"Don't you wish you could do that again"? Asked one of my friends as we watched Big A demonstrating her remarkable gymnastic skills.
I paused before I responded.
What I really miss, what I would love to have back again, isn't necessarily the capability to do the splits or back-hand springs--don't get me wrong, I'd love to have that option physically again.
What I genuinely long for is the innocent unawareness that accompanied me in those days.
The fearlessness, the open-hearted attitude, the try-and-try again philosophy that accompanied me always, because I didn't know any better--that is what I really wish I could have back again.
I'm not sure when that disappeared; I'm sure gradually it chipped away during the years, probably beginning with my very first lesson in exclusion, most likely the first layer of that confidence stripped away one day at recess in the third grade when suddenly, I was outside of my circle of "friends" because of some transgression.
I can't remember the reason that everyone was ignoring me, but I do vividly recall swinging as high as I could on the swing and not jumping off, which was my usual mode of operation. I remember, clear as day, thinking that if I jumped and fell, that they would have further fuel to add to their fire of reasons not to like me.
So that day I brought myself to an awkward stop by using my feet to gradually slow down, leaving marks in the sand; impressions of my new-found insecurity, fresh and bare like the dirt that I brought to the surface with each drag of my foot.
And so I suppose, that since that day, I've been leaving those impressions everywhere that I go. No matter what I'm doing or how others might claim that they see me, I'm always that nervous girl looking for affirmation that I'm like-able and worthy.
I want to be unaware that sometimes if you fall, getting back up isn't that easy. Sometimes you break things and it takes time to heal. Sometimes things heal, but leave nasty scars that ache with the deepest sensations at the oddest times. Sometimes, you pretend not to be broken because explaining to one more person how you got injured in the first place is exhausting.
I want a shield of oblivion to cover me from the pain that accompanies knowing that someone doesn't like me, or some part of me.
I remember being shocked when described as arrogant or thinking that I was "too good" to talk to anyone. Still, to this very day, the reason that I avoid small talk or eye contact or put my head down when walking by is because I can't really imagine anything useful that I can offer anyone.
I'm always seeking affirmation, even from the people that I'm the closest to. "Are you mad at me?" "Did I do something to upset you?" "What's wrong?", constantly coming from my lips. Translation: "Do you still love me?"
I suppose that nostalgia begins for me that day on the swing; the first day that I realized that you could yearn for yesterday with such longing that it altered your very course of being; the first day that instead of flying, I timidly stepped.
Tying back to the question first posed to me, it isn't the capability of being able to flip on a beam that makes me wish for yesteryear, it's the knowledge that I could get up there in the first place, and the belief that everyone in the stands was there to cheer you on.
31 July 2007
27 July 2007
25 July 2007
The Stuart Smalley Meme
I read the wonderful Blog Antagonist's post with this meme, and thought, "What a great idea. But name ten things about me that I like?" My mind started swirling, and characteristically, as is the characteristic of even the most amazing women I know, I thought of a couple of things, but then when I got to about number two on my list, I was quickly bombarded with, "yes, but your inner thighs, yes, but your arms are so undefined...."
Great idea, Blog Antagonist. Thank goodness it wasn't me creating the list.
Then, boom, guess what? I got tagged. And I state right here, I've not been good keeping up with my tags. I'm sort of meme'd out, it's absolutely nothing personal, except that personally, I can't think of anything new to add about me that I hadn't already written in my previous meme's.
But, it was Slouching Mom that tagged me, and she's amazing and awesome on so many levels, and she wrote these words that stopped me in my tracks at once and have seared themselves into my being: "Jack often looks stunned in photographs. This is no accident; the sensitive among us are frequently stunned." And I fell in love with her that very second. And we all know that sometimes love is giving instead of taking, so without much further ado, here is my Stuart Smalley Meme, with Blog Antagonist's wise lead intro:
I am going to name ten things about myself that I like. I'm going to focus mostly on the physical, because that's what tends to undermine my self-confidence the most. But you can name anything you want.
1.) My eyes. They are an odd color that changes like a mood ring; nearly green, somewhere in-between blue and hazel. When I'm tan or have been crying, they are actually almost emerald.
2.) My smile. It's nice and white and my teeth are great; except the one I cracked playing soccer.
3.) Seriously, why is it this hard? My legs. I'm beginning to love them again. Last night when I was running, I looked down and saw muscles, a lean line that ran clear down the length of me and I thought, "Wow. Those are mine."
4.) The birthmark on my left thigh.
The one that I used to try to hide with concealer. The one that I used to look at and think, "OK, I'm going to get super-tan and then it won't even be visible." The one that a couple of years ago my doctor recommended I have removed for "safety precautions" and, mouth agape, I found myself quickly protesting that I'd been born with this. And I realized then how awesome it was that I actually had come to love something about myself, even if it was just a mole.
