Month: May 2010

Dance Dance Anti-Revolution

Do you ever watch “Regis and Kelly”?  When I return from taking my 7-year old to school, I crawl right back into bed, ignoring the shame of my slothfulness, and watch the first fifteen minutes of the show.  I like to hear them talk about their lives.

Right before their trivia contest, sometimes they have an audience member dance.

That, my friends, is my Worst Nightmare.

I don’t dance.

I have a long history of not dancing.  I remember being a very small child, hanging out in the lower level of a neighborhood friend’s split level (I think her name was Cindy).  The televisi0n was tuned to The Jackson Five (a cartoon?  I can’t remember) and Cindy directed me and the others to stand on the couch’s armrests and dance.

Dance!

I don’t dance.  I didn’t then and I don’t now.

The only dancing I’ve ever successfully managed was square-dancing during that mortifying unit in Junior High gym class.  The last thing in the world I wanted to do as a tall teenager was clasp the sweaty hands of boys.  But I did and I skipped around and doe-see-doed (phonetic spelling, you’re welcome) and generally moved as stiffly as possible while dancing.  My grade depended on following the directions, so I did.  But I did not enjoy it.

Fortunately, I grew up in a religious tradition that forbade dancing.  Some of the girls even skipped that square dancing unit in gym class, claiming a religious exemption.  I think dancing was forbidden because it might tempt us to throw off our clothes and have illicit relations with the opposite sex, thus resulting in an unplanned pregnancy, but I don’t know.

All I know is that I don’t dance.

I can clap my hands.

I can play a passable sonata on the piano, counting carefully (“one and two and three and four and”).

But I don’t dance and I never will.  I can sway.  I can tap.  I can nod my head.

But do not ask me to shake my booty or moon-walk or accept an invitation to appear on “Dancing with the Stars.”

Other things I do not do:
Hop.
High-five.
Raise my hand in group settings.
Sit in the front row.
The splits.

Vapor

Sometimes, I look at the painted flowers on my daughter’s bedroom wall and feel the world ending.

One day, those flowers will be a memory and the very thought of the end of all this makes me want to stomp my feet and cry.  I don’t want things to change!  I don’t want her to grow up and go to college and meet a boy and get married and move to another state.  Or house.

Sometimes, I look at my 12-year old son’s soft cheeks and his freckled nose and his green eyes and want the whole world to stop. I want to hold his face and touch each freckle but if I did he’d roll his eyes, jerk from my hands and think I’d gone crazy.

Can’t we just take a time out?  Can we pause on twelve for a few more years?  I don’t want him to grow whiskers and fall in love with girls and choose a career path and stop laughing at things that aren’t funny unless you’re twelve.

I spy the distant Mt. Rainier in its white-covered glory and I feel frantic.  We haven’t sojourned to the mountain in two years.  What if that time was the last time we’d stomp its snowy sides?  What if we don’t venture back up the mountain?  Will the kids even remember the delicate alpine flowers and the pure thin air?

Just moments ago, my teenagers were little kids, wandering the back yard waving sticks and throwing balls over the roof of the house to the front yard.  They refused to eat vegetables and only drank apple juice.  Those mundane days already glow in the fading hazy light of memory.  The past seems sweet compared to the reality of uneven facial hair and loud music and their uniform of black t-shirts and baggy jeans.

I hate my kitchen counters.  They’re old, pale yellow formica.  I don’t have enough cupboard space.  The sink is a ghastly gold.  And yet, sometimes I’m already nostalgic for it.  When I’m an old woman and I think about raising kids, this is the kitchen that I will remember.  This homely, inadequate kitchen is like a friend I miss already, even while we’re still holding hands.

Sometimes, I just want to press the pause button.  I want to appreciate this moment, to breathe it in, to gather it all in my arms and sit and rock, rock, rock in a peaceful rhythm before it all scatters, never to be assembled again in quite the same way.

