About twenty minutes ago, the four month old boy fell asleep. I successfully transferred him off my lap and into his rocker.
Start the clock.
Use the bathroom (tick, tick, tick), read the small girl a book (tick, tick, tick), sing songs (tick, tick, tick), say prayers (tick, tick, tick), find her blanket (tick, tick, tick), change into pajamas myself (tick, tick, tick), no time to take off my makeup if I want to get started on my planner (tick, tick, tick), computer on lap (tick, tick, tick), open web browser (tick, tick, tick)...
...small human cries. Time's up.
My entire existence is a clock that runs around a tiny human; my waking is consumed by him, my sleeping depends upon his sleeping. There are, of course, joys beyond any kind of measure when it comes to being a mother. But there is also much to measure, and the biggest one right now is time. The runner up to time is energy.
I seem to be lacking in both as of late, and it bothers me. The more time goes by, the more frantic I become when I feel I'm accomplishing very little. I'm a 24 hour diner to a baby. The dairy cow. The burp rag. The diaper change'o'matic. The mattress, boxspring, and pillow. I also have three other children that depend on me, and I'm still a wife, and I still have a house that has to be cleaned, and bills that need to be paid...
...and suddenly I realize I haven't had a shower in five days. What is happening?
Tick, tick, tick.
Monday, December 11, 2017
Thursday, October 19, 2017
The Altered Girl
I have an insatiable need for justice. It's my biggest character flaw, and my most spiritual struggle. There are so many bible verses about "waiting on the Lord" and letting vengeance be God's but I struggle with needing to see tangible, "real" consequences here on earth for all the wrongs innocent people suffer.
This unquenchable force has gotten me in a lot of trouble before, as I take up personal campaigns and offense for others who might be feeling the sting of earthly unfairness. Often times, it doesn't end well, and yet I persist, because intertwined with this need is my own sense of value and self worth. I don't have a high opinion of myself, and so when I perceive someone else is being made to feel small, I rise up on a personal crusade to make it right, even if that person hasn't asked me to. Compound all this with general anxiety, and you have many showers where I stand in the water, running through various scenarios on how I can give evil doers their comeuppance. (I solve the worlds problems one shower at a time)
Now, I've told you all of that to tell you this - the event that started it all. This is a little heavy, so just be aware.
Long ago, as a little girl of six or seven, I had a friend. Her name was Cheri. I doubt that's how she spelled her name, but for some reason when I think of her, that's always how I want to spell it. Cheri is a girl I will never forget. She is ingrained on my heart, I have carried her with me for twenty five years. Cheri taught me "what boys like." Boys like when you touch them here. Boys like when you take a bath with them. Boys like when you kiss them here. I felt somehow that these games we were playing were wrong, but I didn't know why - sex was a topic completely off limits when I was growing up. I didn't know there were terms for this: masturbation, oral sex, etc.
I didn't really mind, these games felt good to play.
And then one day, I went to play at Cheri's house. "Let's dress up for my dad," she said. I remember being in her room, I remember getting putting on dress up clothes, and I remember her older brother opening the door as we were changing. I don't remember anything after that, except that the next time I saw her, I hated her.
My family will remember this part - the part where Cheri was playing on the sidewalk in front of our house. The part where I went completely ballistic. The part where I wanted to hurt her, to do something to her, but knowing what trouble I would be in if I hit her. So I fell to my knees and clawed at her feet with my hands. "I hate you!" I screamed, "I hate you!!" She ran away crying.
I've lived with the guilt of that moment since. Over the years it has morphed into shame of a different kind: Cheri was obviously being abused. Once I became a teenager, I understood that. And so was rooted the thought that if I had just told someone, anyone, maybe someone could have saved her. She's never aged in my head. I've gotten older, but she is still a little girl who ran away crying.
I cry every time I think of her. Tears on my keyboard as I type it all out. Two and half decades later.
When I was a teenager I told two people this story, on two separate occasions. The first told me she would, "pray about" my "sexual sin." The other person told me that in comparison to abuses other people have suffered, my experience was "nothing."
Experience plus complete lack of validation equals me; the math that makes up my entire psyche. For better or worse.
I've since told a therapist and, most recently, my mother in law. Both said the same thing: "what happened was not your fault."
Someday I'm going to truly believe those words. I wonder what a difference it will make. Maybe I'll be able to respond to injustice with compassion. Maybe I will learn to see that my experiences don't need validation; I can be a whole, valuable person.
In the meantime, I take up the sword for surrogate causes, because the girl who ran away crying is still running in my head.
