This time of year, as we try to successfully manage the multitude of tasks of the holidays – the buying and wrapping of all the gifts, the untangling and set-up of the outdoor lights, the searching for the assembly instructions for the artificial tree, the planning of the what we hope to be an uncomplicated Christmas Day menu and then recovering from the aftermath of the post-holiday household mess, I often think back to Christmases past, when over thirty of us gathered on Christmas Eve at my Granny and Papaw’s house every year, where we ate and ate (carbs were not yet the enemy), laughed at the same stories repeated year-after-year and where the matriarch of our family, my Granny, worked to make it a real family holiday.
Don’t get me wrong – it was a far cry from the “Osmond Family Christmas Special,” where everyone was impeccably coiffed and perfectly outfitted in their coordinating holiday sweaters singing Christmas carols in harmony and drinking non-alcoholic holiday eggnog around the fireplace. It was quite the opposite, really. (I would fondly describe it now more like “Larry the Cable Guy” meets “Paula Deen.”) It was loud, unedited, politically-incorrect, always too much food and there was always an expected element of surprise involved. There was the cousin whose tradition it was to show up having consumed too many holiday spirits; the Uncle who never hesitated in telling the not-so-appropriate jokes and stories in front of all the grandchildren and the family members who were always hours late in arriving (the same that were the first to leave before the clean-up process began). It was a big occasion, as my Granny would wear her “good” dress and my Papaw would wear his nicest pants and one of his Fedora hats and as tradition would warrant, he would always put one of those self-adhesive Christmas bows on his forehead and pose for a picture. I loved that part of Christmas. As a kid, I couldn’t imagine any holiday more perfect. It was after all, our tradition. It’s what we always did; what we were expected to do and deviating from that annual activity was not even considered.
But, sadly, with the passing of my Granny and Papaw, that tradition also disappeared. Everyone now has their own families, kids, and grandchildren. Everyone is scattered, busy and now disconnected from each other. I knew that after my Granny was gone, that there would no longer be a family matriarch and the annual get-togethers would also be gone. We’ve all made our own individual family traditions, now. There is still too much food and warm beer, but the pink and green Divinity candy is no longer made and we’re now way too “p-c” to tell those inappropriate stories.
A few weeks ago, as I rushed through the grocery store to make my way out to the parking lot with one of my many grocery purchases to prepare for much-too-much holiday excess, there was a little man in front of me, shuffling slowly ahead. I immediately thought of my Papaw and our holiday traditions of years’ past, as he was wearing a Fedora hat. He was moving very slow, carrying his single plastic grocery bag. His crisp white shirt was tucked into his blue and white striped seersucker pants and I noticed his belt had missed one belt loop. I was in a hurry, as always, and briefly thought about walking past him, but, I then reconsidered. I wanted to help him along; ask him if he needed anything, tuck his belt into the missing loop and give him a hug. After all, he was probably somebody’s special Papaw. Instead of walking around him, I decided to move slowly behind him, feeling it would be disrespectful to pass him, like a car moving too slow in the fast lane.
I think about my Granny and Papaw often, especially around Christmas. I know now there’s no picture perfect family or stress-free holiday and now truly appreciate their efforts in keeping those traditions alive. Remembering the many not-made-for-tv celebrations we had, I now believe that our annual dysfunctional family gathering was really the best of all holiday traditions. I miss the chaos, my Uncle’s politically-incorrect stories and the crazy extended family. Although Martha Stewart would have been mortified at the sight of our paper plates, Cheese Whiz in a can and non-conforming mounds of pink and green Divinity candy, I for one, can’t imagine a better tradition.
I look forward to the day when I am the “Granny.” On holidays, I’ll wear my one “good” dress and teach my daughter how to host a great holiday celebration and carry on the torch as matriarch. No matching holiday sweaters or singing carols in harmony will be required, but no doubt it will be complete with dysfunction, too much holiday cheer, too much food and a bow stuck on our foreheads, just for fun.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Calendar Girl
Once a year, my fav gal pals for over 30 years and I plan a “Girls’ Weekend” together. For some reason (some would call it anal retentive, that I’m a control freak or obsessed with having an official agenda, or chances are, all of the above), I am tasked with coordinating the weekend’s schedule of activities. I am always amazed at how challenging it is to find 2 out of the 365 days a year that will work for everyone in order to synchronize just 10 peoples’ calendars. There are 10 of us, all Moms, tied to our individual full-time “paying” jobs for at least 40 and too often up to 80 hours a week, commuting for another 10, then running errands, performing Domestic Goddess, Chauffeur and Mom duties, plus trying to find time to sleep and repeat all, in between. There are over 8,000 hours in a year – so why do we have so much trouble finding just 48 short hours within that huge overall number just to get together for one kid-free, husband/boyfriend/significant other-free, responsibility-free, calendar-free and insanity-free weekend?
Thinking about this, I pondered and thought that like the proverbial ball-and-chain, all of us seem to be weighed down by those deceptively pretty little calendars that hang by the fridge, in the office or stay tucked in the purse (but with easy access at all times) – the same calendars that are adorned with their peaceful-looking gardens, beautiful flowers, vacation views, happy cartoon characters, cute puppies or giggling, toothless babies – all decorated to match our kitchens, personalities or dream vacation destinations. Perhaps we think their happy, artful covers and perfect pictorial exteriors can mask the everyday chaos which is (with the best intentions) organized by day, by priority and in blue pen. Perhaps the tiny puppy with the big paws, little kitties tangled in a ball of yarn or drooling 1-year-old in a fairy costume will help subconsciously hide and ease the stress of the double-bookings, the travel schedule, the meetings and the dentist/doctor/PTA/appointments that we will forget, anyway, even though they’re circled in red marker (but also covered with a written scribble that no one in the family can quite decipher). Perhaps we will someday actually get to see the lake view that’s on the cover, in person -- that is, when there are two consecutive days on the calendar that appear to be ink-free. Ironically, these same tools of time management, calendars that mark the commencement of time with new days, months and years, that should give us a great big expansive view of the future and all the time we should have, also remind me that we’re on the calendar/day planner/”Blackberry” treadmill with too much we need to do (or think we need to do) with way too little time that is also going by entirely too fast.
