Around here, unless you're three foot tall, covered in red fur, and giggle like a friendly hyena, you won't get much attention. Apparently, carrying a child for nine months and forgoing precious hours of sleep to feed, rock and soothe her doesn't account for much when compared to the infectious antics of an exuberant little monster...Elmo.
My kid loves Elmo. I mean loooooves Elmo. It's crazy. She's only 16 months old! She pines away for him with a cutely pathetic little whine, "Elmo...Elmooo." She anxiously points at the computer screen, wanting me to pull up sesamestreet.com. I know it's my own fault. Obviously, I exposed her to his "furness," but I had no idea it would go this far.
So who is Elmo, exactly? Born in 1979, his original name was "Little Monster." It wasn't until 1985 that he developed his current persona, when Muppeteer Kevin Clash began playing the role. He's even written a book about his "Life as a Furry Red Monster."
So what's your take on Sir Elmo? Personally, I like him, despite my daughter's unhealthy obsession. I particularly like Adam Sandler's take:
Friday, October 1, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Sexy Side of Sears?
As a side effect of my work with Girl Scouts of Kansas Heartland to promote healthy media images for girls (which you can read about here) I've become more sensitive and aware of just how far advertisers are willing to go to sell their products to young girls.
Take this ad from Sears, for example. It clearly states who the intended target audience is: girls who wear "junior" sized clothing. Now some may argue that girls in their late teens and early twenties (and beyond, but that's another issue) wear junior clothing, so this ad may not be inappropriate.
But for those of you with tween daughters, you know that this is the image they look up to. While you're browsing through the children's section, they're stealing glances at the juniors section, with the low-cut, painted on jeans and t-shirts emblazoned with "Flirt" and "Delicious." (By the way, I'm putting my daughter in a bubble, so we'll never have to deal with this.) Suzanne Tobias wrote a great article about this for the Wichita Eagle. You can read it here.
And who is this model, by the way? Audrina Patridge. Who? Ok, ok I am out of the loop. She made her acting debut on the MTV reality show, The Hills, and has recently posed on the cover of Maxim, which you can see here (warning, this is Maxim we're talking about here people, so be warned!).
So, Mr. or Mrs. advertiser, you're showcasing a reality TV star and Maxim cover model to sell our young daughters your jeans? And if you have any doubt about who their target audience is, check out the next page, where they show their "5 fab fits" on a young (maybe 15?), fresh-faced model.
We all know that "sex sells," but are we really ok with that? Especially when it's being pushed at our children?
I recommend checking out this documentary by former super model Nicole Clark, called "Cover Girl Culture." It was a real eye-opener.
Take this ad from Sears, for example. It clearly states who the intended target audience is: girls who wear "junior" sized clothing. Now some may argue that girls in their late teens and early twenties (and beyond, but that's another issue) wear junior clothing, so this ad may not be inappropriate.
But for those of you with tween daughters, you know that this is the image they look up to. While you're browsing through the children's section, they're stealing glances at the juniors section, with the low-cut, painted on jeans and t-shirts emblazoned with "Flirt" and "Delicious." (By the way, I'm putting my daughter in a bubble, so we'll never have to deal with this.) Suzanne Tobias wrote a great article about this for the Wichita Eagle. You can read it here.
And who is this model, by the way? Audrina Patridge. Who? Ok, ok I am out of the loop. She made her acting debut on the MTV reality show, The Hills, and has recently posed on the cover of Maxim, which you can see here (warning, this is Maxim we're talking about here people, so be warned!).
So, Mr. or Mrs. advertiser, you're showcasing a reality TV star and Maxim cover model to sell our young daughters your jeans? And if you have any doubt about who their target audience is, check out the next page, where they show their "5 fab fits" on a young (maybe 15?), fresh-faced model.
We all know that "sex sells," but are we really ok with that? Especially when it's being pushed at our children?
I recommend checking out this documentary by former super model Nicole Clark, called "Cover Girl Culture." It was a real eye-opener.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Cool Kid
The question is, do I want her to be "the cool kid" when she's older? I've been giving this a lot of thought lately. We always want our children to be better off than we were, but I have to admit, I kind of hope she's a nerd.