This unquenchable force has gotten me in a lot of trouble before, as I take up personal campaigns and offense for others who might be feeling the sting of earthly unfairness. Often times, it doesn't end well, and yet I persist, because intertwined with this need is my own sense of value and self worth. I don't have a high opinion of myself, and so when I perceive someone else is being made to feel small, I rise up on a personal crusade to make it right, even if that person hasn't asked me to. Compound all this with general anxiety, and you have many showers where I stand in the water, running through various scenarios on how I can give evil doers their comeuppance. (I solve the worlds problems one shower at a time)
Now, I've told you all of that to tell you this - the event that started it all. This is a little heavy, so just be aware.
Long ago, as a little girl of six or seven, I had a friend. Her name was Cheri. I doubt that's how she spelled her name, but for some reason when I think of her, that's always how I want to spell it. Cheri is a girl I will never forget. She is ingrained on my heart, I have carried her with me for twenty five years. Cheri taught me "what boys like." Boys like when you touch them here. Boys like when you take a bath with them. Boys like when you kiss them here. I felt somehow that these games we were playing were wrong, but I didn't know why - sex was a topic completely off limits when I was growing up. I didn't know there were terms for this: masturbation, oral sex, etc.
I didn't really mind, these games felt good to play.
And then one day, I went to play at Cheri's house. "Let's dress up for my dad," she said. I remember being in her room, I remember getting putting on dress up clothes, and I remember her older brother opening the door as we were changing. I don't remember anything after that, except that the next time I saw her, I hated her.
My family will remember this part - the part where Cheri was playing on the sidewalk in front of our house. The part where I went completely ballistic. The part where I wanted to hurt her, to do something to her, but knowing what trouble I would be in if I hit her. So I fell to my knees and clawed at her feet with my hands. "I hate you!" I screamed, "I hate you!!" She ran away crying.
I've lived with the guilt of that moment since. Over the years it has morphed into shame of a different kind: Cheri was obviously being abused. Once I became a teenager, I understood that. And so was rooted the thought that if I had just told someone, anyone, maybe someone could have saved her. She's never aged in my head. I've gotten older, but she is still a little girl who ran away crying.
I cry every time I think of her. Tears on my keyboard as I type it all out. Two and half decades later.
When I was a teenager I told two people this story, on two separate occasions. The first told me she would, "pray about" my "sexual sin." The other person told me that in comparison to abuses other people have suffered, my experience was "nothing."
Experience plus complete lack of validation equals me; the math that makes up my entire psyche. For better or worse.
I've since told a therapist and, most recently, my mother in law. Both said the same thing: "what happened was not your fault."
Someday I'm going to truly believe those words. I wonder what a difference it will make. Maybe I'll be able to respond to injustice with compassion. Maybe I will learn to see that my experiences don't need validation; I can be a whole, valuable person.
In the meantime, I take up the sword for surrogate causes, because the girl who ran away crying is still running in my head.
Monday, July 24, 2017
X's and O's
I met the ex husband's fiance over the weekend.
My initial thought in the days leading up to this meeting was that I wish life came with a playbook, something to tell me exactly what to feel and how to act in this scenario. For some reason this line of thought brought me back to a memory from my childhood: playing Madden 95 on the Sega.
I remember play calling defense for that game, looking at all the x's and o's in their 4-3, 3-4, Nickel, Dime, and Goal Line formations. I almost always chose Nickel, I have no clue why. I don't think I ever won a single game of Madden 95 against my brothers.
Coincidentally, '95 is the year the ex's fiance was born. I was married to him and having kids when she was turning 13. As Mush pointed out later, "She's not old enough to be E's mom...but I'm old enough to be her father."
Lordy.
It's funny that I was thinking in terms of defense, when the last thing on earth I want to feel is defensive. I've moved on, I'm married, I'm hugely pregnant, and I'm completely happy. I had about two days worth of unspecified anger and anxiety, something along the lines of, "Wait, you disappear across the country, see the kids one time in that whole year, and now you're back and bringing someone with you??" As a mom, it's hard enough to give him visits with them, now I have to worry about someone else? Gah!
When the ex left, I said a prayer that I wouldn't hate him forever. I've seen what hate of that kind can do, how it destroys a person, how it effects children. I've striven to keep the kids out of whatever my feelings for the ex were/are and I'm happy to say that I've been able to, in large part because of Mush, who sees the value in everyone, who believes relationships of all kinds are important, and is teaching me to view the world the same way. Talk about the better half...
They arrived at the house and when I saw her, in all her youth and gorgeousness, I had a completely unexpected emotion: the maternal instinct to tell her to run as far away from the ex as she could possibly get; don't waste years of your life and give up everything for that guy. You deserve better.