Remember when time seemed to pass so slowly when we were adolescents? We couldn’t wait for time to go faster. We desperately wanted time to fast forward (not to mention skip over all those awkward/Clearasil/bad haircut years) to “beam us up, like “Scottie” in Star Trek and zoom us direct into adulthood, where seemingly, life was really glamorous, and more importantly without groundings, chore lists and Math homework and would ultimately provide the escape route from Mom and Dad’s roof and rules. We were told to take life slow and enjoy it, but unbeknownst to us at the time, we really did get there too fast. Out of our teens and in our twenties, time seemed to go at just the right pace, momentarily, that is. Then, just out of college and immersed in the beginning phase of another chapter -- perhaps we were starting a new career, a new relationship, a new shiny start at life, had endless lazy weekends, shopped or shared a chick flick with gal pals, had a real Saturday night date (which included wine, leisurely dinner conversation, eating with utensils and no fear of credit card debt) and Sunday brunches where we actually read the entire paper, not just the Target and grocery store ads (to see what we couldn’t live without that was at a discounted price that week). As I recollect, these were really the “pre-calendar years,” before time was no longer just our own and obviously destined to be short in demand. Becoming a slave to the calendar and day planners was not yet a reality or even a vision in the foreseeable future.
As a parent, I now understand how surreal that time warp must have felt and continues to feel for my own parents, as they turned the pages of their own annual calendars and watched me grow from a baby to a 40-something-year-old grown-up with a family and life of my own. If I can’t believe all this time has passed and I’m really a grown-up, surely they must feel the same way, too? How does it go by so fast? Why does that clock tick so slowly on the way to where we kids want to get to then so rapidly once it’s too late to realize we should have never rushed it in the first place? Guess that’s how whoever “they” were came up with the phrases “Wish I knew then what I know now” and “Youth is wasted on the young” came to be. (And, don’t you hate it when “they” are always right?!)
I secretly dream of getting rid of the Day Planner once and for all and living quietly in the cute little cottage, located in the field of flowers next to the babbling brook that’s featured in the month of April in my “Peaceful Settings” calendar. But, for now, I have to make peace with my own calendar entries that bleed from one day over to another and include double-bookings, scribbles, reminder stickers and post-it notes (often with cryptic and illegible messages) and make the most of those 8,000+ hours a year that I have, still with the hope that the second half of this lifetime doesn’t go by as fast as the first.
And, I will continue to plan the annual “Girls” get-together, coordinate our weekend’s schedule of events and outline the anal-retentive agenda for those 48 short hours without responsibilities and day planners that we have together. Because, those two days are indeed the only days of the year where we really can turn back time and the calendar reads “1978,” no matter what year it currently is. And, when it’s scheduled, the date will indeed be marked in the Day Planner and on the calendar next to the fridge, highlighted in bold print, underlined in red ink, and guaranteed – no double bookings.
Thinking about this, I pondered and thought that like the proverbial ball-and-chain, all of us seem to be weighed down by those deceptively pretty little calendars that hang by the fridge, in the office or stay tucked in the purse (but with easy access at all times) – the same calendars that are adorned with their peaceful-looking gardens, beautiful flowers, vacation views, happy cartoon characters, cute puppies or giggling, toothless babies – all decorated to match our kitchens, personalities or dream vacation destinations. Perhaps we think their happy, artful covers and perfect pictorial exteriors can mask the everyday chaos which is (with the best intentions) organized by day, by priority and in blue pen. Perhaps the tiny puppy with the big paws, little kitties tangled in a ball of yarn or drooling 1-year-old in a fairy costume will help subconsciously hide and ease the stress of the double-bookings, the travel schedule, the meetings and the dentist/doctor/PTA/appointments that we will forget, anyway, even though they’re circled in red marker (but also covered with a written scribble that no one in the family can quite decipher). Perhaps we will someday actually get to see the lake view that’s on the cover, in person -- that is, when there are two consecutive days on the calendar that appear to be ink-free. Ironically, these same tools of time management, calendars that mark the commencement of time with new days, months and years, that should give us a great big expansive view of the future and all the time we should have, also remind me that we’re on the calendar/day planner/”Blackberry” treadmill with too much we need to do (or think we need to do) with way too little time that is also going by entirely too fast.
Remember when time seemed to pass so slowly when we were adolescents? We couldn’t wait for time to go faster. We desperately wanted time to fast forward (not to mention skip over all those awkward/Clearasil/bad haircut years) to “beam us up, like “Scottie” in Star Trek and zoom us direct into adulthood, where seemingly, life was really glamorous, and more importantly without groundings, chore lists and Math homework and would ultimately provide the escape route from Mom and Dad’s roof and rules. We were told to take life slow and enjoy it, but unbeknownst to us at the time, we really did get there too fast. Out of our teens and in our twenties, time seemed to go at just the right pace, momentarily, that is. Then, just out of college and immersed in the beginning phase of another chapter -- perhaps we were starting a new career, a new relationship, a new shiny start at life, had endless lazy weekends, shopped or shared a chick flick with gal pals, had a real Saturday night date (which included wine, leisurely dinner conversation, eating with utensils and no fear of credit card debt) and Sunday brunches where we actually read the entire paper, not just the Target and grocery store ads (to see what we couldn’t live without that was at a discounted price that week). As I recollect, these were really the “pre-calendar years,” before time was no longer just our own and obviously destined to be short in demand. Becoming a slave to the calendar and day planners was not yet a reality or even a vision in the foreseeable future.