Although I got along with nearly everyone in school, I was a tall, goofy-looking nerd (and no, you can't see the pictures to prove it). And you know what? I think I'm better off because of it. I have more compassion for people who don't fit in, and I endured many "character-building" situations.
So, what is your hope for your children? That they're a popular member of the in-crowd or their own unique person, whether that makes them a nerd or not?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
So Long Self
A group of lovely young ladies and I meet every Tuesday night for a book study centered around "The Worn Out Woman," by Dr. Steve Stevens and Alice Gray. We laugh, we cry (well, we will eventually) and together we try to find ways to cope with the whirlwind of life while growing closer to Christ.
We're all moms, all married, and all yearning to regain our joie de vivre--to be more peaceful, patient and put a little pep back in our step.
One common theme is our perceived lack of "self." Once you're a frantic, frazzled momma, what happens to the woman who used to take long bubble baths, spend hours chatting with her best friend or get completely lost in an addictive piece of fiction?
I catch glimpses of her every now and then. When a few precious uninterrupted hours (or minutes) magically appear, I might catch her idly thumbing through a glossy magazine, or giggling on the couch while watching episode after episode of Everybody Loves Raymond.
I begrudgingly approach her, and remind her in my best tough-love tone: "You really shouldn't be doing this. There are three baskets full of dirty laundry, crusty dishes on the kitchen counter, and a stinky kitty litter box in the closet."
Most of the time, she'll pretend not to hear me at first, and then let out a long sigh as she hoists herself up off the couch. Sometimes, though, she pulls a pillow up over her head and closes her eyes. I like those days.
We're all moms, all married, and all yearning to regain our joie de vivre--to be more peaceful, patient and put a little pep back in our step.
One common theme is our perceived lack of "self." Once you're a frantic, frazzled momma, what happens to the woman who used to take long bubble baths, spend hours chatting with her best friend or get completely lost in an addictive piece of fiction?
I catch glimpses of her every now and then. When a few precious uninterrupted hours (or minutes) magically appear, I might catch her idly thumbing through a glossy magazine, or giggling on the couch while watching episode after episode of Everybody Loves Raymond.
I begrudgingly approach her, and remind her in my best tough-love tone: "You really shouldn't be doing this. There are three baskets full of dirty laundry, crusty dishes on the kitchen counter, and a stinky kitty litter box in the closet."
Most of the time, she'll pretend not to hear me at first, and then let out a long sigh as she hoists herself up off the couch. Sometimes, though, she pulls a pillow up over her head and closes her eyes. I like those days.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Alive and Well
I took my daughter for her one-year check up today. She was poked, prodded and pictures were taken of her insides, and I'm glad to report she's perfectly healthy.
Healthy. It's a word I savor. It's a gift, a fleeting treasure to be enjoyed and protected. As I held her plump little arms down while she was on the X-ray table, I couldn't help but imagine what it must be like to have a child who was not well. I pictured her in a tiny hospital gown with IV's embedded in her arm. Pictured her with no hair, smooth-headed after rounds of chemotherapy.
Maybe I'm strange for having these thoughts, but for me, it's just a way to remind myself of how fortunate I am. So many of my friends and family are facing life-changing health challenges right now, and I know that will be me someday. It could be cancer, heart disease, loss of eyesight, or the more-likely scenario in my case, Alzheimer's.
So, for now I will delight in our health. I will leap, run, and dance for joy. We are alive and well.
Healthy. It's a word I savor. It's a gift, a fleeting treasure to be enjoyed and protected. As I held her plump little arms down while she was on the X-ray table, I couldn't help but imagine what it must be like to have a child who was not well. I pictured her in a tiny hospital gown with IV's embedded in her arm. Pictured her with no hair, smooth-headed after rounds of chemotherapy.
Maybe I'm strange for having these thoughts, but for me, it's just a way to remind myself of how fortunate I am. So many of my friends and family are facing life-changing health challenges right now, and I know that will be me someday. It could be cancer, heart disease, loss of eyesight, or the more-likely scenario in my case, Alzheimer's.
