Tag: life

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Do I get a diploma now?

Today I have been married for four years. Or, as I like to say, I’ve put in enough time to have earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Marriage to Jon O. I’m thinking it’s a BA, because marriage is more an art than a science- what works for us may not work for anyone else, but 4 years in, I pretty well know what works for us.  I guess I’m now working on my Master’s, and I’m planning to go for a Ph.D. After that, I guess I’ll have to find a new metaphor!

I’ve been thinking about weddings a lot this week.  Last Saturday, I went to the wedding of a dear friend, a friend who had been a bridesmaid in my wedding.  It was a lovely, joyous occasion, and being there, I have to say the ceremony was just SO HER, so true to who my friend is as an exuberant, whimsical, beautiful, and loving person. I got teared up as they said their vows, and I grinned with true, shared joy as they walked down the aisle as husband and wife to the music of “All You Need Is Love” complete with live marimba, trombone, piano, and violin accompaniment.  Later, I told my husband that I think I need to arrange to go to a wedding the week of our anniversary every year, because they remind me what a special joy it is to be married.

Then, a few days ago, I tweeted something about my disgust at Chelsea Clinton’s wedding costing over $4 million.  Many of my “tweeps” joined in my disgust, and a few shared how they managed to pull off astonishingly cheap weddings.  Like, less than $50, cheap.  I like to think I had a pretty inexpensive wedding, but the truth is, our event probably cost our families around the national average when all was said and done. I’d like to see a poll of my tweeps’ wedding costs when controlled for an average ceremony and reception, because those who eloped were really throwing off the curve. And of course, all the cheap wedding talk led to someone wondering if she was a bad person because she had a more expensive wedding.  To which I say: of course not.  If you’ve got the money to spend and a vision to execute, more power to ya, enjoy your day. I certainly did. (And I’m not really as grossed out by Chelsea Clinton’s $4 million wedding now that I’ve been reminded that she’s throwing a shindig that will be attended by dignitaries and heads of state accustomed to a certain standard of accommodation.)

While I’m well aware that people in this country all too often focus on the wedding instead of the marriage, looking back at my wedding, I think it well-represented who we are as a couple, both then and now. I thought I’d share a few aspects.

In my life, I’ve been blessed with a wonderful family and a wonderful church family, all of whom had a hand in raising me, and all of whom share credit for the person I’ve become.  To grow up in a strong church family is a huge blessing, and everyone at Westminster Presbyterian Church really came together to make my special day a true “family” affair. We were married in the church I grew up in, and my church family had a hand in every aspect of our wedding.  As a small example, when, at the last minute, we realized the bouquets and boutonnieres had not arrived for the ceremony (long story, maybe I’ll tell you sometime), a woman of the church hurried into the reception hall, gathered up any extra flowers she could get her hands on, and stuck stems in the pockets of all the groomsmen.  She tied ribbons around white chrysanthemums for all the bridesmaids, and she quickly fashioned a bouquet for me.  While they weren’t the hand-tied mini white calla lilies I had envisioned, I had flowers in my hands and a smile on my face when I went down the aisle, and no one knew they weren’t the flowers I had planned on.  I had no time to worry, and no need to, because I was surrounded by people who loved us and who were taking care of us. I know that those people surround and care for us to this day.

Another thing that was very important to us was that our wedding be first and foremost a service of worship for the God who taught us to love and brought us together and blessed us so richly.  Led by a dear friend and Jon’s sister, we sang both modern praise and worship songs (more Jon’s style) and favorite hymns (more mine).  We were even beautifully serenaded by Jon’s best friend and best man, who sang “Ave Maria.”  After the wedding, several friends and even our wedding photographer remarked on the genuine and joyful faith they had seen on display both in the ceremony and over the weekend with our families. I’m pretty sure our photographer was introduced to Jesus for the first time at our wedding!