As a parent, I now understand how surreal that time warp must have felt and continues to feel for my own parents, as they turned the pages of their own annual calendars and watched me grow from a baby to a 40-something-year-old grown-up with a family and life of my own. If I can’t believe all this time has passed and I’m really a grown-up, surely they must feel the same way, too? How does it go by so fast? Why does that clock tick so slowly on the way to where we kids want to get to then so rapidly once it’s too late to realize we should have never rushed it in the first place? Guess that’s how whoever “they” were came up with the phrases “Wish I knew then what I know now” and “Youth is wasted on the young” came to be. (And, don’t you hate it when “they” are always right?!)
I secretly dream of getting rid of the Day Planner once and for all and living quietly in the cute little cottage, located in the field of flowers next to the babbling brook that’s featured in the month of April in my “Peaceful Settings” calendar. But, for now, I have to make peace with my own calendar entries that bleed from one day over to another and include double-bookings, scribbles, reminder stickers and post-it notes (often with cryptic and illegible messages) and make the most of those 8,000+ hours a year that I have, still with the hope that the second half of this lifetime doesn’t go by as fast as the first.
And, I will continue to plan the annual “Girls” get-together, coordinate our weekend’s schedule of events and outline the anal-retentive agenda for those 48 short hours without responsibilities and day planners that we have together. Because, those two days are indeed the only days of the year where we really can turn back time and the calendar reads “1978,” no matter what year it currently is. And, when it’s scheduled, the date will indeed be marked in the Day Planner and on the calendar next to the fridge, highlighted in bold print, underlined in red ink, and guaranteed – no double bookings.
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Other 4-Letter F Word
I’m not quite sure how we got here, but, just in case folks haven’t noticed, times have changed. Sadly, it’s quite obvious our kids are growing up and living in a very different world from the world we grew up in. The biggest concern we had as adolescents was getting to play outside with our friends until the sun went down, as we asked, “Mom, can we go ride our bikes?” Now, it’s, “Mom, I know I’m only 10, but I cannot go on living without the purchase of a cell phone.” I remember playing with one of my few “Barbie” dolls, decorating an old shoe box and pretending it was her big, fancy car, and my Mom used to sew tiny, very cool yet tasteful ball gowns, miniature versions of her favorite ‘60’s inspired swing dresses (with matching purses, of course) and even “June Cleaver”-like house dresses. Now, these dolls have enough clothes to outfit today’s gal for any occasion (yes, you too can perform surgery in the morning in your crisp white surgical duds, go mountain biking in the afternoon in your short and sporty outdoor apparel and then make that quick change in the evening into that Bob Mackie for any formal affair, all the while looking fresh and fit). Not to mention, they appear to me to look like over-coiffed teenage hookers, wear platform shoes, have collagen-injected lips and breast implants (although I think they had those boobs in the 70’s, too). They have limo’s, their own beauty salons, pet grooming businesses and fabulous outdoor pools, and apparently, are employed primarily by a p-i-m-p, but are also work in the medical field in their spare time. (Although, I do have to give praise to “Barbie,” she has set the bar pretty high and is obviously is multi-talented, beyond belief.) And a side note: I still own my one “Ken” doll, although, sadly has not yet come of out of the closet and has been destined to a life of naked seclusion in a sea of the aforementioned Barbie tarts acquired by my daughter from the ages of 3 to 7.
Do girls and women really aspire to look like these dolls? (Personally, between my Granny’s southern-fried cooking, the lifelong addiction to anything in the chocolate food group combined with a total lack of desire or will power, I never really stood a chance nor did I hold out hope that I would ever even begin to emulate the perfect representation of a modern plastic woman, anyway.) Perhaps this idealization is really more prevalent in the sub-conscious of women (although men have definitely played their part in getting us here), as it seems women now have the pressure to achieve this unrealistic goal of being the perfect woman, one who takes perfect care of herself and everyone around her, plus brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. So, when you don’t do it all, there’s the guilt party package to go along with the pressure: If you’re a working Mom, there’s often the impression that you don’t care enough about your kids to sacrifice the almighty dollar to stay home. If you stay home with your kids, you are often viewed by the world that you do nothing but sit around and eat bon bons all day (although I’m all for chocolate consumption). For some, it’s an easy decision. For others, the defining of one’s role doesn’t come with a clear and easy choice. While there may be some that disagree, I will continue to throw down the gauntlet until I depart this planet and proclaim that it is just not true that women can “have it all,” even with collagen-injected lips, perfectly coiffed hair, a tricked-out limo, a three-story magic castle dream house or your own Barbie briefcase.
