeled away… it is inadmissible. I will fight for our voices to be heard.

My heart is bruised and bloody this morning, but my shell is not broken. Like Mack, Seuss’s “plain little turtle” at the bottom of the stack, I will not give up. I will not give in. My voice will be heard. I will hold strong and I will belch out the injustices, over and over and over. Until that xenophobic, racist, sexist throne topples. And all voices are finally heard.

 

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The Velveteen Woman: Aren’t I Real Enough Already?

I’m a Velveteen Woman on an authentic journey to become Real.( If you know the story — Oh, my gosh, it makes me cry!!! Like Ugly Cry, complete with quivering lip and all sorts of snot cry!!! — then you know what I mean. And if you don’t — go read it. Like yesterday.) Anyways… I’m a Velveteen Woman on a journey to become Real. And some days I just feel way too torn and tattered to keep going. No, let me clarify. Some WEEKS I just feel way too torn and tattered — and just plain broken– to keep going.  And this past week has been that sort of week.

I feel like I’ve been steamrolled by the planet. My bones are weary and my mind is pressed flat. Why, you ask?

Well, maybe it’s because I’m fifty. And the mother of four children — two of whom are twins… boys… who are toddlers. Add to that two girls who are twenty something and on their own authentic journeys to become Real (and I feel every knock and nick that they get along the way — maybe even more-so. Because when your baby hurts, you hurt, no matter how old they get). Then there’s the fact that I’m an English teacher drowning in essays, and that I’m a football widow in the tenth week of football season –and we’re still gunning for another six (Good Lord willing…) Oh, and don’t forget the piece de resistance — my State Health Benefit Plan decided to drop kick our boys’ coverage this week.

So this week, my journey has rubbed off a lot of my edges and stolen some of my shine. Let’s start with the fact that I’m fifty. I am nowhere near as bright and shiny as I was thirty years ago. Back then I had glossy hair and firm skin and stuffing in most of the right places. I had muscles and stamina for days. There was lightning harnessed to my giddy-up. I could run 5Ks, host block parties, create four-course dinners and chop an acre of firewood and still snap, crackle and pop at the end of the day. Now, I’m lucky to have snap, crackle and pop at the breakfast table — unless it’s a chorus from my joints and a bowl of Rice Krispies.

And being the mother of four has done some work on my lovely lady lumps. I wouldn’t go so far as the Bob Segar song and claim my “points were way up firm and high” back then, but they definitely weren’t stretched and deflated to the point of flapping in a brisk wind if they aren’t strapped in properly.  Four babies and four years of breastfeeding takes its toll on your breasteses.

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And so do three pregnancies – especially one with twins.  My skin is puckered and striped and dimpled.  I’ve been pulled and torn and redistributed.  And stitched back together. My belly bears a nice, six-inch seam where the good doctors scooped out two darling little melon balls in my first and only C-section at age forty-seven. At that age, the elastin in the skin isn’t quite what it once was. Needless to say, my stuffing has fallen and nestled into soft, comfy pooches in inconvenient and unattractive places. Add to that, my saggy hindquarters, and I’m just a soft, comfy lap of lady lumps.

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Along with my belly seam, I also bear a dog-legged scar across my right paw, which I earned, of all things, by doing laundry. Two-and-a-half-year-old twins come with not just double the laundry –because, as my friend once said, “one is one and two is ten” – but with exponentially multiplying mountains of laundry. Every day brings ground-in clay and spattered curry, skid marks and grass stains, ripped seams and snotted sleeves… Last December, while putting away the endless backlog of socks and underwear I broke my distal radius. As I stepped to the side to pull open a drawer, Tate at my side, my ankle slid out of joint – yet another weakness from my years of service on this earth – and I had to make a quick choice: sacrifice my wrist or sacrifice my youngest. Since Tate is a relatively important component of our family unit and my right hand is my dominant and most-used portion of my body, it was quite the quandary.  In the split second decision, Tate won and my wrist lost. Badly. Between fracture and surgery, it was a five-month loss. If I’d chosen Tate, I bet he would’ve bounced back in two, tops.