5.) My hair. It's thick and long and shiny.
(OK people, done with the physical stuff. Sorry. But I did get to FIVE!)
6.) I'm compassionate, empathetic, and I try to be kinder than necessary, even when it's killing me to do so.
The person stopping traffic to let ducks cross the road? Me.
The person stopping traffic on an on-ramp to an expressway during the busy morning commute to get an injured fawn off the road while a horrified friend/co-worker sat in my car wishing she had driven herself? Me.
The person reaching out a hand to help up the obviously mentally impaired person that twenty others just walked by? Me.
The person frequently brought to tears, just over life in general, feeling so many things for so many others? The person that is so often told, "Then just don't think about it" "Don't watch the news". Me.
7.) I was blessed with the gift of being able to write well.
8.) My forgiveness factor. I don't hold grudges and try to forgive almost instantly when I've been hurt. I can think of only one person that I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive, and I've tried and I've prayed, but it isn't going to happen for me. And guess what? I'm OK with that, too.
9.) My laugh. It's "unique". (As in, probably louder than it should be in most cases, one of the parts of me that if a friend were trying to fix me up on a blind date might say, is "quirky" or "endearing".) And it is almost the exact laugh of my little sister, and when we laugh, people are quick to say, "You sound just like your sister". And I love that; that when I'm laughing really, really hard, I see her face and hear her smile. It's a beautiful bridge across the miles.
10.) My athleticism.
OK, that's it.
AND, the really, really great thing about this meme is that you can tag as many people as you like! Or you don't have to tag anyone at all! (Which means there is no excuse like, "Sorry, I don't know anyone to tag" if you happen to be tagged)
With that in mind, I am tagging:
Jenn, because she is the first blogger that I read faithfully and her writing inspired me to dust off of my own writing, and that kind of inspiration is very hard to come by.
Just Me, because now there is no excuse for her not to post this meme, and she's amazing me on a daily basis by how much she's changing and becoming remarkable on extremely high levels. You'd think someone you shared a bed and socks and first heartbreaks with would be someone that you know inside and out, but she's blooming in ways that make me love her more.
PDX Mama, because I miss her posts, so basically I've gone from trying to coax her out to just pretty much grabbing her arm to drag her along. Cause I'm nice like that.
And you. Yes, if you'd like to do this meme, let me know and I'll link you as well.
Now repeat after me, "And gosh darn it, I like me".
****Updates:
Tara volunteered!!
Great idea, Blog Antagonist. Thank goodness it wasn't me creating the list.
Then, boom, guess what? I got tagged. And I state right here, I've not been good keeping up with my tags. I'm sort of meme'd out, it's absolutely nothing personal, except that personally, I can't think of anything new to add about me that I hadn't already written in my previous meme's.
But, it was Slouching Mom that tagged me, and she's amazing and awesome on so many levels, and she wrote these words that stopped me in my tracks at once and have seared themselves into my being: "Jack often looks stunned in photographs. This is no accident; the sensitive among us are frequently stunned." And I fell in love with her that very second. And we all know that sometimes love is giving instead of taking, so without much further ado, here is my Stuart Smalley Meme, with Blog Antagonist's wise lead intro:
I am going to name ten things about myself that I like. I'm going to focus mostly on the physical, because that's what tends to undermine my self-confidence the most. But you can name anything you want.
1.) My eyes. They are an odd color that changes like a mood ring; nearly green, somewhere in-between blue and hazel. When I'm tan or have been crying, they are actually almost emerald.
2.) My smile. It's nice and white and my teeth are great; except the one I cracked playing soccer.
3.) Seriously, why is it this hard? My legs. I'm beginning to love them again. Last night when I was running, I looked down and saw muscles, a lean line that ran clear down the length of me and I thought, "Wow. Those are mine."
4.) The birthmark on my left thigh.
The one that I used to try to hide with concealer. The one that I used to look at and think, "OK, I'm going to get super-tan and then it won't even be visible." The one that a couple of years ago my doctor recommended I have removed for "safety precautions" and, mouth agape, I found myself quickly protesting that I'd been born with this. And I realized then how awesome it was that I actually had come to love something about myself, even if it was just a mole.
5.) My hair. It's thick and long and shiny.
(OK people, done with the physical stuff. Sorry. But I did get to FIVE!)
6.) I'm compassionate, empathetic, and I try to be kinder than necessary, even when it's killing me to do so.
The person stopping traffic to let ducks cross the road? Me.
The person stopping traffic on an on-ramp to an expressway during the busy morning commute to get an injured fawn off the road while a horrified friend/co-worker sat in my car wishing she had driven herself? Me.
The person reaching out a hand to help up the obviously mentally impaired person that twenty others just walked by? Me.