I stamped those feelings down pretty quick, because the truth is that I've changed a lot in the last two years, for the better I think. We grow and we change, and I have to believe...I choose to believe that the ex is capable of it too, and already has. Maybe she is for him what Mush is for me: the better half that makes you realize what's truly important.
In my life's playbook, I want all the x's and o's to mean hugs and kisses, good feelings and love. No matter what the scenario, that will always be the best call.
My initial thought in the days leading up to this meeting was that I wish life came with a playbook, something to tell me exactly what to feel and how to act in this scenario. For some reason this line of thought brought me back to a memory from my childhood: playing Madden 95 on the Sega.
I remember play calling defense for that game, looking at all the x's and o's in their 4-3, 3-4, Nickel, Dime, and Goal Line formations. I almost always chose Nickel, I have no clue why. I don't think I ever won a single game of Madden 95 against my brothers.
Coincidentally, '95 is the year the ex's fiance was born. I was married to him and having kids when she was turning 13. As Mush pointed out later, "She's not old enough to be E's mom...but I'm old enough to be her father."
Lordy.
It's funny that I was thinking in terms of defense, when the last thing on earth I want to feel is defensive. I've moved on, I'm married, I'm hugely pregnant, and I'm completely happy. I had about two days worth of unspecified anger and anxiety, something along the lines of, "Wait, you disappear across the country, see the kids one time in that whole year, and now you're back and bringing someone with you??" As a mom, it's hard enough to give him visits with them, now I have to worry about someone else? Gah!
When the ex left, I said a prayer that I wouldn't hate him forever. I've seen what hate of that kind can do, how it destroys a person, how it effects children. I've striven to keep the kids out of whatever my feelings for the ex were/are and I'm happy to say that I've been able to, in large part because of Mush, who sees the value in everyone, who believes relationships of all kinds are important, and is teaching me to view the world the same way. Talk about the better half...
They arrived at the house and when I saw her, in all her youth and gorgeousness, I had a completely unexpected emotion: the maternal instinct to tell her to run as far away from the ex as she could possibly get; don't waste years of your life and give up everything for that guy. You deserve better.
I stamped those feelings down pretty quick, because the truth is that I've changed a lot in the last two years, for the better I think. We grow and we change, and I have to believe...I choose to believe that the ex is capable of it too, and already has. Maybe she is for him what Mush is for me: the better half that makes you realize what's truly important.
In my life's playbook, I want all the x's and o's to mean hugs and kisses, good feelings and love. No matter what the scenario, that will always be the best call.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Whatever Lola Wants
By far, one of my favorite songs.
Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,
And little man, little Lola wants you.
Make up your mind to have no regrets,
Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through.
Occasionally, I substitute the name Lola for anyone I feel is perpetually spoiled, making the song more sardonic than seductive.
A few weekends ago was kid free for Mush and me, and we laid on the chaise lounges listening to classic jazz when the song came on. I told him about substituting names, and it occurred to me as I said it that I should try my own out.
Whatever Katie wants, Katie gets...
It's true. No, seriously. I'm perpetually spoiled, by both physical beings in my sphere and cosmic forces.
Mush has been gone for a few days, and those who know the dynamic of our relationship know that without Mush, we starve. Okay, not really. But after three nights of pancakes in a row, the children are ready for him to come back and cook actual dinner.
Last night his mom asked me (after her husband had made the children dinner and she and I ate out) what on earth I did before Mush came along in the culinary department. I answered, "Well, Shay cooked for me for all of 2015-16..." Shay is the kids cousin. Prior to that, we had many meals at the kids great aunt and uncle's house.
The people who love me, cook for me. But I digress...
I began to think of the things I have desired that have come to fruition from little to no effort on my part.
1) Marrying Mush.
When I heard he was single, I knew he must be mine. But, because I'm me, I also knew I'd probably have to put a lot of work into getting him to actually feel the same way. I was prepared for months of long distance work. To my surprise, all it took was five days of texting philosophy and one night of getting together in person. I didn't even have to show off my cleavage.
2) Moving to Oregon
I've wanted to live in Oregon since I was 18 years old and saw it for the first time. Because of Mush, that desire was also fulfilled.
3) Having a Baby
Mush and I talked about having a baby, but that would have required a reversal of the tubal ligation I got three years ago. It would be expensive.We had decided to table the idea of surgery for a year, and I had begun to say aloud that I wish God would just miraculously give me a baby without me having to have surgery.
I'm due late July/early August.
Boom.