So, for now I will delight in our health. I will leap, run, and dance for joy. We are alive and well.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Postive, Encouraging, ME
So, I listen to K-LOVE on my way to work every morning (Christian music station). Honestly, I used to dislike K-LOVE very much. I was annoyed at the upbeat personalities, the "Kumbaya" music and even the tag-line: "Positive, Encouraging, K-LOVE." Blech! What's up with that? Haven't these people ever experienced real hurt, real troubles? Don't they know that you can't hide your head in the sand and go all "Ned Flanders" when this world that we live in is going straight to the big fire down yonder?
But something kept drawing me back. Something made me flip back to station, and soon enough, I was singing along to Smitty, Matt Maher and Natalie Grant. They got me! They ensnared me with their sticky-sweet tentacles and promises of hope, peace and living a life that was...well...positive.
So, I've gone to the light side. I began to realize that I had a choice. I could choose to continue wallowing in self-pity, or I could step into the sunshine. Let me tell you, sunshine feels good. It doesn't mean you forget where you came from, or deny the hurt that's happening all around you. It just means letting go of the black venom you've been injecting into your heart. Put down the needle and take His hand.
Some of you may have stopped reading there. The capital "H." Ah crap, she's going to get all "religious" on me. Well, my friend, it's not the worst thing that could happen to you. And let me tell you, I'm not a "drink the Kool-aid" type of person. I spent my first 16 years steeped in religion, delving deeper and deeper into my faith, only to have my whole world ripped out from under me. I was left stranded. My family, although still very loving, was ripped apart, and my relationship with God, I felt, was completely severed.
I realize now it was not Him who cut the cord, but my own confusion, grief, and belief that religion involved a "middle man." If not for His persistence and my angel sister, I may still be sinking down in the mud. But now, I'm walking on the sunny side. Sure, there may be showers from time to time, but even then, I appreciate the rainbows. I honestly do.
But something kept drawing me back. Something made me flip back to station, and soon enough, I was singing along to Smitty, Matt Maher and Natalie Grant. They got me! They ensnared me with their sticky-sweet tentacles and promises of hope, peace and living a life that was...well...positive.
So, I've gone to the light side. I began to realize that I had a choice. I could choose to continue wallowing in self-pity, or I could step into the sunshine. Let me tell you, sunshine feels good. It doesn't mean you forget where you came from, or deny the hurt that's happening all around you. It just means letting go of the black venom you've been injecting into your heart. Put down the needle and take His hand.
Some of you may have stopped reading there. The capital "H." Ah crap, she's going to get all "religious" on me. Well, my friend, it's not the worst thing that could happen to you. And let me tell you, I'm not a "drink the Kool-aid" type of person. I spent my first 16 years steeped in religion, delving deeper and deeper into my faith, only to have my whole world ripped out from under me. I was left stranded. My family, although still very loving, was ripped apart, and my relationship with God, I felt, was completely severed.
I realize now it was not Him who cut the cord, but my own confusion, grief, and belief that religion involved a "middle man." If not for His persistence and my angel sister, I may still be sinking down in the mud. But now, I'm walking on the sunny side. Sure, there may be showers from time to time, but even then, I appreciate the rainbows. I honestly do.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Pick me! Pick me!
I'm convinced we all have addictions. And I'm not just talking about drugs, booze or the "addiction of the year" (a la Tiger Woods & David Duchovny). I'm talking about subtle addictions. The kind that most people will never (or will never admit) realize in themselves.
Do you want to know mine? Lean in real close and I'll tell you. Approval.
What? You didn't hear me? I said APPROVAL.
There. I said it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?
And the really sick thing is that I want your approval for admitting that I have an approval addiction. So, don't enable me! (Unless you really feel the urge, then I won't hold it against you.)
So...I showed you mine, now show me yours.
Do you want to know mine? Lean in real close and I'll tell you. Approval.
What? You didn't hear me? I said APPROVAL.
There. I said it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?
And the really sick thing is that I want your approval for admitting that I have an approval addiction. So, don't enable me! (Unless you really feel the urge, then I won't hold it against you.)
So...I showed you mine, now show me yours.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Top 5 Lessons Learned from Momma
My mother taught (and still teaches) by example. These are the lessons I gleaned from her:
5. Always offer someone else the bigger piece of pie, or better yet, the whole pie. No matter how badly you want it, it'll never taste as good if eaten under selfish motives.