The person frequently brought to tears, just over life in general, feeling so many things for so many others? The person that is so often told, "Then just don't think about it" "Don't watch the news". Me.
7.) I was blessed with the gift of being able to write well.
8.) My forgiveness factor. I don't hold grudges and try to forgive almost instantly when I've been hurt. I can think of only one person that I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive, and I've tried and I've prayed, but it isn't going to happen for me. And guess what? I'm OK with that, too.
9.) My laugh. It's "unique". (As in, probably louder than it should be in most cases, one of the parts of me that if a friend were trying to fix me up on a blind date might say, is "quirky" or "endearing".) And it is almost the exact laugh of my little sister, and when we laugh, people are quick to say, "You sound just like your sister". And I love that; that when I'm laughing really, really hard, I see her face and hear her smile. It's a beautiful bridge across the miles.
10.) My athleticism.
OK, that's it.
AND, the really, really great thing about this meme is that you can tag as many people as you like! Or you don't have to tag anyone at all! (Which means there is no excuse like, "Sorry, I don't know anyone to tag" if you happen to be tagged)
With that in mind, I am tagging:
Jenn, because she is the first blogger that I read faithfully and her writing inspired me to dust off of my own writing, and that kind of inspiration is very hard to come by.
Just Me, because now there is no excuse for her not to post this meme, and she's amazing me on a daily basis by how much she's changing and becoming remarkable on extremely high levels. You'd think someone you shared a bed and socks and first heartbreaks with would be someone that you know inside and out, but she's blooming in ways that make me love her more.
PDX Mama, because I miss her posts, so basically I've gone from trying to coax her out to just pretty much grabbing her arm to drag her along. Cause I'm nice like that.
And you. Yes, if you'd like to do this meme, let me know and I'll link you as well.
Now repeat after me, "And gosh darn it, I like me".
****Updates:
Tara volunteered!!
Against the Grain
"Dance"? Little A held out her hand to me as I took her from her car seat. That's typically what we do when "our" song (When you born, they looked at you and said, 'what a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl...') is on; hold one hand together, she lays her head upon my shoulder and we sway slowly to the knowledge of the Barenaked Ladies.
Her groggy eyes pierced mine before she rested her sweet cheek upon me and we rocked next to the car in my sitters driveway. (This name is the hair-shirt I wear, and this hair-shirt is woven from your brown hair....this song is the cross that I bear, bear with me, bear with me, bear with me....)
When we walked into my sitter's house and she leaned herself from my arms and into my sitter's she looked at me and said, "Mom"? A question, an answer, a statement of something that still causes such dilemma within me. After all this time, each morning when I leave her, I am unnerved by how unnatural it feels.
In the world of daycare, I consider myself beyond blessed. She goes to a home where they've created a bedroom for her, complete with toys, books, a crib and clothes that they've purchased for her. ("We just had to get this for her.") My sitter's children don't correct people when they tell them that their little sister is beautiful. They have birthday parties for her, put presents under the Christmas tree with her name on it, make Easter baskets full of goodies in her honor. Yet the truth of it sometimes stabs me abruptly, causing a quick intake of breath: My daughter has a bedroom in someone else's home.
Each day now when I pick her up, she's learned new words and phrases, mastered new physical feats, has something else to show me and tell me and can barely contain herself in her excitement to demonstrate how she's grown within those hours.
Those hours. Those hours in which I pay someone else to, let's face it here, raise my child. She goes there in pajama's. She eats breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner at their table. She swims in their pool, rides on their dune buggy, runs amok through the sprinkler in their lawn under the hot summer sun. She calls out each of their names before she falls asleep at night, like a prayer to the heavens that she's written on her heart.
I've tried to do the math, to make it realistic that I could stay home and watch other people's children, write, clean, whatever I'd need to do to give myself more time with her, but it isn't an option. And while we're chatting about reality, the honest truth is that I love my job. I'm not sure who I'd be if I didn't have it; if my life really were confined to our home and the Queen's lives full time, if I didn't have this place to go and challenge myself, if I were to live without the sense of accomplishment that I feel when I know that I've been a part of a job well done.
And that is where the double-edged sword lies: firmly entrenched within me, twisting ever so slightly now and again to remind me that it's there, slicing from one part of me to deliver to the other.
Her groggy eyes pierced mine before she rested her sweet cheek upon me and we rocked next to the car in my sitters driveway. (This name is the hair-shirt I wear, and this hair-shirt is woven from your brown hair....this song is the cross that I bear, bear with me, bear with me, bear with me....)
When we walked into my sitter's house and she leaned herself from my arms and into my sitter's she looked at me and said, "Mom"? A question, an answer, a statement of something that still causes such dilemma within me. After all this time, each morning when I leave her, I am unnerved by how unnatural it feels.