I can't take credit for any of these things. Faith is about the only effort I put into all three. Not that faith is any small thing, but I'm so used to the answer always being "no" when I ask, that I can hardly believe that the answer was finally "yes." And how!
Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,
And little man, little Lola wants you.
Make up your mind to have no regrets,
Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through.
Occasionally, I substitute the name Lola for anyone I feel is perpetually spoiled, making the song more sardonic than seductive.
A few weekends ago was kid free for Mush and me, and we laid on the chaise lounges listening to classic jazz when the song came on. I told him about substituting names, and it occurred to me as I said it that I should try my own out.
Whatever Katie wants, Katie gets...
It's true. No, seriously. I'm perpetually spoiled, by both physical beings in my sphere and cosmic forces.
Mush has been gone for a few days, and those who know the dynamic of our relationship know that without Mush, we starve. Okay, not really. But after three nights of pancakes in a row, the children are ready for him to come back and cook actual dinner.
Last night his mom asked me (after her husband had made the children dinner and she and I ate out) what on earth I did before Mush came along in the culinary department. I answered, "Well, Shay cooked for me for all of 2015-16..." Shay is the kids cousin. Prior to that, we had many meals at the kids great aunt and uncle's house.
The people who love me, cook for me. But I digress...
I began to think of the things I have desired that have come to fruition from little to no effort on my part.
1) Marrying Mush.
When I heard he was single, I knew he must be mine. But, because I'm me, I also knew I'd probably have to put a lot of work into getting him to actually feel the same way. I was prepared for months of long distance work. To my surprise, all it took was five days of texting philosophy and one night of getting together in person. I didn't even have to show off my cleavage.
2) Moving to Oregon
I've wanted to live in Oregon since I was 18 years old and saw it for the first time. Because of Mush, that desire was also fulfilled.
3) Having a Baby
Mush and I talked about having a baby, but that would have required a reversal of the tubal ligation I got three years ago. It would be expensive.We had decided to table the idea of surgery for a year, and I had begun to say aloud that I wish God would just miraculously give me a baby without me having to have surgery.
I'm due late July/early August.
Boom.
I can't take credit for any of these things. Faith is about the only effort I put into all three. Not that faith is any small thing, but I'm so used to the answer always being "no" when I ask, that I can hardly believe that the answer was finally "yes." And how!
Saturday, April 29, 2017
A Place at the Table
"For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted." - Luke 14:11
I'm not humble. I fake it, and only God knows how convincing I am.
Humility is defined as "a modest or low opinion of one's own importance." If any week showed clearly how not humble I am, it was this past week. One of my kids got the stomach flu. I'm not sure where all my motherly nurturing went but I found myself annoyed, not at him, but that I had to be the one to stay home and tend to him while everyone else got on with their lives. I stewed a little, thinking that me going to school is important, but nooooo, me and my goals always come last, blah blah blah. How dare my husband go to work when I have things to do??
Maybe I shouldn't say I fake being humble. It's more like God uses life to force me to be humble. This came in the form of me getting so sick/dehydrated that I had to go to the hospital. Guess who missed school that day? Guess whose husband came to the rescue, though he was sick himself? And whose mother in law played taxi, even though I almost threw up in her car?
I'm not really worthy of the people I associate with.
Enough about me. Now I'd like to talk about my husband.
Mush is quite possibly the most genuinely humble person I know. Genuinely. Mush is not a Christian, but he acts more Christ like than many of the professed believers that I know (this includes myself).
I believe that God's greatest command is to love Him and others. I believe it, but Mush lives it.
Recently, something came up where I felt Mush was being treated very unfair. I railed against the offenders, told Mush he should say something - stand up for himself! He deserves better, and I truly believe that. But rather than follow my rather unloving/vengeful lead, his reply was both humble, and humbling:
"It's ok," he said, "I know my place at the table. I've been there my whole life."
His reply is a reference to a New Testament story, in which Jesus advises that if you're invited to dinner, don't seat yourself at the place of most importance, lest you be humbled by being asked to move. Rather, you should sit in a place of least importance, and let the host elevate you and move you to a better place.
Mush, in my opinion, is deserving of the most respectable place at the proverbial table. He is content to love the others at the table with him, even if they don't deserve the station at which they've seated themselves.
When Mush and I got together, I was thinking that maybe the spiritual journey we would take would be akin to the story of the prodigal son - maybe I could somehow be a reflection of the Light (you know, cause I'm so sweet and loving...) that leads him home to the Father (you know, cause he's so lost and desolate...)
Instead, I see that he's not a prodigal. He's the son that stayed with his father, doing all that he asked, working while others have squandered the handouts they demanded.
