Meaning What You Say

I've never been one to say exactly what was on my mind.

I've always wanted to be that way. I know people like that, and I've always assumed that their lives were somehow less complicated because they didn't hold onto the regret that sometimes accompanies biting one's tongue.

But, instead, it has always been my nature to smile and keep my thoughts to myself where they could inflict no harm.

Of course, there are occasions that required a response, or situations where remaining silent would have negative consequences--for me or someone I love. And in those instances I do not hesitate to speak up. But those situations aren't the norm.

Having kids has made me a bit more vocal, for their sakes if nothing else. And I've always thought getting older would make me care less who I offended. But that's not really true.

I spoke up today about something nagging and irritating, something I would have easily dismissed with that smile and bite of the tongue ten years ago.  It wasn't a major injustice or wrong; but it was a personal injustice, one that spoke against my character and made me feel belittled and unappreciated. And no one should be made to feel that way.

So I stood up for myself.

At the time, it felt good to be brave. I was overcome with a heady confidence. It was the first step toward being the new less-accommodating, more-outspoken me.

Those feelings lasted a short while before the unfounded guilt set in. Oddly, though I was in the right, because the other party never accepted fault, my triumph was somehow significantly diminished.

It was never about being right and proving the others wrong; but I guess I hoped that, by standing up and speaking my mind, I might earn a well-deserved apology... or, at the very least, acknowledgment that I had stepped far beyond my comfort zone and the gamble paid off.

In the end, I didn't get any of that. And here I am, still worried about how what I said affected the other party when I'm sure I am the last person on that individual's mind right now.

At least I meant what I said; I will stand firmly by it.

And maybe one day this speaking my mind business will get easier - if only I can accept that my attempts to be true to myself won't always be met by truth from others.

That Moment... Straight out of a Movie

My oldest gives the greatest morning hugs.

my bug, feeling much better

I think she learned to hug from her Uncle Mike, whose hugs are so heartfelt and so meaningful, I never knew what I was missing in a hug until I experienced one of his. His hugs are seriously one of my favorite parts about visiting Ohio.

My oldest inherited his ability to put every emotion she's feeling right at that moment into her hug. She wraps her arms around my neck, wraps her legs around my waist, and hugs with all her might. And I hope that never changes.

That hug is usually what greets me when she gets up in the mornings. Usually.

But yesterday morning, when my alarm went off an hour before the girls regularly get up, I didn't get up with it. The baby is teething, which has disrupted both her and my sleep schedule. And, as my phone buzzed to remind me it was time to start my day, I thought... just ten or so more minutes won't hurt anything.

I was holding the baby in the crook of my left arm, and, with the sound of my alarm, Aleigh snuggled over into my right. It was a great place to be for just a few more minutes of sleep.  

I am not sure if I fell back asleep or was just in that state between wake and sleep where one is semi-aware of sounds, but it couldn't have been ten minutes and I heard the dog hacking. This is normal, of course. Our golden retriever hacks every other day, usually in the early morning hours. Since her toddler months, she has eaten undigestible plastics, grass/weeds, underwear. This is just what Chloe does.

But, yesterday morning, the sound was too close for comfort. She was somewhere very near me about to throw up. 

And, then, I felt something no one wants to feel in the wee hours of the morning when I haven't even had any coffee yet, when both my arms are occupied with little ones, when I'm the only adult in the house. I felt a splatter.

It was a splatter like you've probably seen numerous times before... when, after painting and cleaning the brush, you shake it to remove the water. Large droplets fall to the ground. Or, in this case, across mine and the baby's faces. 

It only took me a second to realize it wasn't Chloe who was hacking. For, just to my right, Aleigh was on her knees, her little lips pressed tightly together... the source of the sputtering splatter.

"Can you get to the bathroom, baby?" I asked her, my supermommy resilience helping me forget I had throw up splattered in large blobs across my face (as did the baby, who remained peacefully snoozing). 

"I need you to carry m--" was all she got out before what she'd been trying to hold back arrived with force, right into my extended hand. 

In hindsight, this moment made me think of Parenthood and the scene where Steve Martin's character asks his daughter, "Do you feel like you want to throw up?"And she quickly replies, "okay," and then pukes. 

That's one of those scenes kids and adults alike quote for weeks, months, even years after seeing the film because it is funny.

But I wasn't in that mindset when it happened. A number of questions went through my head... many of which are humorous now, though they were very serious at the time: 

Why couldn't this happen on a Saturday when I had an extra set of hands to help? What did the child eat that, in this dim light, makes it look like she's vomiting blood? Ohmygosh... is that blood? What am I going to do with the sleeping, puked on baby and the fistful of sickness in my other hand? Will this come of out of my sheets? And, perhaps most importantly, how am I going to get out of bed without some help?