But there is no pause button.  The children won’t stop growing.  I keep getting older and grayer.

The whole thing, when I consider it, makes my heart hurt.

Nothing stays the same and there’s a peculiar pain in noticing the fleeting days for what they are–a vapor, here today and gone tomorrow.

Book Review: Life, In Spite of Me

Recently, I received a free review copy of Life, In Spite of Me:  Extraordinary Hope After a Fatal Choice.

I remember seeing Kristen Anderson on an Oprah show about people who survived suicide.  This book (written with Tricia Goyer) tells the story of how Kristen survived her suicide attempt.  She lost both of her legs in the attempt and went on to live a life of happiness and purpose.

I was fascinated by this book and couldn’t put it down.  I put myself in her situation–how would I go on in that situation?  Kristen eventually finds hope in her faith in Christ.

Here’s more information, provided by the publicist:

ABOUT THE BOOK:
After her fatal choice… extraordinary hope.

Why does my life have to be so painful?
What’s wrong with me?
It’s not going to get better.
It could all be over soon, and then I won’t hurt anymore.

Kristen Anderson thought she had the picture perfect life until strokes of gray dimmed her outlook on life. Once a happy child, Kristen’s world darkened after three friends and her grandmother died within two years. Still reeling from these losses, she was raped by a friend she thought she could trust. She soon spiraled into a depression that didn’t seem to have a bottom.

One January night, the seventeen-year-old made a decision: She no longer wanted to deal with the emotional pain that smothered her. She lay down on a set of cold railroad tracks and waited-for a freight train to send her to heaven…and peace.

Fear coursed through me. I squeezed my eyes tighter.
It’s going to be over now. The pain is going to end. I’ll be in heaven soon.
As the train whistle blew, the vibration of my body stilled.
The sound stopped. The wind stopped. The train stopped.
Am I dead yet?

Amazingly, Kristen survived her suicide attempt… but the 33 freight cars that ran over her severed her legs. Now she not only had to deal with depression; she also had to face the physical pain and life without legs.

But Kristen’s story didn’t end there. After her darkest days Kristen discovered a real purpose for living. Now, in her compelling book Life, In Spite of Me, Kristen shares her journey from despair to hope.

Includes letters from Kristen that share messages she wishes someone would have told her-when she was depressed and struggling with loss, shame from sexual abuse, and suicidal thoughts.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tricia Goyer is the author of twenty-four books including Songbird Under a German Moon, The Swiss Courier, and the mommy memoir, Blue Like Play Dough. She won Historical Novel of the Year in 2005 and 2006 from ACFW, and was honored with the Writer of the Year award from Mt. Hermon Writer’s Conference in 2003. Tricia’s book Life Interrupted was a finalist for the Gold Medallion in 2005.

In addition to her novels, Tricia writes non-fiction books and magazine articles for publications like MomSense and Thriving Family. Tricia is a regular speaker at conventions and conferences, and has been a workshop presenter at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International Conventions.  She and her family make their home in Little Rock, Arkansas where they are part of the ministry of FamilyLife. For more info, please visit www.triciagoyer.com

You can find other bloggers talking about this book here.

Paint belongs on a barn, according to my dad

One time when I was fifteen, my dad took me on a rare outing.  We slid the yellow canoe he’d inexplicably purchased into the nearby slough.  As we paddled around, I took a deep breath and asked him the question that had been on my mind for a long time.

“When I turn 16, can I wear make-up?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Paint belongs on a barn.”

And that was the end of that.

I have been cursed with dark circles under my eyes and no eye lashes to speak of.  The other girls had been wearing make-up since sixth grade.  Compared to everyone else I was dowdy and ugly, if you asked me.  (My school pictures will confirm this assessment.)

I respected his rules, though.  One time, I performed with two other girls in a public place and my friends put make-up on me.  I was performing, after all.

When I returned home, my dad appeared in my bedroom doorway.  My stepmother had reported to him that I was wearing mascara and she immediately reported this infraction to him.  So I was scolded.