Jon and I met while working as counselors at a Presbyterian summer camp, so it was only right that the camp director performed our wedding.  Knowing David, who has a penchant for preaching parables entirely in alliteration, I knew we’d get a very unique message on our special day, and he did not disappoint.  He centered his message on lessons from camp that apply to marriage.  Here’s part of what he said:

(1) Feed the Untraditional. If there is any adjective we can all agree on to describe Jesus, it is that he was “untraditional.” He did things differently. He shattered traditions. He said things in new ways. I think this is what makes camp so powerful. The same message, but shared in a new context with a different vocabulary and lived out in community. I encourage you to finds ways to keep your faith and marriage fresh. Look for new wineskins. Hold fast to your faith, but don’t mistake the packaging for the real thing. Jesus had harsh words for the traditionalists. Those he hung with were the marginalized. Keep your faith untraditional and fresh.
(2) Find some wilderness places. Ask a camper what their favorite part of camp was and you’ll get a variety of answers, swimming, games, camping out, capture the flag, but ask a counselor, and one response dominates. They like FOB. Flat On Bunk, that time after lunch when you go back to the cabin for rest time. It is time to recharge and renew. Marriages need FOB as well. We may not get it after lunch each day, but we need to find it somewhere. Jesus had only three years of ministry to share the Good News and change the world, yet we constantly find him sneaking away for time away to reflect and renew; to step back and refocus; to be intentional about his relationship with God and listen for direction.
You two face busy times ahead. School, marriage, and real life are coming at you. Times of stress and times when the demands of the world seem to press in from all sides. Jesus always got away to wilderness and natural places….mountain tops, sea shores, desserts, and gardens. Find the time and places that help you stay grounded and well-rounded. Take FOB time to cultivate your relationship with each other and your relationship with your Creator.
(3) Finally, Form Your Own Family Group. One of the things about camp that makes it so impacting is that we form family groups and for that week of camp they share meals, activities, worship. They live together 24 hours a day in community so they see each other as they really are. Each person has to give of themselves to make it work. In a way it is a microcosm of life and of marriage. You are forming your own family group and God will now see you as one unit. You are giving each other the greatest gift possible – yourself – even as Christ gave himself for the church. It is the marriage relationship that Scripture chooses to use as its model for the relationship between Jesus and the church. With God’s help you can model the relationship. You will have challenges, but God promises to be with you through it all, just as you today make public your commitment to be with each other through it all.

Enjoy the gift of life. And enjoy the gift of each other. And don’t forget to have fun along the way. Roast a marshmallow or two and have a s’more. And remember, you have this huge community of friends and family here to root you on, to encourage and support you.

Four years later, I can say that his advice was right on. I’m even rather amused now at how apt it was. We are all about “untraditional.” On our wedding day, we spent our time before the ceremony smooching in the hallway, tradition of not seeing each other be damned. At the end of the ceremony, we were introduced as “Jon and Sarah [Lastname], husband and wife” because I absolutely despise the traditional erasing of female identity in announcing them as “Mr. and Mrs. Jon [Lastname].” And to this day, we strive not to fall back on traditional roles in our marriage, but to be who we are, completely and honestly, supporting and encouraging each other and playing to our strengths.

We are also all about FOB time. Through the rigors of residency and the trials of life, our time to relax and recharge together has been fought for fiercely and guarded closely. At the wedding last weekend, one of the bridesmaids, upon learning I was about to celebrate four years of marriage, asked me “Four good years? Was it easy?” I thought for a minute and replied: “Life has sometimes been very hard, but the marriage has been easy.” I know this might not always be the case, that sometimes marriage itself might get hard, but over the past four years, our marriage has been our sanctuary in a life that has sometimes been tumultuous.

And we have, over the past four years, been knit together as a family, one unit. While moving halfway across the country from everyone you know and love is a stressful and hard thing, it was also an immense blessing for us as a newlywed couple. We have been forced to forge together and rely on each other when we had no one else to rely on. We know we that no matter what comes our way, we’re in it together.