What happened? Where did this pressure come from? Is this called progress? At the risk of becoming one of those previous generation club members who continually pontificate about the “good ‘ol days,” I must say, I do miss the days of shoe box Barbie cars, food fried in Crisco shortening with a big, guilt-free side of carbohydrates and the days when the biggest dilemma of the day being was whether to watch “The Brady Bunch” or “The Partridge Family” because they came on at the same time, on two of only three local channels on TV. That David Cassidy guy was so dreamy, but, even then, I was torn between the fantasy of living his family’s “rock-and-roll” lifestyle on the road in a fabulous, multi-colored school bus or having the perfect, happy, well-dressed middle class Brady family, sitting together at the dinner table, eating Alice’s meatloaf, with the never-ending happy endings and a clear lesson that was learned the not-so-hard way. Choices are the perpetual contradiction that haunt many women, as they pave the road for us in adolescence and then fork sharply between youthful optimism and mid-life crisis.
Life was so simple when we were kids – we were less aware of all the choices (and made even more simple by our parents not giving them to us). I guess every generation longs for their days gone by and feels the same way – that there is no better era or life to lead than the one they went through. And, it is true, today there are many great, modern advantages (USB keys and microwave popcorn!), so many choices and new opportunities that we did not have growing up, and truly great experiences to be had by our children. But, sadly, there is also much to shelter them from and even much more to teach them. As a parent, it’s hard to know where to draw the line with information you give your kids in order to protect them from this world that’s moving too fast, because you know if they don’t get the education first-hand from you, they’ll get the it from their peers, television or even worse, if they are not educated at all, they could find themselves naively led to a situation that can only ends in bad. It’s often stressful and questionable to know when to teach them what. How do you keep them safe without keeping them from leaving the house? And, is it possible to keep them detached from the “Jerry Springer Society” that we now live in? We want them to have them choices, but we pray they make the right ones.
It is indeed challenging at times to know how to parent and teach our kids how to make the best, and hopefully the right choices for them, especially when life can be full of contradictions. We get so many mixed messages as we’re immersed in a land of opportunity that’s also currently a tabloid-driven, reality-television world of over-exposed “role models” where anything goes. While I would never condone or model such a lifestyle for myself of my child, admittedly, I too, am indeed a self-proclaimed connoisseur and addicted fan of a few of today’s trashiest reality television show characters (I want to look away and change the channel, but somehow can’t bring myself to do so). I am embarrassed, bewildered and intrigued by the fact that I have been introduced to a whole new version of the English language that I thought was only part of some underground sub-culture that surely in my day, would have received an X rating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no prude. And while I’m no stranger to using the “F” word on occasion (usually when on the search to find clothes in my closet that have adjusted to whatever my current size is at the moment), “dropping the F bomb” doesn’t warrant a blink of the eye. And, even though it warrants a censor’s audio beep, you know it’s there, right there on cable television!
But, as I’ve grown older, I realize that another “F word” has played a bigger role in my life than I ever realized. It was always there, under the surface, but, nobody ever saw it or knew it but me. Just as denial had played a part in most every relationship I’ve had with men, and obviously every single diet I’ve been on over the years (also fueled by a Hostess cupcake conspiracy), denial also covered up this embodied “F word” until it bubbled to the top one day, and I could see it, hanging there in front of me (like a flashing billboard sign that Wyle E. Coyote approaches as he sees seconds too late as he’s about to chase the roadrunner over the edge of a cliff). Very quickly my sense of denial gave way to the true understanding and the impact this “F word” has on me. It didn’t really click that this word was such a big part of my subconscious vocabulary, until I actually heard the words come out of my mouth, as I gave advice to my 10-year-old daughter. She was about to do her first play as a comedic character at the local community theater and she was really nervous. With that “Carol Brady”-inspired positive attitude I told her, “Just remember the 3 F’s. First: Be Funny. Secondly: Have Fun. And, third: Be Fearless!”
There it was: a clear, concise, simple message that she could take and carry with her throughout her first play. I repeated it to her numerous times before she performed and made her repeat it back to me to make sure she remembered it. Each time I said it, the little devil that sits on one shoulder whispered into my ear, “You are such a hypocrite.” My friend Denial tried to block out the voice, but it was there. How could I possibly convince my daughter and enlighten her with such a script of profound parental advice when, secretly, the other “F word:” FEAR, the #3 on the list, was a part of my everyday life? I felt more ashamed to use the word “fear” than the other “F word.” Like an alcoholic who thinks he/she can start with one drink, but it snowballs into 8, or like the one piece of chocolate that turns into the whole cake, I realized then, I’m also an addict to something other than carbs: fear. It’s the curse of the “People Pleaser” and I believe the irrevocable badge of honor of an only child. It’s the addiction never talked about at parties and only defined in the Self-Help book aisle at Barnes and Noble. It’s the fear of letting others down. The fear of somebody not liking you. The fear that your life may have turned out differently than you had expected. It’s the fear you’ll never reach that single-digit clothing size again. The fear of realizing the truth that many important people in your life turn out to not be the people you had hoped or thought they were. It’s the fear that you’ve made some wrong choices. But, the biggest fear of them all is the one where your children never take advantage of the many opportunities in the new world – some of the same opportunities that you might have missed along the way between “The Partridge Family” and Reality TV.
But, now, hearing the sound of that “F Word” (FEAR), and REALLY listening to what that word has to say, seems to me it doesn’t mean all gloom and doom or the glass is half empty. And, ironically, the word is not so scary to me anymore. It signifies that with age really does come wisdom, that a little fear is healthy, can be life-changing and that perhaps this realization means that I know fears can be conquered and perhaps that damn little devil will be knocked off my one shoulder once and for all. But, like kicking carbs, though, it’s one-day-at-a-time process and a lofty goal. I plan to teach my daughter to face that particular “F Word” head-on, each day, and approach life with a nice healthy balance of caution, curiosity and zest, emphasizing that she should never live in fear. But if it does happen to creep up on her, she should use it as a tool to push forward, a motivator to reach and surpass her life’s goals. I want to lead her in the right direction and help her realize that life has lessons to offer all of us, whether we are 10-years-old or in the senior citizens’ home, as well as many choices -- good bad or indifferent, everyday, and it’s okay to be a little scared, but to keep it from becoming all-consuming.