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So my body has often been sacrificed upon the alter of motherhood.  But it’s not been simply limited to my body. My mind has paid a tremendous price, too.  I’m not nearly as quick-witted as I once was. It’s a spongey mass of mire, sucking and slurping and slowing me down. I think the majority of decay occurred during the sixteen months of sleeplessness that Mike and I endured after the boys’ birth. Regardless, my electrodes just don’t fire as fast as they once did. Perhaps the biggest impact has been on my teaching load. I feel like I still do a decent job of instructing my students – of leading them through the mazes of symbolism and themes, interpretations and analyses. Where I’ve taken the hardest hits is the grading. Piles of essays grow even faster than my mountains of laundry. My desk looks like the Manhattan skyline. This week, alone, Hamlet and Ophelia have taken up residence in a couple of high-rise stacks already occupied by the Lady of Shallot and a serial killer named Arnold Friend. My gorged and glutted in-box creates strange bedfellows, indeed.

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But if my teacher’s inbox is a sprawling, metropolis of gangly skyscrapers, my personal email is an un-weeded garden, where things rank and gross in nature secretly sprout. It is here that the emails regarding our insurance travesty sat like poisonous mushrooms multiplying in the darkness. You see, like Hamlet, my wit’s diseased, and I don’t have good sense enough to regularly monitor my g-mail.

But then again, who would think an insurance company would just drop babies midyear for no clear reason? And send letters about their intentions to old addresses? And not email your work address, where you get all other correspondence, to let you know? And not telephone you at all to inform you you’re under the gun? Apparently, it happens. We were audited. Someone somewhere pointed a mean, nasty middle finger at our family, and BANG.

The State Health Benefit Plan gave us four months to comply with the audit’s demands (so incredibly generous, no?). Unfortunately, for the entire four months we remained blissfully ignorant, thinking we were following the rules of the universe and enjoying our life, liberties and pursuits of happiness. All the while, our insurance providers were tunneling under our best-laid precautions preparing to blow them to smithereens. Two-and-a-half year old twins with no health insurance at the very cusp of cold weather and The Creepy Crud?  FML.

Now the boys seem to have taken the news of no insurance in stride, maintaining their status quo of textbook twin toddlers, boisterously brawling and loving in equal measure. They’ve wrangled over bar stools, bloodied their kneecaps, chanted nursery rhymes, fought for control of the cayenne pepper, had meltdowns over melting ice, locked themselves in our van along with my keys, chunked dried apricots at the cat, giggled contagiously in the tub, and hugged one another to the point of unquenchable rage. And that was just yesterday.

Upon the news, Mike continued on the way that he always does, leaping tall buildings and intercepting all the wicked slings and arrows that outrageous fortune has lobbed our way — including the discovery he unearthed yesterday while working his magic and getting our boys back on an insurance policy: Mike himself has had no insurance since October 1st! Yep. Big, fat middle finger pointed our way. But the point is, my man mountain is way-beyond-textbook husband and father. He stands strong in the storm. Every time. I don’t know what I would do without him. He picks up my stuffing. He tucks it back in. He shoulders my shortcomings and he shelters my babes — all four of them. It’s fitting that he’s a Purple Hurricane coach. He knows the ins and outs of life’s storms and he weathers them with grace.

And he is the calm in the storm of my crazy because, Lord, have I been a textbook basket case this week. I’ve been falling apart at my already weakened seams – so much so that I’m shedding hair and tears and sleep and health and sanity until I’m as limp and floppy as the Velveteen Rabbit.

And according to the Skin Horse in the classic tale, “It takes a long time to become real… it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

So, I think this week finally did it. I think I’m finally Real. Maybe a long time is fifty years. I know I don’t break too easily – only one bone so far (knock on wood). Most of my hair has been loved off and my joints are definitely loose and my appearance is shabby – especially if you catch me on the weekends where I choose to never get out of my pjs unless I am absolutely forced to do so. Now my eyes haven’t dropped out yet, but they’re most definitely drooping… And I’m pretty certain this week knocked off any sharp edges I still managed to have left.

So, yeah, I feel like I should finally be Real… But I know it’s never that simple.  Because I am on an authentic journey. And it’s never over until it’s over. But as I’ve said in past blogs, I can do this hard thing.