I am so happy to look back at how far we’ve come in our marriage over the past four years.  And I’m impressed with how perfectly our ceremony foretold our life together.  Now, I’m off to give Jon the gift I made for him. I promise to tell you all about that tomorrow!

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eating, praying, and loving myself

One of the new and exciting developments in my new life in Little Rock is that I’ve joined a book club.  I’ve wanted to join a book club for years, and I’m so excited to have finally found one.  As I discovered taking my free grad classes in English while working at The College, I believe sitting around talking about books is one of my most favorite activities in all the world.

The first book I’m reading with this book club is Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  To be honest, I did not expect to like this book.  I’m not even really sure why, because, as you can tell by the subject matter I most often write about, Eating and Prayer (or God) are two of my favorite things to think about, talk about, and write about.  I think I maybe expected Elizabeth Gilbert to be more insufferable? I mean, someone who gets paid an advance to travel around the world eating amazing food in Italy and studying Yoga in India has to be a little insufferable, right?

But, just like my discovery with Julie and Julia, namely, that I AM Julie, I’m finding I really identify with Elizabeth Gilbert.  I feel like her neuroses are my neuroses, like her passions are my passions, like her search is my search.  And then I got to Chapter 64, and I literally read the whole thing out loud to Jon, asking him if, perhaps, it sounded familiar to him.

Gilbert, like many writers, is a talker.  And at this point in the story, several weeks into her time studying Yoga at an Ashram in India, she’s decided that maybe she should try to be That Quiet Girl, because obviously, the truly spiritual and devout are the mystically silent types.

Oh boy, oh boy, have I been here.  In the beginning of my time in Charleston, I found myself part of a Christian Bible study group made up of women married to doctors and residents and medical students.  And, with a few exceptions, I did NOT fit in with these women.  For one thing, they were all a good 5 years older than I, and most were stay-at-home moms with multiple children whom they often got together for play-groups.  Even if I hadn’t had a day-job, what was I going to do, bring my dog and have her lick their children in the face?  How was I ever going to make it to their book club on weekday afternoons, either?

For another, they were Good Christian Wives of the Proverbs 31 Woman variety.  I, on the other hand, am clearly a crazed Feminist harpy who must, to their minds, make her man miserable.  I remember quite vividly one exchange, in which another member of the group confessed that her husband had taken to making strange statements like, “You know, WE should really clean these floors” or “You know, WE should really clean up the kitchen.”  This young wife was worried about these statements, and unsure of what to do.  The general consensus from the rest of the group was that, obviously, she should clean the floors and tidy up the kitchen, because these things were bothering her husband, and she should serve him by taking care of these things.  My response? “Have you asked him what he means when he says these things? Does he know where you keep the broom? Did you hide the cleaning supplies? This all sounds awfully passive aggressive of him and you should tell him so! If the floor really bugs him, maybe he should clean it!” They looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head.  Apparently, my usual approach of asking my husband what he means when he says strange things and then sharing with him how those things make me feel is considered un-Proverbs-31 or something.

I’m not even sure what it was that caused me to leave Bible Study in tears another night and come home and sob to Jon about how maybe I was just the wrong kind of person for that group.  I’m pretty sure it had something to do with another member of the group riding me really hard about wanting to reschedule an event when I’d just lost my job that week.  But I did, I came home and sobbed and told Jon how I felt like none of these women liked me, and how I felt like I couldn’t be myself around them, and how I felt like I was constantly judged.  I asked him if he thought I needed to be some sort of Good Christian Wife.  He hugged me and held me and assured me that I am loved for who I am, and that he’d really be upset if I turned into some sort of subservient wifebot.