As for using that other “F Word,” while I don’t use it on a daily basis, I have to admit, I still “drop the F Bomb” every now and then. And, I’ve learned that while I may often still feel afraid of how this world and life has changed, and while I still worry about the hard lessons will continue to come along for my daughter in her life, I know I cannot let fear get the best of me, as it may rub off on her. I now try to take my own advice and choose to practice the philosophy of the “3 F’s,” if not everyday, as often as possible until that little voice on the right shoulder fades to an inaudible volume. It’s a choice I’m grateful to have. I have also come to realize there is indeed a place for all of us, and even at times, a place for that little devil and that “F Word,” as well Barbie,” her dream house and her platform shoes.
Do girls and women really aspire to look like these dolls? (Personally, between my Granny’s southern-fried cooking, the lifelong addiction to anything in the chocolate food group combined with a total lack of desire or will power, I never really stood a chance nor did I hold out hope that I would ever even begin to emulate the perfect representation of a modern plastic woman, anyway.) Perhaps this idealization is really more prevalent in the sub-conscious of women (although men have definitely played their part in getting us here), as it seems women now have the pressure to achieve this unrealistic goal of being the perfect woman, one who takes perfect care of herself and everyone around her, plus brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. So, when you don’t do it all, there’s the guilt party package to go along with the pressure: If you’re a working Mom, there’s often the impression that you don’t care enough about your kids to sacrifice the almighty dollar to stay home. If you stay home with your kids, you are often viewed by the world that you do nothing but sit around and eat bon bons all day (although I’m all for chocolate consumption). For some, it’s an easy decision. For others, the defining of one’s role doesn’t come with a clear and easy choice. While there may be some that disagree, I will continue to throw down the gauntlet until I depart this planet and proclaim that it is just not true that women can “have it all,” even with collagen-injected lips, perfectly coiffed hair, a tricked-out limo, a three-story magic castle dream house or your own Barbie briefcase.
What happened? Where did this pressure come from? Is this called progress? At the risk of becoming one of those previous generation club members who continually pontificate about the “good ‘ol days,” I must say, I do miss the days of shoe box Barbie cars, food fried in Crisco shortening with a big, guilt-free side of carbohydrates and the days when the biggest dilemma of the day being was whether to watch “The Brady Bunch” or “The Partridge Family” because they came on at the same time, on two of only three local channels on TV. That David Cassidy guy was so dreamy, but, even then, I was torn between the fantasy of living his family’s “rock-and-roll” lifestyle on the road in a fabulous, multi-colored school bus or having the perfect, happy, well-dressed middle class Brady family, sitting together at the dinner table, eating Alice’s meatloaf, with the never-ending happy endings and a clear lesson that was learned the not-so-hard way. Choices are the perpetual contradiction that haunt many women, as they pave the road for us in adolescence and then fork sharply between youthful optimism and mid-life crisis.
Life was so simple when we were kids – we were less aware of all the choices (and made even more simple by our parents not giving them to us). I guess every generation longs for their days gone by and feels the same way – that there is no better era or life to lead than the one they went through. And, it is true, today there are many great, modern advantages (USB keys and microwave popcorn!), so many choices and new opportunities that we did not have growing up, and truly great experiences to be had by our children. But, sadly, there is also much to shelter them from and even much more to teach them. As a parent, it’s hard to know where to draw the line with information you give your kids in order to protect them from this world that’s moving too fast, because you know if they don’t get the education first-hand from you, they’ll get the it from their peers, television or even worse, if they are not educated at all, they could find themselves naively led to a situation that can only ends in bad. It’s often stressful and questionable to know when to teach them what. How do you keep them safe without keeping them from leaving the house? And, is it possible to keep them detached from the “Jerry Springer Society” that we now live in? We want them to have them choices, but we pray they make the right ones.
It is indeed challenging at times to know how to parent and teach our kids how to make the best, and hopefully the right choices for them, especially when life can be full of contradictions. We get so many mixed messages as we’re immersed in a land of opportunity that’s also currently a tabloid-driven, reality-television world of over-exposed “role models” where anything goes. While I would never condone or model such a lifestyle for myself of my child, admittedly, I too, am indeed a self-proclaimed connoisseur and addicted fan of a few of today’s trashiest reality television show characters (I want to look away and change the channel, but somehow can’t bring myself to do so). I am embarrassed, bewildered and intrigued by the fact that I have been introduced to a whole new version of the English language that I thought was only part of some underground sub-culture that surely in my day, would have received an X rating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no prude. And while I’m no stranger to using the “F” word on occasion (usually when on the search to find clothes in my closet that have adjusted to whatever my current size is at the moment), “dropping the F bomb” doesn’t warrant a blink of the eye. And, even though it warrants a censor’s audio beep, you know it’s there, right there on cable television!