Because what keeps me going is that I KNOW I’m truly loved. By five of the most amazing humans this world has ever cradled: Caitlin, Bethany, Parker, Tate, and Mike. I don’t deserve their love, but I am so eternally grateful for it.  And they make me FEEL Real — whether I’m actually there or not. (And I’m sure I’m not.) And I’m loved by the Creator of our Universe. I am snuggled and sheltered, and sometimes weathered and wizened — all in the name wisdom and growth. I have been blessed in so many ways and with so many wonderful experiences.  And those experiences sometimes knock me about a bit. But they just add to the love.

So all of you struggling women out there doing the hard thing and getting your edges knocked off and your stuffing pulled out. Keep on keeping on. You’re exhausted. I know. I get it. But we’re all Velveteen Women on our authentic journey to become Real. And the closer we get to Real, the harder it gets and the more knocked-about we feel. But we can do this hard thing. And we are getting there. Every nick, chip, and bruise along the way, we are getting there. We can do this hard thing.

allofus

 

4

I’ve Lived Through That Hell, and I’m Not Going Back Again.

I’m just going to put this out there again.  So many of us are strong. Are resilient. Have overcome so much and will continue on in our quest for equality…

me

Frailty, thy name is NOT woman… even though I was programmed to believe so.  And so have, apparently, a whole lot of other people.

Y’all, I’m about to get political here, and please know that it is not because I want to pick fights or force my will upon any of you. I know and understand that I am passionate in my beliefs, just as you are passionate in yours. I know we all have our stories and we all have our convictions, and I know that our experiences make up what we ourselves hold to be true. Faith guides the majority of us. Faith points us in the direction of what we deem right and what we deem wrong.  Our personal histories dictate our faiths.  Often, we either reject the teachings of our childhoods or we embrace them.

Me, I believe in God — but not the God I was raised on. Not the God that was thrust down my throat and battered about my heart and head, yoking me to servitude and self-loathing. That was my reality. A God of the Old Testament. A God of Wrath and Condemnation and Plagues and Pestilence. A God I was raised to fear. A God who condones men who would proclaim me a weak, worthless and wanton woman.

I have lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

I choose to believe in a loving and benevolent God. This is my reality. The God of the New Testament. A God who appreciates and cherishes me, who values my contributions and celebrates my achievements. Who does not love me less because I am Woman. A God who does not fault my mind and shame my body.

Today, I am speaking out because there was once a time, not that long ago, when I could not speak out. There was a time when I found myself and others of my gender, silenced and powerless. I’ve explained before that I was raised in a cult. It was a cult led by men who took pleasure in their ability to objectify and subjugate women. It was a cult led by men who refused to see value in womanhood beyond their ability to serve men’s needs and take care of their households. It was a cult led by men full of ego and blasphemy, self-righteousness and self-flattery. They didn’t appreciate women – although they did “delight”—I remember that word – they did delight in a good woman. And what exactly made up a good woman? Her abilities to serve, to be silent, to satisfy and to look pleasing while doing it all.

I still struggle with recovery from that early indoctrination and conditioning. Every day I remind myself that I have a mind and a voice that are vital, that are important – that I am worth listening to. It is classic battered women’s syndrome, to believe that you are unworthy. To feel fearful and weak and apologetic. And though I was never physically abused, I was emotionally abused — programed from a very young age to believe that women are nothing more than silent helpmates for their husbands, in the primordial form and fashion of the Old Testament Eve. I struggle every day to remember I am so much more than that.

I also struggle every day not to grow angry and resentful towards those who have never had to experience misogyny or prejudice, who could never understand what it feels like.  But who are ever ready to denounce the fears and concerns of those who have.  Who try to calm us, to placate us when we grow upset at old, familiar injustices we see rising once again to the surface. Or who argue our claims of injustice are unfounded or are blatant exaggerations. Who suggest that if we would just shut up and not stir the pot, things would be fine.

Well, I won’t shut up. I won’t sit and wait for the pot to boil over and burn us all. I’ve lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

I’m kicking, I’m screaming —  I’m asking other women out there to do the same. We CANNOT ignore this call to action and we CANNOT fail. If we do, all hell will break loose – again. I’ve lived there. Some of you haven’t – but your mothers or their mothers or their mother’s mothers have. Because I see the Handwriting on the Wall – I’ve seen it before. And I BEG you all to take a look around you and recognize it, too.