I'm still not sure what she ate or why throw up happens on Thursdays, not Saturdays. Thank goodness, there was no blood involved. Little Abree, who probably would have woke long before I wanted her to any other day, was a little irritated her sleep was interrupted as I rolled awkwardly to sitting position. It wasn't easy and the sheets probably suffered the most through the entire ordeal, but I made it out of bed without any assistance... yet another supermommy feat. And, yes, the sheets did come clean.

And, after the throw up was all washed away and the sheets were spinning in the washer, after both my sweets had early morning baths and I at least washed my face, I eventually got my hug. 

It was big and powerful, like usual, and said perhaps everything she wanted to say about our eventful morning, even if she wasn't sure how to say it.

Thank a Veteran and Exercise Your Right Tomorrow

My brother-in-law and I had an interesting conversation via Facebook today. He made a post about a professor of his who rather flippantly disregarded this coming Monday’s holiday. First, she couldn’t remember why they weren’t having class… some holiday or whatnot. Then, when her memory returned, she said (and I’m paraphrasing his paraphrase), oh, yes, Veteran’s Day. I can’t keep all these “silly” holidays straight.

Now, I am a pretty laid back person. I’m a Libra and Libras prefer balance; they are mediators and dislike conflict to the point that they will endure unhappiness to keep those around them happy. As such, I am relatively even keel most of the time. But there are a few topics I cannot remain silent about: the first is my children. That one is rather obvious. The second is my family, certainly. And the third is my country and those who fight to protect it.

I have the honored privilege of having a great many veterans in my family. My husband served our country as did my uncle, my grandfathers, and any number of extended family members. We have many friends who are still active duty, scattered throughout the world, and many who are either separated or retired right here at home. And my position as a college instructor in a training base city means I meet veterans and active duty military members, all with their own unique stories and experiences, each semester. I am grateful to them all on a daily basis.

To forget the day we honor those who have served in the various branches of the United States Armed Forces or, worse, to refer to that day as “silly” is not only disrespectful; in my mind, such disregard is directly linked to the main problem facing my generation and the generation that will be voting in it’s first election tomorrow: selfishness. I would say ignorance or even indifference, but both of those initial reactions can be traced to the larger issue that truly appears to drive every decision today’s youth makes.

As a further example, the day after the last presidential debate, I asked my classes to respond via a casual journal topic. I don’t preach my beliefs before my students: politics and religion rarely make their way into my classroom except through rhetorical questions and occasional independent writing exercises, honestly, because I view my authority as a means for encouraging and promoting thought in an environment that fosters growth, creativity, and freedom of expression. But with the election looming on the horizon, I thought it was a topic that should be addressed rather than ignored. I knew it was hopeful, to say the least, that my younger students would even have realized the debates were on TV. For my non-traditionals, I really expected passionate, issue-driven responses.

What did I get? Apathy. Indifference. And even a bold, “Who really cares?”

Well, for one, I do. And honestly I find it rather frightening that this is the general attitude of those who will one day be charged with making decisions for this great nation. The selfishness that leads to such bold statements is the same selfishness that leads to Veteran’s Day being referred to as “silly” and students commenting, “I’ll vote one day when I care enough to follow it all.”

The general attitude in this country stinks. Everyone sits around complaining about the economy, about the war, about unemployment, but very few of those who are the most vocal are willing to put forth the effort to change it. Ralph Waldo Emerson argues that mankind is “afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other.” And that is, quite possibly, truer today that when it was written. He encourages man to avoid the conformity that society encourages: “To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that is genius.” Sadly, today’s conformists are all too content to jump on the “I don’t care” or “it doesn’t affect me” bandwagon. Perhaps a lack of conviction in addition to a “foolish consistency” is, indeed, the “hobgoblin of little minds.”

Much like the ignorant professor whose thoughtless comments inspired this post, those who choose not to vote have every right to conform. That is, after all, what society wants. However, I think it important that we remember who guarantees our right to vote (or not vote), to speak our minds (however boorish our thoughts may be), to walk outside and feel the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair, and not fear gun fire or roadside bombs. Because, despite their sacrifices—and they are many—and despite the fact that they live with the reality that they may or may not return to this country alive, they defend it without question. They defend the freedoms of those who don’t care enough to visit a polling place on Tuesday and give five minutes of their lives to cast a vote; they defend the rights of those who choose to loudly protest against them and what they represent; and they protect this nation because, despite her problems and despite her fair-weather citizenry, America is still a great nation.   