4. Always welcome a phone call from a loved one. Even if you're too busy, too tired, or too distracted. Stop, listen, and make them feel like the most important person in the world.
3. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all--unless the other person deserves it. Then give them a thoughtful, methodical, even-toned, wickedly-smart toungue lashing.
2. Always have your husband's back. Always. Even when your daughter comes to you in tears after an argument she had with her father, because deep down you know they're just alike, and she will realize that someday.
1. Give your love abundantly, even when you think the well may run dry. Because someday, all the love you pour out will return to you--replenishing your supply so the cycle never ends.
My mother is the toughest, gentlest person I know. As comforting as a warm fleece robe, as powerful as a mighty Kansas thunderstorm. My beautiful, courageous, selfless mother. I love you.
5. Always offer someone else the bigger piece of pie, or better yet, the whole pie. No matter how badly you want it, it'll never taste as good if eaten under selfish motives.
4. Always welcome a phone call from a loved one. Even if you're too busy, too tired, or too distracted. Stop, listen, and make them feel like the most important person in the world.
3. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all--unless the other person deserves it. Then give them a thoughtful, methodical, even-toned, wickedly-smart toungue lashing.
2. Always have your husband's back. Always. Even when your daughter comes to you in tears after an argument she had with her father, because deep down you know they're just alike, and she will realize that someday.
1. Give your love abundantly, even when you think the well may run dry. Because someday, all the love you pour out will return to you--replenishing your supply so the cycle never ends.
My mother is the toughest, gentlest person I know. As comforting as a warm fleece robe, as powerful as a mighty Kansas thunderstorm. My beautiful, courageous, selfless mother. I love you.
Monday, May 3, 2010
(Dis)organized & (Dis)content
Why is it that I can't stay organized all the time? I'm a much happier person when I can find my keys, sunglasses and cell phone easily.
Organization is my weakness. I start out with good intentions, and then life happens. I mean to get up early and do a load of laundry, but then the baby wakes up 2-3 times with aching gums, and I choose to get a little more sleep instead. I. Really. Like. Sleep.
Then there's my car. Oh Lord, my car. It's embarrassingly messy most days. What does that say about me? Does it say that I don't care? That I'm lazy? I'd like to think not, but that's probably the impression it gives. I'd like to go on the record by saying "I'm not lazy, and I do care, dagnabbit!"
I have friends who make it all look so easy (and you know who you are). Their pantry is always stocked, their nails are decent if not manicured, and they never forget a birthday/anniversary/commercially produced holiday.
Sometimes I wonder if I struggle with organization because I'm afraid of losing my creative edge. I've always lived--and thrived--in an environment of chaos, mostly not of my own creation. I've been able to extract the rich, thick, sweet marrow out of the bones of destruction, and I'm afraid the bones of tidiness would leave little to feed on.
Organization is my weakness. I start out with good intentions, and then life happens. I mean to get up early and do a load of laundry, but then the baby wakes up 2-3 times with aching gums, and I choose to get a little more sleep instead. I. Really. Like. Sleep.
Then there's my car. Oh Lord, my car. It's embarrassingly messy most days. What does that say about me? Does it say that I don't care? That I'm lazy? I'd like to think not, but that's probably the impression it gives. I'd like to go on the record by saying "I'm not lazy, and I do care, dagnabbit!"
I have friends who make it all look so easy (and you know who you are). Their pantry is always stocked, their nails are decent if not manicured, and they never forget a birthday/anniversary/commercially produced holiday.
Sometimes I wonder if I struggle with organization because I'm afraid of losing my creative edge. I've always lived--and thrived--in an environment of chaos, mostly not of my own creation. I've been able to extract the rich, thick, sweet marrow out of the bones of destruction, and I'm afraid the bones of tidiness would leave little to feed on.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Eaten any good books lately?
Ok, that wasn't really my intention, but it works (maybe).
My little one seems to have a fondness for books already, and I couldn't be more proud. Her favorite thing to do is to get into her closet and throw out all of her board books. Then, she'll splay them out all over her bedroom floor, and give each one a little nibble.