In the world of daycare, I consider myself beyond blessed. She goes to a home where they've created a bedroom for her, complete with toys, books, a crib and clothes that they've purchased for her. ("We just had to get this for her.") My sitter's children don't correct people when they tell them that their little sister is beautiful. They have birthday parties for her, put presents under the Christmas tree with her name on it, make Easter baskets full of goodies in her honor. Yet the truth of it sometimes stabs me abruptly, causing a quick intake of breath: My daughter has a bedroom in someone else's home.
Each day now when I pick her up, she's learned new words and phrases, mastered new physical feats, has something else to show me and tell me and can barely contain herself in her excitement to demonstrate how she's grown within those hours.
Those hours. Those hours in which I pay someone else to, let's face it here, raise my child. She goes there in pajama's. She eats breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner at their table. She swims in their pool, rides on their dune buggy, runs amok through the sprinkler in their lawn under the hot summer sun. She calls out each of their names before she falls asleep at night, like a prayer to the heavens that she's written on her heart.
I've tried to do the math, to make it realistic that I could stay home and watch other people's children, write, clean, whatever I'd need to do to give myself more time with her, but it isn't an option. And while we're chatting about reality, the honest truth is that I love my job. I'm not sure who I'd be if I didn't have it; if my life really were confined to our home and the Queen's lives full time, if I didn't have this place to go and challenge myself, if I were to live without the sense of accomplishment that I feel when I know that I've been a part of a job well done.
And that is where the double-edged sword lies: firmly entrenched within me, twisting ever so slightly now and again to remind me that it's there, slicing from one part of me to deliver to the other.
24 July 2007
Wherein I Remind Myself That I Saw Her Delivered From My Womb
"What is this"? Big A's right eyebrow arched to the point of looking photo-shopped; if she were going to pick a word for her on-line mood, it would be "appalled".
"That", stated I with as much authority as I could muster, "is typically called dinner. Eat up".
"The dessert is on our dinner plate". She grabbed Little A's spoon just in the knick of time to stop her from eating her (gasp!) dessert first.
"Mommy's tired. I don't care which order you eat your food in, just eat it. Please."
"Little A is going to eat.
her.
dessert.
first.
Do you think that's a good idea? Letting your kid eat cool-whip before corn"?
A stare-down ensued. Big A at the table with Little A, me at the counter, wiping crayon scribblings off the cupboard doors, not giving one iota of care as to what was consumed when, Little A, stuffing her face with pineapple and cool-whip via her hands.
"See? Do you see what she's doing now?" When I looked at Little A, her face covered in cool whip, I burst out laughing, which only added more fuel to the fire.
"Mom! How can you think this is funny? She's EATING COOL-WHIP FOR DINNER!" Her voice got as loud as it could without yelling, testing the limits of the allowable speaking decibel in our home.
I set down my Mr. Clean sponge and walked over to the table and touched Big A's shoulder, which she promptly drew away from me.
"Sweetie, I know it's hard for you to understand, but right now, if the worst that I can do is let you eat cool-whip before your corn on the cob, then I think I'm doing OK".
She looked up at me, no longer appalled, but aware that she was stuck in this existence, despite her fantasies and prayers of her real mom coming to find her someday.
"Fine. But don't expect me to clean up her puke from eating cool-whip before dinner".
Oh, Big A, I love you too.
"That", stated I with as much authority as I could muster, "is typically called dinner. Eat up".
"The dessert is on our dinner plate". She grabbed Little A's spoon just in the knick of time to stop her from eating her (gasp!) dessert first.
"Mommy's tired. I don't care which order you eat your food in, just eat it. Please."
"Little A is going to eat.
her.
dessert.
first.
Do you think that's a good idea? Letting your kid eat cool-whip before corn"?
A stare-down ensued. Big A at the table with Little A, me at the counter, wiping crayon scribblings off the cupboard doors, not giving one iota of care as to what was consumed when, Little A, stuffing her face with pineapple and cool-whip via her hands.
"See? Do you see what she's doing now?" When I looked at Little A, her face covered in cool whip, I burst out laughing, which only added more fuel to the fire.
"Mom! How can you think this is funny? She's EATING COOL-WHIP FOR DINNER!" Her voice got as loud as it could without yelling, testing the limits of the allowable speaking decibel in our home.
I set down my Mr. Clean sponge and walked over to the table and touched Big A's shoulder, which she promptly drew away from me.
"Sweetie, I know it's hard for you to understand, but right now, if the worst that I can do is let you eat cool-whip before your corn on the cob, then I think I'm doing OK".
She looked up at me, no longer appalled, but aware that she was stuck in this existence, despite her fantasies and prayers of her real mom coming to find her someday.
"Fine. But don't expect me to clean up her puke from eating cool-whip before dinner".
Oh, Big A, I love you too.
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