I remember the burning injustice I felt.  I was a straight A student.  I babysat in my spare time to earn extra cash.  I paid for all my own clothes, even my own shampoo.  I never caused a bit of trouble.  I did not drink, I didn’t take drugs and I didn’t date.  For fun, I went to the library and read.  I entertained myself by practicing the piano. I did my own laundry.  I went to church three times a week.

And I was in trouble because I dared to wear make-up for a special occasion.

I never wore it again until the day I arrived at college.  In Missouri.  Far, far, far away from the eyes of my father.

For the record, we never again went canoeing, either.

And frankly, I think if a barn needs painting, you ought to slap some paint on it.

Other people’s parents

All I really wanted when I was a teenager (besides being a size four and for my bangs to feather) was to be of use.  I wanted to be necessary, indispensable, valued for my contributions to the world.

I’m not kidding.

I was a volunteer extraordinaire.

I watched babies in the church nursery.  I helped with a 4-H group.  I taught Sunday School.  I bagged sandbags during a flood.  I scrubbed refrigerated cases in a food co-op.  I sold baked goods at rest stops on the freeway to raise money.  I walked in a Walk-a-thon.

But by far, my favorite volunteer activity was working as a “Volunteen” at the local hospital.

I wore a pink smock and helped out on the “broken bones” floor.  I gave patients cups of cold water.  I ran errands for nurses.  I fed people.

I loved it.

But the problem was that my parents refused to give me rides to any of my activities, no matter how altruistic the cause.  They forced me to take the public bus (which always terrified me, probably for no good reason) or beg for a ride from an acquaintance or friend.  I hated to ask for a ride only slightly less than I hated to wait in the dark for a public bus.

An acquaintance of mine (her name was Mary and she was so blond she had nearly no color at all) also volunteered at the hospital.  Her father was a doctor there.  Her mother picked her up after our shift.

I asked Mary if her mother would mind giving me a ride home, too.  After all, we lived in the same small town.  She agreed on behalf of her mother and that settled that.  Instead of having to stand on the street corner in the dark, waiting for the bus, I could ride the seven or ten miles home in a private car, in safety.

But Mary’s mother could not hide her annoyance with my presence in her car.  I don’t understand it to this day.  She did have to drive probably three miles round-trip out of her way to deliver me to my driveway and perhaps that was just too much to ask.

I still have a sick feeling when I think about how much that woman appeared to resent me.  She probably can’t remember me, but I remember her.

Other people’s parents can be so mean to teenagers.

Yes, I went there and endured that.

You may as well know that I had a mammogram today.  I dreaded it.  I postponed it.  I forgot to make the appointment . . . for about, um, five years.

When I saw my doctor last July, she referred me for a mammogram again, just a routine screening, the kind of thing you’re supposed to do when you are a grown-up.  I left the pink slip in the stack of papers on my desk.  I didn’t schedule the appointment.  I kept telling myself that I needed to do it, but I just did not.

Then a woman I know who is a year or two younger had her routine mammogram a few weeks ago.  She was diagnosed with cancer, a rather aggressive cancer, it seems, though who can be sure?  She’s going to have surgery, radiation, maybe chemotherapy.  I looked at her and told her that I needed to schedule my mammogram.  That way I was accountable.

So last week I called and made the appointment.

This morning I showered and remembered not to apply any deodorant.

I arrived on time for my appointment.  I stripped to the waist, put on the white cotton robe, read a book while waiting for my turn.

The radiologist was kind, a woman named Marcie, who explained that it would take only four minutes.  I stood without speaking, only nodding, wishing it was already over.  I’m just not  big fan of baring myself to a stranger.  I’m modest.  I find it awkward.

But it was only awkward for four minutes and it only hurt a little.

I was so happy to be done.