Mmm...Bookie Monster.
I hope that this enthusiasm for the printed word sticks with her. My dream is that one day, she'll be "hungover" from an all-nighter with her favorite piece of fiction, unable to tear herself away from the pages.
I was lucky enough to grow up with an English-teacher mother, and bookaholic father. Books were tucked away in every nook and cranny of our house. I can't remember a time when most conversations with my father didn't start with, "what are you reading now?"
He got me hooked on James Lee Burke and Martin Cruz Smith, fictional mystery series that took me away to vodka-soaked, post-Chernobyl Russia and corrupt-yet-lovable New Iberia Parish, Louisiana. Dave Robicheaux and Arkady Renko seem like crazy uncles who took me in and showed me the ropes of "reluctant good-guy" crime fighting.
If there's one trait I hope my daughter inherits from her momma's side, it's the desire to devour one tasty book after another.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I'm askeered
I have a confession to make. I am terrified of flying. I love to travel, I love airports, I even love rolling my suitcase around like I'm somewhat important.
I just hate the actual flying part. Takeoff is probably the worst, but then there's that moment mid-flight when you've finally calmed down and you realize, "Crap!," I'm suspended thousands of feet above the ground with no way out. Maybe that's what I don't like, the lack of control.
I have a trip to Chicago on Tuesday, and while I'm excited to go where "nobody knows my name," my stomach has been turning in knots ever since I booked our trip on Expedia.
So, any suggestions for making the skies a little friendlier?
I just hate the actual flying part. Takeoff is probably the worst, but then there's that moment mid-flight when you've finally calmed down and you realize, "Crap!," I'm suspended thousands of feet above the ground with no way out. Maybe that's what I don't like, the lack of control.
I have a trip to Chicago on Tuesday, and while I'm excited to go where "nobody knows my name," my stomach has been turning in knots ever since I booked our trip on Expedia.
So, any suggestions for making the skies a little friendlier?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Tolerance is not enough
Don't get me wrong, I'm not "anti-tolerance." I just think it's time we move beyond it. We teach and preach tolerance, when really, we need to extend ourselves to love.
The Googleictionary has three definitions for tolerance:
1. Tolerance is the quality of allowing other people to say and do as they like, even if you do not agree or approve of it.
2. Tolerance is the ability to bear something painful or unpleasant.
3. If someone or something has a tolerance to a substance, they are exposed to it so often that it does not have very much effect on them.
Does that really sound like the way we want to live? I understand they underlying premise, that we need to better understand our fellow man/woman and not allow room for hatred, bigotry or prejudice. There have been a lot of good things come out of the "tolerance movement," but I feel that one of the negative side effects has been a dampening of personal convictions and passions. Many people feel so afraid of saying something politically incorrect, that they say nothing at all. I'm not sure which is worse.
Tolerance is better than hatred, but love is by far better than tolerance.
The Parable of the Good Samaritan
Luke 10:25-37 (New International Version)
25On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?" 26"What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?"
27He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'[a]; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'[b]"
28"You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. "Do this and you will live."
29But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"
30In reply Jesus said: "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. 31A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. 32So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. 34He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. 35The next day he took out two silver coins[c] and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
36"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?"
37The expert in the law replied, "The one who had mercy on him."
Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."
Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A great man
A good man does the dishes
A great man does them without being asked
A good man tells you he loves you
A great man shows you he loves you
A good man changes the baby's diaper
A great man sings to her and makes her laugh while doing it
A good man asks you to dance at a wedding
A great man twirls you around the kitchen when there's no music playing
Thank God I've found a great man.
A great man does them without being asked
A good man tells you he loves you
A great man shows you he loves you
A good man changes the baby's diaper
A great man sings to her and makes her laugh while doing it
A good man asks you to dance at a wedding
A great man twirls you around the kitchen when there's no music playing
Thank God I've found a great man.
There's no place like home
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"Look what y'all are missing," said the e-mail from my sister yesterday. Attached were six or seven pictures of the bluebonnets in bloom in Texas, and I'll admit, they were very beautiful. She said this jokingly, I assume, because she lived in Arlington, TX for several years after she was first married, and my husband and I moved to Salado, TX three weeks after we tied the knot. Our stay was short-lived, but I'm glad we went.