But, as I’ve grown older, I realize that another “F word” has played a bigger role in my life than I ever realized. It was always there, under the surface, but, nobody ever saw it or knew it but me. Just as denial had played a part in most every relationship I’ve had with men, and obviously every single diet I’ve been on over the years (also fueled by a Hostess cupcake conspiracy), denial also covered up this embodied “F word” until it bubbled to the top one day, and I could see it, hanging there in front of me (like a flashing billboard sign that Wyle E. Coyote approaches as he sees seconds too late as he’s about to chase the roadrunner over the edge of a cliff). Very quickly my sense of denial gave way to the true understanding and the impact this “F word” has on me. It didn’t really click that this word was such a big part of my subconscious vocabulary, until I actually heard the words come out of my mouth, as I gave advice to my 10-year-old daughter. She was about to do her first play as a comedic character at the local community theater and she was really nervous. With that “Carol Brady”-inspired positive attitude I told her, “Just remember the 3 F’s. First: Be Funny. Secondly: Have Fun. And, third: Be Fearless!”
There it was: a clear, concise, simple message that she could take and carry with her throughout her first play. I repeated it to her numerous times before she performed and made her repeat it back to me to make sure she remembered it. Each time I said it, the little devil that sits on one shoulder whispered into my ear, “You are such a hypocrite.” My friend Denial tried to block out the voice, but it was there. How could I possibly convince my daughter and enlighten her with such a script of profound parental advice when, secretly, the other “F word:” FEAR, the #3 on the list, was a part of my everyday life? I felt more ashamed to use the word “fear” than the other “F word.” Like an alcoholic who thinks he/she can start with one drink, but it snowballs into 8, or like the one piece of chocolate that turns into the whole cake, I realized then, I’m also an addict to something other than carbs: fear. It’s the curse of the “People Pleaser” and I believe the irrevocable badge of honor of an only child. It’s the addiction never talked about at parties and only defined in the Self-Help book aisle at Barnes and Noble. It’s the fear of letting others down. The fear of somebody not liking you. The fear that your life may have turned out differently than you had expected. It’s the fear you’ll never reach that single-digit clothing size again. The fear of realizing the truth that many important people in your life turn out to not be the people you had hoped or thought they were. It’s the fear that you’ve made some wrong choices. But, the biggest fear of them all is the one where your children never take advantage of the many opportunities in the new world – some of the same opportunities that you might have missed along the way between “The Partridge Family” and Reality TV.
But, now, hearing the sound of that “F Word” (FEAR), and REALLY listening to what that word has to say, seems to me it doesn’t mean all gloom and doom or the glass is half empty. And, ironically, the word is not so scary to me anymore. It signifies that with age really does come wisdom, that a little fear is healthy, can be life-changing and that perhaps this realization means that I know fears can be conquered and perhaps that damn little devil will be knocked off my one shoulder once and for all. But, like kicking carbs, though, it’s one-day-at-a-time process and a lofty goal. I plan to teach my daughter to face that particular “F Word” head-on, each day, and approach life with a nice healthy balance of caution, curiosity and zest, emphasizing that she should never live in fear. But if it does happen to creep up on her, she should use it as a tool to push forward, a motivator to reach and surpass her life’s goals. I want to lead her in the right direction and help her realize that life has lessons to offer all of us, whether we are 10-years-old or in the senior citizens’ home, as well as many choices -- good bad or indifferent, everyday, and it’s okay to be a little scared, but to keep it from becoming all-consuming.
As for using that other “F Word,” while I don’t use it on a daily basis, I have to admit, I still “drop the F Bomb” every now and then. And, I’ve learned that while I may often still feel afraid of how this world and life has changed, and while I still worry about the hard lessons will continue to come along for my daughter in her life, I know I cannot let fear get the best of me, as it may rub off on her. I now try to take my own advice and choose to practice the philosophy of the “3 F’s,” if not everyday, as often as possible until that little voice on the right shoulder fades to an inaudible volume. It’s a choice I’m grateful to have. I have also come to realize there is indeed a place for all of us, and even at times, a place for that little devil and that “F Word,” as well Barbie,” her dream house and her platform shoes.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Don't Call Me Ma'am
At first it was flattering. Then it was amusing and somewhat entertaining. And, later, it became horrible. It was irritating, embarrassing and most of all, depressing. That word could make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It was a simple word – an acceptable word that we’re accustomed to hearing and using everyday. Its meaning has the purest intent of politeness, common courtesy and in the South, it’s a must-use word when addressing any elder. The word in its basic context is simple, its use displays proof of manners, good etiquette and respect. It is also a word that signifies the sad departure of flowering youth, doing tequila shots in your dorm room, sleeping through your M/W/F 8 am college algebra class on a regular basis and midnight runs to Jack-in-the Box with your friends who fail to impress the trailing cars in the drive-through by cruising to the pick-up window in reverse.
The word? It’s the dreaded “Ma’am.”
Initially, it was barely noticeable and even then, it was uttered by the pubescent bag boy at the grocery store as his thin arms placed the last bag of groceries into the trunk of my car. “Have a nice weekend, ma’am,” he said, with a forced “my parents are making me work here/it’s 110 degrees in the middle of summer in Texas/and I’m sick of pushing this stupid cart and carrying bags for people like you who can’t get a good parking place close to the store” smile on his face. After all, who’s to take a “ma’am seriously from a 16-year-old boy who shamelessly picks food out of his silver, metal braces while you’re making small talk with him on your journey across the parking lot in search of your vehicle?
Then, the “ma’am’s” began to come more frequently. I wasn’t ready for them and they really caught me off-guard. It became noticeable when talking to people over the phone during my first full-time job after college. It’s okay, I thought. They don’t realize I’m not a “ma’am” because they can’t see me. That must be it. They think I’m a “ma’am” because I sound older and so mature, professional and helpful. They just assume I’m a “ma’am,” so I can shrug it off and feel secure knowing the truth – that I’m years away from “ma’am-ness.”