Later, I confessed to a fellow member of the group that I was thinking of leaving the group because I just didn’t fit in.  She invited me over to her house for lunch.  Little did I know that this lunch was a pretext for giving me a speech about how Jesus wanted to make me a quieter, gentler, meeker, more wifely sort of person.  Basically, she thought Jesus wanted to give me a lobotomy.  I’m pretty sure I was quiet and meek that day, but it’s because I was stunned into silence.  Here I was hoping this woman had invited me over to let me know I am liked for who I am, and she basically tells me I need to completely change my personality in order to really be a Christian.  I didn’t go back to the group after that.

So, back to Elizabeth Gilbert in India—she’s decided that she needs to try to become That Quiet Girl, but on the very day she makes this decision, she receives a new assignment at her Ashram to be a kind of hostess for visiting groups, a job that actually requires her to be a regular Chatty Cathy.  In fact, she realizes, her personality is basically required for this job.  Gilbert writes:

“If there is one holy truth of this Yoga [it is that] God dwells within you as you yourself, exactly the way you are.  God isn’t interested in watching you enact some performance of personality in order to comply with some crackpot notion you have about how a spiritual person behaves.  We all seem to get this idea that, in order to be sacred, we have to make some massive, dramatic change of character, that we have to renounce our individuality…To know God, you need only to renounce one thing—your sense of division from God.  Otherwise, just stay as you were made, within your natural character.” (192)

Yes! My personality is not some sort of flaw. Neither is yours!  God, if God’s creation is any indication, is a fan of variety.  I can only imagine that there are so many species of birds and plants and animals and even varieties of people because our creative God delighted in creating them.  God desires an intimate relationship with ME, as I was made to be, not as I imagine God might like me better, because the truth is, God couldn’t love me any deeper.  And rather than break my back (and my heart) trying to conform to some narrow idea of what a godly woman looks like, I should instead look for ways my unique traits can be used in the service and blessing of others and the world, just like Gilbert found a role as a hostess at the Ashram.

Still, Gilbert does point out that there are ways to grow into a better, more spiritual person while still being accepting of who she was created to be.  Part of it rang especially true to me:

“Or here’s a radical concept—maybe I can stop interrupting others when they are speaking.  Because no matter how creatively I try to look at my habit of interrupting, I can’t find another way to see it than this: ‘I believe that what I am saying is more important than what you are saying.’ And I can’t find another way to see that than: ‘I believe that I am more important than you.’ And that must end.” (193)

Not interrupting others is something I’ve been working on for a while.  It’s something I’ll likely be working on for a long while to come.  It’s a way I can hone the shape of me while still respecting the basic outlines of my design.  It’s like sanding my rougher edges without obliterating the sculpture altogether, because I’m a work of divine art.

I look forward to finishing Gilbert’s book, and I can’t wait to discuss it in book club next week.  Here’s hoping they like me the way I am.  I’ll do my best not to interrupt anyone during the discussion.

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packing and panicking and other fun times

Image "To Go", a Creative Commons Attribution (2.0) image from mojodenbowsphotostudio's photostream

Yesterday I packed the first of what will surely be many boxes in anticipation of moving in two weeks.  And yesterday evening, I sat on the couch, sobbing into my husband’s chest.  He asked me why I was so sad about moving, and I couldn’t even put it into words.  Still can’t.  All I can muster is, “It’s just SO HARD.”  Yes, I’m scared about what is going to happen to us financially if we can’t sell our house here.  Yes, I’m scared about finding a job in Little Rock.  And yes, I’m looking forward to meeting all the people in Little Rock that I’ve already befriended online, and I’m looking forward to reconnecting with old friends, and I’m looking forward to spending time with my family, so you’d think I’d be overjoyed.  But I’m not.  At least not yet.  So for now, I’m packing boxes, and tallying up lasts– last Monday morning drive to work, last trip to the beach, last visits to our favorite restaurants–and I’m piling up Kleenex, and I’m stacking up worries.  If you notice I’m quiet around here, or otherwise, please send up a little prayer or some positive vibes for me, as these next two weeks are sure to be very, very hard.