I miss my husband's family in the Austin area, and we miss the easily-found live country music halls, but other than that, there's no place I would rather call home than Kansas. I find the flatness truly calming, and the sunsets cannot be beat. Although I'm terrified of tornadoes, and dream of dying in one nearly every night (what does that symbolize?) I have to admit I like the thrill of storm season.
So you can have your oceans, your mountains, your bluebonnets. I'll keep my glorious wheat fields and genuine people smack dab in the middle of it all, and be perfectly discontent.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Country life ain't easy, but it sure is fun
Long story short, my husband and I bought 82 acres near my hometown a little more than two years ago. We have 30 acres of trees with a creek running through it, and 52 tillable acres that we lease to an old farmer named "Cleets" (aka Cletus). We moved a farmhouse 11 miles and paid through the nose to have electric lines brought in (if you ever want to know how much it is for a mile's worth of power lines, I'm your woman). We plopped the house down in the middle of the field and called it home.
We've endured eyelid-peeling winds from every direction, with no mature trees nearby to buffer the constant beating. It wasn't uncommon to have snow blow in through our patio door, and my Swiffer cowers in the corner underneath the sink, knowing his soft, fluffy appendages are no match for the fine grit that settles on every surface in the house when the field to the south is being tilled.
It's been rough. Very rough. But when I sit down to dinner, and see the house my mother was born in a mile to the south, or hear an owl softly hooting in the pre-dawn hours as I'm loading up to leave for work, or smell the earthy aroma of our land before a rainstorm, it's all worth it.
We've endured eyelid-peeling winds from every direction, with no mature trees nearby to buffer the constant beating. It wasn't uncommon to have snow blow in through our patio door, and my Swiffer cowers in the corner underneath the sink, knowing his soft, fluffy appendages are no match for the fine grit that settles on every surface in the house when the field to the south is being tilled.
It's been rough. Very rough. But when I sit down to dinner, and see the house my mother was born in a mile to the south, or hear an owl softly hooting in the pre-dawn hours as I'm loading up to leave for work, or smell the earthy aroma of our land before a rainstorm, it's all worth it.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Parent Trap
I can't believe I fell for it. Browsing through my most recent Parent's magazine (cause I'm cool like that), a blurb on the front cover cried out to me: "See your kid on our cover. Quick! Visit parents.com."
"Who? Me?" I ask as I glance behind me. "You'd like to put my adorable, sweet little Anna on your cover? Ok!" And I ran to the computer and uploaded her little mug just as soon as my fingers would let me. It wasn't until after I hit "submit" that I felt a pang of guilt.
I had become one of those parents. The one who thinks their kid is the cutest-wutest 'lil munchkin ever. But doesn't every parent feel that way? At least until the first time you discover the masterpiece of a finger painting they made just for you...in their crib...with poop. (Still waiting for that one.)
But can you blame me? I mean look at her. She is pretty darn amazing.
"Who? Me?" I ask as I glance behind me. "You'd like to put my adorable, sweet little Anna on your cover? Ok!" And I ran to the computer and uploaded her little mug just as soon as my fingers would let me. It wasn't until after I hit "submit" that I felt a pang of guilt.
I had become one of those parents. The one who thinks their kid is the cutest-wutest 'lil munchkin ever. But doesn't every parent feel that way? At least until the first time you discover the masterpiece of a finger painting they made just for you...in their crib...with poop. (Still waiting for that one.)
But can you blame me? I mean look at her. She is pretty darn amazing.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Are second dates always awkward?
I wouldn't really know. Haven't "dated" since I was 18, and even then, it was "love" at first sight (or close enough) with my hubby when we met at Sheplers. I worked in Women's, he worked in Boots, and the intoxicating smell of leather and steamed felt hats created a ripe environment for two young Wrangler-wearing kids to fall for each other.
But here I am, sitting down on my second date with Blank Page. I was pleasantly surprised how I felt this morning after our tryst last night. I didn't feel dirty, used, or taken advantage of. Turns out, we kind of like each other.