As a teen, I always looked older than my real age. And, of course, during those formative years, looking older was not something to be taken lightly – it was life’s mission. It was so flattering at the time to be observed by my parents’ friends (especially the men that I had childhood crushes on) and to hear, “I can’t believe she’s only 14. She could pass for 20!” (Upon reflection, the word “statutory” now quickly comes to mind.) I always smiled coyly, feeling very adult, thinking my “Charlie’s Angels” hairdo looked oh-so foxy, as well as thick eyeliner and shiny roll-on lip gloss (with the subtle yet sexy scent of cheap bubble gum) coated heavily on my very unkissed lips.
Looking older never really played a significant role for me in getting dates. I was always one-half of the “let’s just be good friends” relationships. However, my mature appearance did come in very handy in high school when it came to buying the beer and my quality drink of choice (any wine under five dollars) on Friday and Saturday nights for our typical weekend group activities.
In college, getting older and becoming a “ma’am” was never in the plans. College is, after all, the place where time stands still, where living for the moment and experiencing the frivolous, irresponsible and wonderful events of young adulthood are the primary curriculum. When you’re swapping “the first time you did it” stories, deciding to road trip at 1:00 am to see your roommate’s cute brother, stealing your friend’s towel from the community shower or eating cold Spaghettios out of the can, the last thing on your mind is the possibility of actually getting older. Mortality is just not an issue. Getting to the “Music Listening Room” in the Quad between classes in time to watch “Luke and Laura’s” wedding – now that’s an issue.
The realization of fleeing youth does not happen overnight – it is a gradual process. Each individual may have significant experiences and turning points in their lives to mark their own passing into becoming the next generation. Perhaps it’s the first appearance of gray hair. Or maybe it’s when you stop bouncing $3.00 checks for gas at the 7-Eleven. Or it could be the day when Hostess Twinkies stop being a part of your daily diet (although that doesn’t mean the desire isn’t still there). For me, I can remember the exact minute I realized I was a confirmed “ma’am” – when I was indeed no longer part of the young, hip, bravely defiant “new wave” generation that blazed through the 80’s emulating whatever “cool” role models we had at the time. (I tried to be “punk,” but I just couldn’t really pull it off. I wasn’t willing to go all the way with the look, however, I did manage a lame attempt to “spike” my hair. That hairdresser should have been punished.) The moment of realization wasn’t when sales clerks at department stores or waiters at restaurants called me “ma’am.” They have to call everyone “ma’am” or “sir” – everyone knows it’s part of the unwritten code for those in the service industry. (Having waited tables in college, I know this. You call them “ma’am” or “sir” when they order, then “ass hole” after they leave and you’ve gotten their 10% tip.”
It was a defining moment, really. For many years, even to this day, I take pride in my seemingly well-versed knowledge of music. Perhaps it’s only self-proclaimed expertise and a youthful claim to fame yet worthless skill on the resume, but a high honor among my esteemed group of fellow music lover friends. (Seeing that this “esteemed” group was the same group that used me as their beer-buying underage stooge, risking my arrest and not theirs, perhaps I should question what level “honor” that really is!) Anyway, the moment came in 1992. Reunited with many of my best gal pals since junior high school over a weekend get-together -- we made dinner, drank wine (making vast improvements over the high school beverage selections – jumping to a $10 bottle of wine), sat around and told stories and eventually progressed to a late-night ritual of younger days past: watching “Saturday Night Live.” While there was no surpassing the epic SNL’s of the 70’s (there’s just nothing better than “Bass-o-Matic”), there was always one part of the show we waited for, no matter what decade it was: the musical guests. But, when the introductions were made, it was apparent that I had officially become a “ma’am.” I had no idea who the performing band was! How could this be? I knew no songs. I had no back-up singer moves. I had no recollection of this band, who they were and had not even a trace of a crush on the lead singer and had no musical flashback of where their song could take me, as familiar music always does. I was only 30 years old, how could this happen? Could this be happening to others as well? I was very confused and admittedly a bit sad. All this time, I thought my friends and I had collectively avoided growing up, growing older and growing into a world that suddenly appeared to be approaching the Land of Grown-ups.
To this day, I cringe when called “ma’am.” I want to exclaim to the world, “I’m not a ma’am! Really! I’m really just a 17 year-old-girl somehow trapped in this middle-aged body…it’s really 1979 and I’m Van Halen’s favorite groupie…I secretly wear the coolest clothes, this 10-year-old mini van is not mine and Gwen Stefani wants to be me.” But, the only words that surface are, “Please don’t call me ma’am.” The pubescent bag boy, who looks the same (although the silver, metal braces are now orange and blue) grins and continues to push the grocery cart. He knows I really am a “ma’am” and I know there’s nothing I could say or do to convince him otherwise.
I, however, despite the early stages of hot flashes, have still not embraced my status as a “ma’am.” And, with the announcement in 2007 that Van Halen will tour yet again, I am convinced there is indeed still hope for me. Once a groupie, always a groupie. (Although, I may have to do some research…Is spandex still “in?”)
The word? It’s the dreaded “Ma’am.”
Initially, it was barely noticeable and even then, it was uttered by the pubescent bag boy at the grocery store as his thin arms placed the last bag of groceries into the trunk of my car. “Have a nice weekend, ma’am,” he said, with a forced “my parents are making me work here/it’s 110 degrees in the middle of summer in Texas/and I’m sick of pushing this stupid cart and carrying bags for people like you who can’t get a good parking place close to the store” smile on his face. After all, who’s to take a “ma’am seriously from a 16-year-old boy who shamelessly picks food out of his silver, metal braces while you’re making small talk with him on your journey across the parking lot in search of your vehicle?