Let me explain…

I’m terrified of the mentality that Donald Trump has toward and against women — because I have seen it before. Sadly, he spouts the same fundamentally-flawed attitudes toward our sex as the cult I was raised in, and while the language he uses is far more vulgar (it was a church, after all), the philosophies are the same. He is a man eager to insult and belittle women, a man ready to condemn all women for being the genetic dispensation of Eve. He has fat-shamed us, he has slut-shamed us, he has fluid-shamed us — yes, he even went there — publicly ridiculing a female reporter for “blood coming out of her wherever” and humiliating a lactating female attorney by calling her “disgusting.” Trump is cut from the same cloth as those church elders I left behind, that I escaped from, so many moons and so many progressions ago. Men who feel we are less than them because we have different parts than them. I refuse to go back to that dark, silent Hell.

Just as The Fellowship – for that was the pet name of the cult in which I was raised (ominously patriarchal, I know…) – refused to acknowledge that women have brains and purpose beyond that Old Testament job of helpmate to our husbands… Trump has refused as well: “You know, I don’t want to sound too much like a chauvinist, but when I come home and dinner’s not ready, I’ll go through the roof, okay?”  He also once implied on a radio interview that it is a woman’s job to care for the children and he holds disdain for any man who has ever diapered an infant because that’s the wife’s job.

Yeah, well I’ve lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

When I was young and fully submerged in the confines of the cult, I knew I had no chance of becoming anything other than a wife and homemaker. College was never to be an option for me. In Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, an antagonist has a theory closely akin to how I was raised: “Sending a girl to college is like pouring water in your shoes. It’s hard to say which is worse, seeing it run out and waste the water, or seeing it hold in and wreck the shoes.” An expensive university education would never have been an option for me, had it not been for my grandmother. My post-secondary destiny was apprenticeship under an elder’s wife. I would be closely tutored and monitored in the ways and wonders of domesticity. I would become an indentured servant, working for my room and board and learning to be a skillful homemaker from some of the best. These women put Martha Stewart to shame: perfectly pressed and pleated trousers for husbands, hospital corners on all of the beds, crown roasts of pork at Christmas and braised racks of lamb at Easter. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with wanting to be proficient, masterful even, at domesticity. I love a beautifully appointed table to this day, and I do value the domestic education I received before I made my escape. One of the things that makes me happiest in life is to make my family happy. My problem here is that it should be by CHOICE.  A woman should always have a choice, with regard to ANYTHING – job, husband, family, all of it.

Wait, you argue. Trump has never said women shouldn’t be allowed to work outside the home.  Ok. I give you that. At least he hasn’t said it publicly… However, he avoids discussing women’s strengths and abilities, unless they involve her sexuality.  It’s far easier to objectify women if their brains are ignored completely. If he does happen to comment on women’s minds, often it is to call them “neurotic” – one of his favorite female insults. Normally, though, he focuses on women’s physical appearances, particularly in relation to conquest: “It’s all about the hunt and once you get it, it loses some of its energy. I think competitive, successful men feel that way about women.” And with regard to female writers: “it really doesn’t matter what they write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass. But she’s got to be young and beautiful.” In other words, my words mean nothing – not only because I’m not young and beautiful, but also because it doesn’t matter what I write. According to Trump, as a woman, my words – and by reflection, I, myself – don’t matter. I mean nothing.

I’ve lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

So let’s talk a little bit about the historical precedence of equating women with nothing… During the Renaissance, the Elizabethan euphemism for female genitalia was “Nothing”– seemingly apropos, I suppose, since no thing hangs between our legs, but also extremely demeaning and disparaging. Trump over and over again diminishes us to our genitalia, objectifying us – robbing us of subjectivity. Making us little more than toys for his tool.   Trump considers us powerless because we have No Thing between our legs.  For Trump to respect you, you must have Some Thing hanging between your legs. And then, only if it’s a white thing.. and even then, only if it has some wealth attached to it. Because that makes you a star. You can do anything when you’re a star “Grab ‘em by the pussy,” if you want. He sees women as objects to be demoralize, to grope, to molest, to rape, to control. Any which way you look at it, women get the shaft when Trump is in charge