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Sarah & Julie & Julia

Julia and me at the exhibit of her kitchen at the Smithsonian.

I’ve seen “Julie & Julia” three times now, having watched it yesterday for the third time.  And I’ll probably see it again. It might be my new favorite movie, right up there with “Elf,” “Zoolander,” “10 Things I Hate About You,” and “Center Stage” in terms of films I watch over and over (my taste, as you can see, is nothing but the highest quality in films).

At first I thought I liked the film because of Julia.  I mean, Meryl Streep is freakin’ fabulous as Julia Child, and really, Julia Child was just amazing. I said the first time I saw the film that I’d have rather just watched Julia, and had the Julie part left out altogether.  Amy Adams is a lovely actress, but her Julie just didn’t stand a chance next to Meryl’s Julia. Julia is/was vibrant and vivacious and in love with her husband and with life. I’d happily watch a whole movie of Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci grabbing each other’s butts and holding hands and making out and making jokes about cannolini being “hot as a stiff cock.”

Julie, on the other hand, drove me a little insane.  She was whiny and petty and mopey. She was selfish, snippy with her husband, and given to throwing lying-in-the-floor tantrums when things weren’t going so well in the kitchen, even though she was cooking for fun, as a hobby, and no one was freaking making her do it. I found myself annoyed by her the entire time I was watching the movie for the first time, and for most of my second viewing as well.

But yesterday, while watching the film for the third time, I had a revelation.  One thing I managed to pick up from all the Jungian psychology I learned as a lit major is that usually, the things we most hate in the Other are things we hate in ourselves.

Basically, I am Julie.

Like Julie, I’ve had to move and will move again because of my husband’s more prestigious job.  Like Julie, I’m a writer, but I’m not really a writer, not in the sense of getting paid to write things, and instead, like Julie, I work in a bureaucratic job that I don’t really love most of the time.  Like Julie, I feel that most of my friends are more successful than I am.  Like Julie, I feel I could be a magazine cover girl for a piece on failing to live up to one’s college potential.  Like Julie, I lack a best girl friend to confide in.  Like Julie, my hobbies include blogging and cooking. Like Julie, my husband encourages my hobbies and reminds me that I am too a writer and a good one at that (seriously, he even reads my academic papers, even though I’m sure they’re about as comprehensible to him as his medical journals are to me).

And that’s just the superficial stuff.  I even realized, while watching the scene where she drops a chicken on the floor and lays down and cries, a scene that annoyed me the first two times I saw it, I have done almost that exact same thing.  I can’t remember what I was cooking except that I burned it badly, and as I flipped out and opened windows and banged things around and generally acted like a toddler, my charming doctor husband informed me: “YOU ARE JUST LIKE THE HOSPITAL!” This was shocking, as it made no sense to me.  How was I just like a children’s hospital? He then explained that the hospital where he works has an ICU and a normal floor, but no “step down floor.” That is, there’s no level between “oh my God, things are serious and someone might die” and “things are probably going to be fine, everything’s routine, no need to worry.”  He was trying to tell me that I lack a level between HYSTERICAL HISSY FIT and lalala nothing to see here. Like Julie.

Maybe like Julie I’ll end up a bestselling author. Maybe I won’t.  But from now on, when I watch “Julie & Julia,” (and yes, I’ll probably be watching it again) I’ll be a little kinder and less judgmental of Julie. Because the things that bug me about her are things that bug me about me. And we’re both just doing the best we can.

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a little black raincloud, and her silver lining

Image via Flickr user kevindooley under a Creative Commons license.

One of the things I like best about my husband is that he sees the best in people. He looks for the bright side. He points out the silver lining.  He doesn’t question motives. He gives the benefit of the doubt.  This is probably how he is able to tolerate and even find attractive my sometimes somewhat stormy personality, and I’m grateful for it.  I can spill the glass of milk and then cry over it, and he’ll still tell me it’s half full.