Then, the “ma’am’s” began to come more frequently. I wasn’t ready for them and they really caught me off-guard. It became noticeable when talking to people over the phone during my first full-time job after college. It’s okay, I thought. They don’t realize I’m not a “ma’am” because they can’t see me. That must be it. They think I’m a “ma’am” because I sound older and so mature, professional and helpful. They just assume I’m a “ma’am,” so I can shrug it off and feel secure knowing the truth – that I’m years away from “ma’am-ness.”
As a teen, I always looked older than my real age. And, of course, during those formative years, looking older was not something to be taken lightly – it was life’s mission. It was so flattering at the time to be observed by my parents’ friends (especially the men that I had childhood crushes on) and to hear, “I can’t believe she’s only 14. She could pass for 20!” (Upon reflection, the word “statutory” now quickly comes to mind.) I always smiled coyly, feeling very adult, thinking my “Charlie’s Angels” hairdo looked oh-so foxy, as well as thick eyeliner and shiny roll-on lip gloss (with the subtle yet sexy scent of cheap bubble gum) coated heavily on my very unkissed lips.
Looking older never really played a significant role for me in getting dates. I was always one-half of the “let’s just be good friends” relationships. However, my mature appearance did come in very handy in high school when it came to buying the beer and my quality drink of choice (any wine under five dollars) on Friday and Saturday nights for our typical weekend group activities.
In college, getting older and becoming a “ma’am” was never in the plans. College is, after all, the place where time stands still, where living for the moment and experiencing the frivolous, irresponsible and wonderful events of young adulthood are the primary curriculum. When you’re swapping “the first time you did it” stories, deciding to road trip at 1:00 am to see your roommate’s cute brother, stealing your friend’s towel from the community shower or eating cold Spaghettios out of the can, the last thing on your mind is the possibility of actually getting older. Mortality is just not an issue. Getting to the “Music Listening Room” in the Quad between classes in time to watch “Luke and Laura’s” wedding – now that’s an issue.
The realization of fleeing youth does not happen overnight – it is a gradual process. Each individual may have significant experiences and turning points in their lives to mark their own passing into becoming the next generation. Perhaps it’s the first appearance of gray hair. Or maybe it’s when you stop bouncing $3.00 checks for gas at the 7-Eleven. Or it could be the day when Hostess Twinkies stop being a part of your daily diet (although that doesn’t mean the desire isn’t still there). For me, I can remember the exact minute I realized I was a confirmed “ma’am” – when I was indeed no longer part of the young, hip, bravely defiant “new wave” generation that blazed through the 80’s emulating whatever “cool” role models we had at the time. (I tried to be “punk,” but I just couldn’t really pull it off. I wasn’t willing to go all the way with the look, however, I did manage a lame attempt to “spike” my hair. That hairdresser should have been punished.) The moment of realization wasn’t when sales clerks at department stores or waiters at restaurants called me “ma’am.” They have to call everyone “ma’am” or “sir” – everyone knows it’s part of the unwritten code for those in the service industry. (Having waited tables in college, I know this. You call them “ma’am” or “sir” when they order, then “ass hole” after they leave and you’ve gotten their 10% tip.”
It was a defining moment, really. For many years, even to this day, I take pride in my seemingly well-versed knowledge of music. Perhaps it’s only self-proclaimed expertise and a youthful claim to fame yet worthless skill on the resume, but a high honor among my esteemed group of fellow music lover friends. (Seeing that this “esteemed” group was the same group that used me as their beer-buying underage stooge, risking my arrest and not theirs, perhaps I should question what level “honor” that really is!) Anyway, the moment came in 1992. Reunited with many of my best gal pals since junior high school over a weekend get-together -- we made dinner, drank wine (making vast improvements over the high school beverage selections – jumping to a $10 bottle of wine), sat around and told stories and eventually progressed to a late-night ritual of younger days past: watching “Saturday Night Live.” While there was no surpassing the epic SNL’s of the 70’s (there’s just nothing better than “Bass-o-Matic”), there was always one part of the show we waited for, no matter what decade it was: the musical guests. But, when the introductions were made, it was apparent that I had officially become a “ma’am.” I had no idea who the performing band was! How could this be? I knew no songs. I had no back-up singer moves. I had no recollection of this band, who they were and had not even a trace of a crush on the lead singer and had no musical flashback of where their song could take me, as familiar music always does. I was only 30 years old, how could this happen? Could this be happening to others as well? I was very confused and admittedly a bit sad. All this time, I thought my friends and I had collectively avoided growing up, growing older and growing into a world that suddenly appeared to be approaching the Land of Grown-ups.
To this day, I cringe when called “ma’am.” I want to exclaim to the world, “I’m not a ma’am! Really! I’m really just a 17 year-old-girl somehow trapped in this middle-aged body…it’s really 1979 and I’m Van Halen’s favorite groupie…I secretly wear the coolest clothes, this 10-year-old mini van is not mine and Gwen Stefani wants to be me.” But, the only words that surface are, “Please don’t call me ma’am.” The pubescent bag boy, who looks the same (although the silver, metal braces are now orange and blue) grins and continues to push the grocery cart. He knows I really am a “ma’am” and I know there’s nothing I could say or do to convince him otherwise.
I, however, despite the early stages of hot flashes, have still not embraced my status as a “ma’am.” And, with the announcement in 2007 that Van Halen will tour yet again, I am convinced there is indeed still hope for me. Once a groupie, always a groupie. (Although, I may have to do some research…Is spandex still “in?”)
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