Then this afternoon, the phone rang.  It was the Breast Center telling me they need me to come back, that the person reading the mammogram didn’t like the photos, there was something called “blah blah blah” which means “blah blah overlapping blah” and so I have to go back on Friday.

I wish I remembered exactly what she said and had a better idea of what is going on.  I think they just want more pictures, better pictures, different positions.  Which is just great.  Because, of course, that’s exactly how I want to spend Friday morning, appearing topless before a stranger who will manipulate my squishy body parts into a machine and pressing them as pancake-like as possible.

Awesome.

I’m not really afraid.  But fear does wave at me from the corners of my mind.  Because if my friend can go in for a routine mammogram and end up needing surgery, why wouldn’t I? Do I need to remind anyone that my dad died from cancer when he was 47?  And I’m 45?  And that I’m a pessimist?

You should know that years ago . . . 18 years ago?  17 years ago?  I had a surgical biopsy and “it” was nothing, just a lipoma.  At the time I worried that I’d lose my breasts, lose my hair and die because I am dramatic like that.

This time, I’m just mostly annoyed that I have to be awake, in my right mind and at the radiologist at 9:30 a.m. on Friday morning.  I just hope this will be the last time I flash The Girls at a perfect stranger for awhile.

A sort of movie review but mostly a rant

On Sunday, I celebrated Mother’s Day by taking the day off.  Actually, I accepted (with deep gratitude) my husband’s gift of the day off.

He woke up early, took the kids to church and let me sleep in and stay home.  I heard the ruckus while they prepared to leave but feigned sleep.  Then, when they left, I snoozed  little and woke up slowly.  I read for an hour, then got ready and left the house.

I went to a movie.  Which leads me to my pet peeve.

Doesn’t anyone understand the MPAA movie rating system?

For our purposes, let’s discuss PG-13.

Here’s what it means:
PG-13 — Parents Strongly Cautioned. Some Material May Be Inappropriate For Children Under 13.

Somehow, people seem to interpret that as, “Parents Strongly Cautioned.  Some Material May Be Inappropriate for Children Under 13 but GO AHEAD AND BRING YOUR BABY AND YOUR TWO YEAR OLD.”

What is wrong with people?  Seriously?

So, I went to see “Iron Man 2” which had a rating of PG-13.  So did a ton of families including very young children, leading me to wonder if people don’t understand child development, if they don’t realize that you can’t “unsee” something.  Furthermore, it’s rude to bring young children to a movie that is inappropriate because the children are distracting to other paying customers.

But you know what was worse?  I hesitate to say this because I’m not sure how to communicate it in writing without sounding like a jerk.

As I sat waiting for the movie (and reading a book in the near darkness), I heard a moaning yell.  I looked up to figure out what was happening.  In walked a young man escorting another young man who had some difficulty walking.  I’m not sure if the second man had an injury or brain damage or a developmental delay, but what was obvious was his inability to communicate other than by bellowing.  I suspect his companion was his caregiver who brought him to a movie.

I nearly called the theater to complain–before the movie began–but decided not to since I knew the movie would be loud anyway.  Sure enough, I only heard the non-stop moans during the few scenes of dialogue.  So, it was only a minor annoyance even though the man yelled during the whole movie.

So I know it seems insensitive of me to complain about a person with an obvious disability.  But I thought it was incredibly rude for his “friend” (companion?  caregiver?) to bring this man to a movie where he knew he’d be loud and vocal and distracting.  If I’d been sitting near these people, I would have moved to another seat–or left if there were no more seats.

When I came home to describe the situation to my husband, he declared that’s why he dislikes going to movies in the theater.  Personally, I enjoy the community experience of watching a movie with other people.  I suppose I shouldn’t complain about people who have no sense, people who insist on exposing their children to material that is obviously inappropriate for them.

Generally, I love the whole experience.

I just don’t understand what the hurry is to take children to movies made for adults.

Why the rush to expose children to violence and adult situations?