I need this in my life.  Probably particularly when I’m being cynical and complainy and bitching about exactly how I feel about someone, which is, unfortunately, more often than not, though I’m trying to work on my judgy judgerson ways.  So, while I may wish that he would occasionally just agree with me that someone SUCKS AT LIFE, I’m glad he doesn’t.  Now if you’ll excuse me, this little black rain cloud is off to hover under a honey tree.

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retrospective

Today’s the last day of the year, and for about a week, retrospectives of the year and the decade have been filling my Google Reader with bests and worsts of, lists, and general nostalgia.  While I maintain that we still have a year to go in the decade before we can wrap it all up and tie it with a bow (think about it, there was no year 0 A.D.), I see the argument that we don’t consider 1990 part of the 80s, so I guess I’ll let it slide.

I thought of writing a decade retrospective of my own, but remembered that ten years ago I was only 15, so what the hell do I know. Still, it’s good to look at where we’ve been before thinking of where we’re headed.

On the New Year’s Eve that was known as Y2K, my mom made my sister and me stay home, because she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. We didn’t stockpile food or firearms or anything weird like that, but we did stay at home and play Monopoly, because Lord knows what the crazies were going to be up to that night.  Lo and behold, our computer, a behemoth Gateway that came in one of those dang ol’ cow boxes, didn’t up and explode at the stroke of midnight, and the world kept on spinning.

Then it felt like it stopped for a bit about a year later, on 9/11, when I watched the Towers fall live in U.S. History class.

I turned 16 a few months later, although it wasn’t much of a milestone, since I was freaked out at the thought of driving and didn’t get my license until a year later.

I turned 18. I graduated from high school.  I got a job at a summer camp and met the love of my life.

I went off to Lyon College.  I met some of the best friends I’ll ever have.  I learned how to drink.  I voted in my first presidential election, for John Kerry, and got into a huge fight with Jon when I found out that not only had he voted for Bush, he thought it “didn’t really matter anyway.” It was the only time he’s ever hung up on me.

My parents adopted a foster child, now my youngest sister.  She has Autism. I was so proud of my parents, and so impressed with the progress she made from the minute she arrived in our home.

Hurricane Katrina decimated the coast.  We watched in horror as people not that far from us lost everything.  Many refugees ended up in Arkansas.  Some of them ended up in our classrooms.

On the way to Thanksgiving dinner at my Meme and Papa’s, I hydroplaned and Jon and I ended up in a ditch.  The airbag kicked my ass, and after an ambulance ride and a lot of pain and a lot of meds, we discovered that I had fractured three vertebrae. I learned that I have an extra vertebrae. I became 1/4″ shorter on my left side. I discovered that my fear of needles is so severe I’ll refuse a pain shot, even with a broken back.  I realized Jon was the man I wanted to marry when he was the one who took care of me after the wreck.

Jon and I got engaged.

I lost my grandfather, and with him, for a time, my faith.

Jon and I got married.

I found my way back to faith.

We found out Jon had matched in Charleston, SC for a residency in pediatrics.

I graduated from college, and Jon graduated from medical school.  I finally got to go to England, though I missed getting to go to Jon’s graduation.

We bought our first house, moved over 1,000 miles from everyone we loved, and started the three hardest years of our lives.  We got our first dog, Bessie.  I got my first post-college job and learned what it means to live below expectations, learned creative ways to avoid saying “I’m just a secretary,” wondered why I don’t know what the heck to do with myself, a BA in English and Political Science, and my life.

We spent as much time as possible at the beach.  We made new friends.  We found new rhythms.  We made a new life in a new place.  We ate a lot of real seafood.

I lost my job when the economy crashed.  I spent time in the unemployment office. I discovered just how measly unemployment benefits really are.  I realized how fortunate I was to be able to get health insurance through my husband’s job.  I became even more passionate about causes I believe in. I volunteered for the Obama campaign. We both voted for him.  I cried as election results came in– Jon was post-call, so he was sleeping on the couch next to me.