The roles are, in fact, reversed. Mush is the reflection of Light. I am the one searching. Mush is the faithful son. I am the prodigal.
I'm not humble. I fake it, and only God knows how convincing I am.
Humility is defined as "a modest or low opinion of one's own importance." If any week showed clearly how not humble I am, it was this past week. One of my kids got the stomach flu. I'm not sure where all my motherly nurturing went but I found myself annoyed, not at him, but that I had to be the one to stay home and tend to him while everyone else got on with their lives. I stewed a little, thinking that me going to school is important, but nooooo, me and my goals always come last, blah blah blah. How dare my husband go to work when I have things to do??
Maybe I shouldn't say I fake being humble. It's more like God uses life to force me to be humble. This came in the form of me getting so sick/dehydrated that I had to go to the hospital. Guess who missed school that day? Guess whose husband came to the rescue, though he was sick himself? And whose mother in law played taxi, even though I almost threw up in her car?
I'm not really worthy of the people I associate with.
Enough about me. Now I'd like to talk about my husband.
Mush is quite possibly the most genuinely humble person I know. Genuinely. Mush is not a Christian, but he acts more Christ like than many of the professed believers that I know (this includes myself).
I believe that God's greatest command is to love Him and others. I believe it, but Mush lives it.
Recently, something came up where I felt Mush was being treated very unfair. I railed against the offenders, told Mush he should say something - stand up for himself! He deserves better, and I truly believe that. But rather than follow my rather unloving/vengeful lead, his reply was both humble, and humbling:
"It's ok," he said, "I know my place at the table. I've been there my whole life."
His reply is a reference to a New Testament story, in which Jesus advises that if you're invited to dinner, don't seat yourself at the place of most importance, lest you be humbled by being asked to move. Rather, you should sit in a place of least importance, and let the host elevate you and move you to a better place.
Mush, in my opinion, is deserving of the most respectable place at the proverbial table. He is content to love the others at the table with him, even if they don't deserve the station at which they've seated themselves.
When Mush and I got together, I was thinking that maybe the spiritual journey we would take would be akin to the story of the prodigal son - maybe I could somehow be a reflection of the Light (you know, cause I'm so sweet and loving...) that leads him home to the Father (you know, cause he's so lost and desolate...)
Instead, I see that he's not a prodigal. He's the son that stayed with his father, doing all that he asked, working while others have squandered the handouts they demanded.
The roles are, in fact, reversed. Mush is the reflection of Light. I am the one searching. Mush is the faithful son. I am the prodigal.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Lies
I've been pondering two things the last few weeks. This is one. The other will follow.
What is the greatest sin, do you think? Smarter people than me have debated this. I've heard various arguments over the years for it being suicide, apostasy, murder, adultery, etc.
Last night, I decided that, for me, the greatest sin is to lie.
One of the first stories in the Bible is the Fall of Man (original sin), when Adam and Eve succumbed to the temptation of the serpent (the Devil) and brought sin into the world with an act of disobedience: eating from the one tree in the Garden of Eden that God said not to eat from. (Seriously, you had one job...)
In Genesis 3, the serpent asks Eve if God really said that they couldn't eat from the tree? Eve replies that God said if they ate from the tree, they would die. The serpent tells Eve, "No, you will not die, but instead you will be like God, knowing good and evil."
The last part of the statement was true. But the first part, the crucial part about not dying? That was a lie. Instead of living in paradise as immortals, Adam and Eve were banished from the garden and suddenly had an end date to the comparative misery they would suffer. Welcome to earth, people.
Eternal damnation because of a lie.
Lies hurt, because eventually the truth is always going to come out, even if you are very skilled at falsehoods. Lies are one of the ultimate forms of disrespect. You don't respect my trust when you lie. You don't respect my intelligence when you lie. You don't respect my love when you lie to me.
Bottom line, you don't respect me.
But you obviously don't respect yourself either. And a person without self respect is a dangerous person, because they will have no shame in committing any offense against themselves or against others.
Self respect is defined as, "Having pride in oneself; a feeling that one is behaving with honor and dignity."
The positions one puts themselves and others in by lying is the complete opposite of dignity and honor. The opposite of honor? Disgrace. Baseness. Insult. DISRESPECT. When you lie, you debase yourself as much as the people you are lying to.
Lies are dangerous. The longer you tell them, the less credibility you have until you're in a hole full of your own bullshit that's so deep, you won't ever be able to dig yourself out of it. You'll call for help, and no one will hear you.
Well, no, that's not true. They'll hear you. They just won't believe you.
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