Nevertheless, it's still intimidating and a little awkward. My husband hovers behind me, and I feel the need to minimize the screen. "Don't watch me," I chide him. He shrugs and walks off, not in Wranglers, but in camo pajama pants.
Why do I find it so hard to be authentic? Is it because my profession has smoothed my jagged edges in ineffective butter knives? Or because my agreeable nature silences my tongue "so as not to offend?" Or maybe, and this is what I'm afraid of, I don't know who I am anymore.
I had the pleasure of experiencing a lesson in "ethical leadership" from Bill Grace today at a conference hosted by the Kansas Health Foundation. Even though our political ideologies aren't closely aligned (I'm presuming), I walked away with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. He walked us through an exercise in nailing down our three most important values. Mine were: Faith, Family and Truth.
For anyone who knows me and my family's story very well, you'll know that those three words are dead-on. We've all got a story to tell, and mine's pretty heavy. It involves suicide, sex abuse, and the Catholic Church. But above all the story is also one of love, fierce loyalty and proof that there is life--wonderful, sweet, fulfilling life--after your whole world is ripped out from under you.
But here I am, sitting down on my second date with Blank Page. I was pleasantly surprised how I felt this morning after our tryst last night. I didn't feel dirty, used, or taken advantage of. Turns out, we kind of like each other.
Nevertheless, it's still intimidating and a little awkward. My husband hovers behind me, and I feel the need to minimize the screen. "Don't watch me," I chide him. He shrugs and walks off, not in Wranglers, but in camo pajama pants.
Why do I find it so hard to be authentic? Is it because my profession has smoothed my jagged edges in ineffective butter knives? Or because my agreeable nature silences my tongue "so as not to offend?" Or maybe, and this is what I'm afraid of, I don't know who I am anymore.
I had the pleasure of experiencing a lesson in "ethical leadership" from Bill Grace today at a conference hosted by the Kansas Health Foundation. Even though our political ideologies aren't closely aligned (I'm presuming), I walked away with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. He walked us through an exercise in nailing down our three most important values. Mine were: Faith, Family and Truth.
For anyone who knows me and my family's story very well, you'll know that those three words are dead-on. We've all got a story to tell, and mine's pretty heavy. It involves suicide, sex abuse, and the Catholic Church. But above all the story is also one of love, fierce loyalty and proof that there is life--wonderful, sweet, fulfilling life--after your whole world is ripped out from under you.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
This one's for Mia
Blame it on the cherry-pomegranate juice, or the brilliant Kansas sun reflecting off of the stainless-steel Chipotle patio table, but somehow my friend Mia convinced me that I need to give this writing thing a go--for real this time.
I'm not really sure what happened to me. Somewhere amidst my hectic life, I lost my courage to write. Not my passion, but my courage. Give me a topic to write about, give me a word count and my audience and I'm golden. Give me a blank page, with no restrictions, no particular audience and my fingers do the "clickity-clack backspace waltz," where my best move is stammering out a few contrived sentences before frantically deleting it all.
What if no one likes it? What if I reveal my true self and I don't even like it? Not many people enjoy standing in front of a full-length mirror naked. And if they do, they're probably either intoxicated, crazy, or haven't put their glasses on yet. (So maybe if I get a little tipsy and leave off the specs, my writing will start to look fabulous.)
Ok, that's enough exhibitionism for now. Better publish this before I chicken out and my right hand hovers toward the upper-right side of the keyboard.
I'm not really sure what happened to me. Somewhere amidst my hectic life, I lost my courage to write. Not my passion, but my courage. Give me a topic to write about, give me a word count and my audience and I'm golden. Give me a blank page, with no restrictions, no particular audience and my fingers do the "clickity-clack backspace waltz," where my best move is stammering out a few contrived sentences before frantically deleting it all.
What if no one likes it? What if I reveal my true self and I don't even like it? Not many people enjoy standing in front of a full-length mirror naked. And if they do, they're probably either intoxicated, crazy, or haven't put their glasses on yet. (So maybe if I get a little tipsy and leave off the specs, my writing will start to look fabulous.)
Ok, that's enough exhibitionism for now. Better publish this before I chicken out and my right hand hovers toward the upper-right side of the keyboard.
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