We got a second dog, Olive.

I got a new job, almost exactly a year ago, at a college.  I started taking graduate English classes and finally felt smart again, had something to be good at.

I stood in a freezing cold Marion Square to watch the inauguration with other Charlestonians.  I cried again.

We became passionate about more sustainable food and discovered the emerging church movement.

We found out Jon had matched in Little Rock, AR, for a fellowship in pediatric emergency medicine.

We started wondering what our next decade will hold.

So. I guess you could say that the biggest takeaway for me in the last decade is that I grew up.  I found love, I found grief, I lost and found my faith, I found strength, I found independence and dependence, I found myself.  I look forward to the next 10 years.

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date night?

Does taking a walk count as a "date night," or does it count only if you're holding hands?

If there’s one thing that confuses me about the whole discourse of modern marrieds, it’s “date night.”  Particularly in churches, it seems couples are encouraged to have a regular date night, to continue dating their spouse.  And the more I think about it, the more confused I get.

Like, what counts as a date? If we regularly go out to eat, does that count as a date every time? Or only if we plan it in advance? Or only if it’s the kind of place with real table cloths? What about cooking a meal together? Does that count as a date?  Do you have to go to a movie, or would renting a movie count as a date? I would have considered renting a movie a date back when Jon and I were dating, but is it no longer a date if we live together?  Or taking a walk– we liked to take walks when we were dating, so is it a date when we walk the dogs together? Is it only a date if we’re holding hands while we walk?

Come to think of it, pondering what a married date night looks like makes me think of nothing so much as a brochure my friends and I received and mocked in college: 101 Ways to Make Love Without Doing It. If those things count as dates, Jon and I have had 31 dates (at least, this doesn’t include repeats of the same activity) in the past month.  Really, though, I’m not clear on what delineates a “date night” from “sharing life together” and couldn’t tell ya the last “date” we had. Because really, we’re married. We’re not dating anymore. Thank God.

Though I must say, sipping spiked Russian Tea while snuggling on the couch wearing PJs and listening to music in the glow of the Christmas tree, which we did last night, is a darn good date, though I’m not sure it would count towards the mysterious but apparently all important “date night.”

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getting the thankfulness started

i'd be really REALLY thankful if we got more hammock time...

It was not so many Thanksgivings ago that I told my (biological for those who know both of the women who have mothered me) mother that I never wanted to see her again, and then basically didn’t for several years.  I was in junior high at the time. Not to get into the whole long story, but we had hurt and been hurt by each other, had misunderstood each other, and basically ceased to have a relationship after years of hurt and misunderstanding.  And it seemed that as years went by, hurt and misunderstanding piled upon hurt and misunderstanding, and even talking on the phone became difficult.  At the same time I felt guilty and somehow defective for not being able to have a functional relationship with my own mother, but the guilt just made the hurt and misunderstanding even harder to deal with.  Others who attempted to help heal this broken relationship just added to the burden of guilt and pain, making me feel even more defective.

Tonight my mother is coming to visit me for Thanksgiving.  It will be the first Thanksgiving we have spent together since that horrible Thanksgiving years ago.  I’m actually really looking forward to it.

What changed between then and now?

Jon.

This Thanksgiving, I have to say, I am so thankful for him.  It is thanks to Jon that I have a relationship with my mother today, one in which we can email and talk on the phone and visit and just know and be with each other in a way I couldn’t have imagined not so many years ago.  Rather than making me feel guilty for my broken relationship with my mother, Jon patiently and gently pointed out that while I didn’t have to reconcile, didn’t have to force forgiveness I didn’t feel, I did have to let go of anger and bitterness and hurt, because those things were weighing me down and making me a bitter and unhappy person.  And because I never felt anything but accepted and loved by him, I felt free to let go of those feelings that were holding me back and keeping me from really being myself.  And I also felt comfortable enough to see a counselor and work through my own issues.  And eventually, I felt free enough to forgive. And forgiveness led to reconciliation, and reconciliation to renewed relationship.