I have never heard an acceptable reason.  And “it doesn’t give him nightmares” is not a good enough reason.  Nor is “he doesn’t understand it anyway.” Please.

As for the movie itself?  I thought it was good–I love Robert Downey, Jr.–but it was not as good as the first movie.  Not even close.

(My favorite movie of late?  “Date Night.”  It was laugh-out-loud funny.  Not a perfect movie, but very funny.)

And then you are forty-five

When you are young, you can’t wait until you are in charge, until you can make decisions about your own life, about your own schedule, about how you will spend your hours, your days, your life, your paycheck.

You make life choices, whether conscious or unconscious and then you live with them.

And then when you are forty-five, you look around and realize that almost every bit of your life, every minute of every hour, every effort you expend belongs to someone else.  You wash clothes you don’t wear and cook meals you don’t eat and attend sports practices you only watch.  You buy snacks you don’t like and wash forks you didn’t use and iron pants that don’t belong to you.

You deliver other people to other places to participate in events that exclude you.

You worry about situations that will affect other people.  You don’t care too much how the outcome changes you but you care because of the others.  They matter.

You slice and dice up bits of your heart and life and give them away and wonder, in the end, if you’ll have anything left over, if the lunch you’ve offered to to share will actually feed five thousand.

When you are young, you steer your life in a certain lane, take a particular exit and you don’t realize that you’ll never again wake up in the morning with only thoughts of yourself.   You’ll never face an entire empty day full of possibilities and choices because everything you think and everything you do tilts the orbits of other people circling you.  You are anchored.  You are snared.  You wake up in the night because other people wake up in the night and say your name.

Part of you wants to use giant shears to cut yourself loose but the other part of you finds the web you’ve spun to be a lovely, soft nest.  You’re swaddled tightly and the immobility soothes you.

But all the same, you want to shout back to your distant self a warning to savor those days when you think you are so busy because you have to  meet a school deadline.  That is freedom.  You just don’t understand that then because you aren’t paying the mortgage.

Welcome to adulthood.

Notes before the week begins

I gathered some lilacs and put them in the only place in my house that is safe from my curious cats–the master bathroom.  The blossoms on the bush are already fading, signaling the waning of spring and the approach of summer–only the weather has been so chilly and rainy and not-summer like.  The tulips lost their petals this week and the daffodils are long gone.

The school year is winding to a close, too . . . in six or seven weeks.  That’s why I spent six hours on Saturday working with my boys on Algebra.  Six hours! They must pass Algebra 1–it’s a required class for graduation–and they are not interested in math at all.  I personally always enjoyed math when I was in school.  I like how objective it is.  I took math because I knew I could get an “A” and avoided art, which I also loved, because I might get a “B.”   I however, do not enjoy spending my free time doing math on a Saturday because my boys are so far behind they can’t catch up on their own, especially since they don’t know how to graph quadratic functions online.

Our 12-year old son’s been playing lacrosse for a few months and has only a few games left.  And now our daughter has started baseball.  She complains about going to practice but likes it once she’s there.  We’ll probably both enjoy it more once the weather warms a little.  Meanwhile, I take a wool blanket with me.

This is turning into a super boring post.  My apologies.  That’s what you get when you write blog posts at 1:45 a.m.  (I worked until 1:00 a.m., so it’s not like I’ve been goofing off or anything all night.)  (Also, the interesting things are impossible to discuss.)

I just finished reading Gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson.  Good read if you can overlook the, uh, coarse language.  I heard her speak in Michigan last month and she was such a charming and funny person that I unburied the book from my shelves and read it and heard her voice as I read.

Now I’m reading ROOMS by Jim Rubart.  I met him a few years ago at a writer’s conference before he’s sold this, his first novel, and it’s fun to read it now that it’s been released.  So far, I really like it.  Can’t wait to see what happens next . . .

My front door keeps making creaking noises . . . the wind must be blowing hard as the weather forecast promised.

And now, I am heading to bed.  This blog post cannot be saved.