Trump’s words have the power to transform women’s lives as we know it. A president’s words set the tone and the climate of our nation. His (or her) words carry weight. They are powerful and they are absorbed. They can teach a child she is worthy or they can teach a child that she is unworthy. Girls and young women maturing in our society do not need to hear their president slut-shaming and fat-shaming their sex. As women, we have come such a long way from the double standards of our father’s and fathers’ fathers’ eras. For centuries a woman’s value was tied to the tiniest sliver of a membrane and whether or not it was still intact. Men were celebrated for their sexuality. Women were shamed for theirs. That’s bullshit.

I have lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

Thankfully, our potential and value is no longer intertwined with the state of our hymen or the price of our dowry. We have not yet reached the place where double standards are obsolete though (obviously – otherwise the fat-shaming and slut-shaming wouldn’t still be happening) –  but I fear that with Trump and his misogynistic attitudes we will slide backward far faster than we’ve managed to climb forward.

Women have worked hard to get where we are today… and we still aren’t where we need to be. Women still make significantly less than men in comparable jobs – statistics claim between 22% and 27%, depending. And if the job has shifted over the years to predominantly female-owned, statistics show that wages fell, in some instances, up to 57 percentage points. For whatever reason, throughout history, women have been undervalued. In Judeo-Christian society, I think it all heralds back to that despised darling, the apple-eating Eve.  We women are way too wily and wicked, and we simply cannot be trusted. So don’t you dare give us power.

Now people would argue that Trump’s words are just that – words. But words are never simply words. Take the Bible – the Word of God – for example. If you are Christian, you build your entire faith, your entire world and mindset and principles and actions, around those words. If you are not Christian, then they are simply words.  The same may be said of the Koran. Or the Bhagavad Gita. Or the Tripitaka… And if we segue away from faith into the secular, the same may be said of the United States’ Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights. They are simply words. But they are so much more than that, as well. They bear weight. We have built our government, our lives, our principles and actions around those words.

The same may be said of Hitler and his government, a dictatorship built off of the power of his words -– he started slowly and gathered steam (unlike Trump, who has been ballsy from the start and will surely only get more daring), creating a mindset and manipulating millions and slowly eliminating the freedoms of the Jews and others. Trump is openly xenophobic toward several groups, Muslims in particular. He would like to see all Muslims carry religious IDs, a frightening flashback to the labeling of the Jews, initially by IDs and later by insignia. Trump has also threatened the first amendment – freedom of speech – by declaring he would shut down Saturday Night Live because of their “unfair” depictions of him. If he could shut down satiric entertainment like SNL, what might he do to print and network journalism? And like Hitler, Trump isn’t above inciting violence, He has encouraged his minions to punch protestors, proclaiming he would take care of their legal bills. His campaign suggested Hillary Clinton would likely be shot if Trump lost the election – a thinly veiled threat. And he, himself bragged that he could literally shoot someone on the streets and not lose voters– and the sad part is, he probably could. Because he is the epitome of a cult leader – and I know cult leaders. I’m a recovering member.

I have lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

It is obvious that Trump’s legions are following a controlling, narcissistic bully. He convinces seemingly rational and intelligent human beings to latch onto his every whim with wild abandon. Hell, some supporters even likened him to the Biblical Samson, a sinner and womanizer, but one who, they argue, was still called by God.  I’m not kidding here. Supporters declare, “God’s hand is upon Trump and the forces of evil have been trying to stop him.”

Wait, what?  Trump?!?

It is obvious that some followers are ready to sacrifice life as they know it, to take up Trump’s cross, and to follow him blindly. Hitler is famous for saying, “If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”  Trump doesn’t even lie about the audacious things he would do. And people are absorbing every outlandish, sexist, racist, violent, vitriolic word of it.

This presidency terrifies me.  I know that our nation is drastically divided for a variety of reasons. I know that. I get that. We all are equally passionate about why.  I just wanted to share a few of my reasons why.

I have lived through that Hell, and I am not going back there.

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