How many people can honestly say their partner makes them a better person, helps them have better relationships with others, and shows them what grace and freedom really look like? I can. And this Thanksgiving, I’m so thankful for him.

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it’s outta my hands

This is sort of how I imagine the computer that does the match. Image via Flickr user Lori and the Bell Jar.

At some point in toddlerhood, it eventually hits all of us, the “I can do it by myself!”  And from that point on, to be human is to want to be in charge of ourselves.  You’re not the boss of me! I choose my choice! I’m in charge!

Lately, though, I find myself feeling like a toddler, trying to DO IT BY MYSELF, and this thing called life keeps reminding me that I’m not always the boss of me, I don’t always get to choose my choice.  Boy oh boy does the medical education system that owns our lives right now make that clear.  You see, in three weeks, Jon will get an email that will suddenly reveal what we’ll be doing with our lives for the next three years. And it’s more than driving me nuts. Continue reading “it’s outta my hands”

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maybe NOT baby…

Image via BL1961s Flickr.
Image via BL1961's Flickr.

So it’s been about a week or two since I wrote my “Maybe Baby” post about starting to think about having kids.  Today I picked up the September issue of Skirt! magazine and read a piece by Valerie Weaver-Zercher, and now I’m pretty sure having kids, while still definitely something that will happen some day, is back in the not SO soon pile.  The piece, called “Mentor or Mom” is about Weaver-Zercher’s experience as a mother of 3 who has a lot of 20 year old college girls in her life.  She sees herself in them, and she seems to have a fantasy about shattering their illusions of what their lives will be.  She imagines:

I pull the college women aside, fix them with a steady gaze and whisper in a conspiratorial voice: I was once like you.  I baked bread in Germany and walked through streams in Nicaragua.  I worked for a magazine and had a company credit card and wrote editorials that shocked people.  I got married to a man willing to clean bathrooms and we lived in a city and walked to market and protested the death penalty.
And then I had a baby. Here I pause, then raise my eyebrows.
And two years later, another. Another significant pause.
And two years later, yet another.
I stop for awhile, until they think I’ve made my point and begin to sidle away. Then I begin again: Each child is like an earthquake that hurls your identity off the shelf, I say. You will spend years picking yourself off the floor, along with everyone else’s socks and Play-Doh. You will no longer know who really wins: the one who goes to the office all day, or the one who stays home with the kids. You will feel guilty about each choice that takes you away from your children, and resentful of each choice that takes you away from your calling. And here I grab them by their scrawny elbows and bring it home: And you will never, ever judge a housewife again!

Yikes! I may not be a college woman, but that’s enough to send me heading for the hills, or at least the birth control pills. But Weaver-Zercher continues:

Young women don’t need phony assurances about how easy it is to be both a mother and an individual, to maintain both a family and a career, to win in both the office and the house. Such platitudes can only lead to disillusionment and anger– unless the next decade brings about sane maternity leaves, affordable childcare, universal health insurance, and family-friendly work environments. (I’m not holding my breath.) Or maybe, if they have children, they and their partners will find better ways to navigate these days of early parenthood– some way to change the world, change gendered patterns and still change diapers. I’ll be the first to cheer them on (provided I’m not too jealous).

On the other hand, maybe some college women will end up like me: bewildered, exhausted, not sure whether they’ve won or not, or whether they even trust the society that’s keeping the score. Indeed, maybe college women need me a little bit like I need them: as a prompt to reexamine how we calibrate wins and losses, and as a reminder that when it comes to motherhood and work, winning and losing are categories that no longer make an iota of sense.

I hope to be one of the ones to change gendered patterns and still change diapers. To read bedtime stories but still find the time to write for myself. But then I read things like this and wonder if I’m not just a hopelessly naive no-longer-in-college woman.