This post isn’t about being a democrat, a republican, or an independent. It is about being a proud American and honoring those who risk their lives to afford us the right to declare our allegiance to a particular political party and exercising that right tomorrow at the poll.

And don’t be afraid to thank those who have served. There’s no need to wait until Monday. Tell them today and tomorrow. Tell them Monday and tell them again the next day. Considering the sacrifices they make, they cannot be told enough.

Dessert: A Lesson on Living

And this is the second reason I was so hesitant to start a blog: time! I don't have enough of it! I have a great amount of ongoing posts, and I'll be publishing them soon! In the meantime, here's what I started Wednesday...

I was in an oddly whimsical mood in my first class this afternoon, probably due to a lack of proper sustenance throughout the crazy-hectic day, and I didn't have a journal topic prepared like I usually... err... sometimes do.

I start all of my developmental classes the same way: the first ten minutes of class is dedicated to responding to a journal topic. I either pull the topic out of my head or I provide them with a famous quote about life, education, reading. You get the picture. In the years that I've taught developmental writing, I have come to the conclusion that the largest hurdle beginning writers must overcome is fear. Fear of putting their fingers to a keyboard and typing their thoughts; fear that they will sound stupid or their ideas won't make sense; fear that they'll be expected to write some masterpiece on the first attempt. Just fear. So, in an attempt to overcome this very real obstacle, they write. Everyday. And, believe me, they are not always comfortable with what they write. But, as you've probably guessed, that's the whole point. We tend to make the most progress, see the most change, when we are uncomfortable.

So, anyway, the journal topic I came up with, again, probably because I was hungry, related to students describing themselves as desserts. If you were a dessert, what would you be? To get the creative juices flowing, I encouraged them to think of ingredients, difficulty level, cook time and method, and, of course, knowing how college kids can be, I reminded them to keep it PG13 since I do have to read and assess their responses.

About halfway through their writing time, I added a simple statement to the bottom of the journal topic I had written on the board. It read, "Now, how is life like dessert?" Some students chewed their lips in contemplation as they stared at the addition; others, of course, heavy sighed. How dare she make this about life and not all fun and games! their frustrated scowls suggested.

I never really intended to make the topic more than just a fun, creative way to tell me more about themselves. But, as I listened to them typing, some frantically and others barely, I thought, life should be more like dessert! I don't know what conclusion any of them came to yet because I haven't read their responses, but I know what conclusion I came to as I sat there.

In my family, dessert was always a special occasion, mostly centered around the holidays. And, because desserts were reserved for special occasions, they were anticipated moments that were savored and remembered. At Thanksgiving, for instance, I can remember eyeing the dessert table and not even tasting the food on my plate, just hurrying through the meal so I could have my treat - one I would enjoy slowly, down to the very last bite.

When I think about how I have spent the majority of my adult life, I realize that I have always been anticipating the next moment and moving as swiftly as possible through the current one. When I was in college, I was just so ready to be finished with school. Now, what I wouldn't give to go back and listen in awe as the incredible minds that molded and shaped me imparted their wisdom once more. When Scott and I lived in Las Vegas, I could not wait to get back to Texas. Now, I find myself driving those old familiar routes I used to complain about in my mind, afraid that if I forget how to get from my old job to my old house, that means I've lost an invaluable piece of myself. I remember complaining that it would sometimes take hours to get my oldest bug to sleep at night; now, it breaks my heart that she doesn't need me to go to sleep anymore, though thankfully she still wants me most of the time.

Now, with two little girls who grow faster than I ever could have imagined possible and two dogs who grew white around the eyes at some point when I was too busy to notice and now both sleep harder and limp more than they ever have before, I find myself wanting to slow time. If I could just stretch out each hour... Maybe then I could play frisbee with Chloe and scratch Daisy's booty as much as they'd like me to. Maybe then I could read Where the Wild Things Are to my oldest 100 times instead of just ninety-nine times a day or just sit and listen to the rhythmic sound of my little one breathing instead of being pulled away by another responsibility that will never be accomplished if I don't do it while she's napping.

So how is life like dessert? Well, I guess, if we live it right, every second is savored, instead of just the high and low points being forever engrained in our memories. If we could hold on to every second, then we'd be able to travel to another time and place and relive those moments that seemed so ordinary at the time, savoring everything: the absence of responsibility we took for granted; the youth we will never be able to recapture; the friends and family who have since changed, aged, and perhaps disappeared from our lives.

And we'd be plump and happy, full of guilt-free, everyday slices of sweetness.