On the 3rd of this month, my first born child turned 15 1/2 years old.
He’s now old enough to get a drivers and a workers permit. He’s only 2 1/2 years away from legal adulthood. Soon enough, I’ll be able to hand him my car keys and say “go ahead and take the van to practice. BUT DON’T SPEED! And check your rear view mirror before making lane changes! And always use your signals! And don’t be flipping anyone off because there are crazy people out there who will shoot you! Oh, hell. Never mind, I’ll take you. Next time I’ll let you drive yourself, ok?”
I’m feeling very torn up inside over this. Like, if you were to call me and bring it up, I would probably do that thing where I would act like I was totally cool and not going to cry. My voice would crack and I would have to clear my throat and you’d be all “are you ok?” And I’d be all “I’m FINE!” And then two minutes later, I’d be full on sobbing because “I didn’t know he was going to grow up this fast! If I had known, I would have been more careful to remember every little detail about his childhood because I CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT HE SAID THAT ONE TIME IN KINDERGARTEN THAT MADE ALL OF THE TEACHERS LAUGH AND WHY DIDN’T I WRITE THAT IN A BABY BOOK SOMEWHERE?” And then you’d feel all awkward and try to think of excuses to hang up on me and you’d just shut the cell phone and email me later that night saying something like “Sorry about that. I was driving through a tunnel on that one road, you know, down there next to that one road that you wouldn’t know about anyway and our call got cut off because there’s no reception in that tunnel and damn if I still can’t get any service. I’ll try calling you sometime next year though ok?”
Fifteen and a half.
Yesterday, he was standing near the kitchen counter as I was putting dishes away. He was looking out the window while playing the air drums and humming a song. I stopped what I was doing and just watched him. I could see little traces of the sweet natured little baby that I once held in my arms, but mostly I saw a boy on the verge of adulthood and it took my breath away. Time stood still in that moment. And in my mind, I saw a slideshow of the years passing me by. I saw him sitting on the table at his first birthday party in his blue and white checkered jump suit as the family sang Happy Birthday to him. I saw him in his OshKosh overalls and tiny little cowboy boots. I saw him jumping around the living room doing “tricks” in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle jumpsuit that I had bought for $2.00 at a thrift shop. I heard his soft little voice singing “You Are My Sunshine” while we drove around town doing errands. I saw his scared little eyes as I walked away, leaving him for the very first time at kindergarten. I saw him accepting his first (of many) citizenship awards in first grade. I saw him walking away from my car as I dropped him off at his first day of junior high. And then, I blinked and he was fifteen and a half.
It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that he will be driving soon. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that he will be applying for a workers permit soon. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that he will be bringing home a paycheck soon. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that he sort of kind of has a girlfriend who texts and calls him 80 times a day and that “dating” is just around the corner. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that graduation is less than 2 school years away. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that when I first started this blog he looked like this:
And 6 years later, he looks like this:
Fifteen and a half years– I knew that day would come eventually. I just had no idea it would come so quickly nor did I have any idea of the emotional punch it would pack.
Holy Mother of White Rain Hair Spray!
High school was a difficult time in my life. Mostly because of the stupid battles that I had with my parents every! single! morning! before I’d leave for school. One of the biggest battles that I’d have with them every!single!morning involved my bangs. Specifically how tall they were.
To my parents, everything was a sin and High Bangs was no exception. And yet, every morning I’d bust out the curling iron, the comb (for ratting), the hairspray and most importantly, the blow dryer (You know, to blow the hairspray dry in order to keep the bangs locked into place all day long.)
I’d spend a great deal of time trying to get The Bangs to go perfectly. And getting the bangs to go perfectly involved the proper ratio of height on the top and perfect curl on the bottom. There was nothing more devastating to my 15 year old ass then to have spent (sometimes) hours getting the Perfect Bangs only to have my dad catch me on the way out.
Oh, the drama that would ensue. Drama that involved the measuring of the bangs with rulers (AM NOT LYING) and the pushing down of the bangs by my dad (think: chest compressions during CPR. Only, on my bangs.) And also praying, rebuking and quite possibly, crying.
Good Lord. The Crying.
I never understood why The Bangs were just a big damn deal to my parents, because, seriously. THEY WERE JUST BANGS. I wasn’t having sex, or doing drugs, or ditching school. I was teasing my bangs. And yet, every morning I’d get a spanking or a rebuking before leaving for school because of those damn bangs.
Last night as I was organizing some pictures, I found my junior year high school ID card. Suddenly, it all became very clear to me. My parents anger towards The Bangs probably had absolutely nothing to do with Jesus disapproving of them.
And everything to do with not wanting their daughter to go out into the world looking like a cracked out cockatoo.
**Updated**
Sending You Elsewhere
Just before BlogHer, Tracey asked me if I’d be interested in writing a post for Shutter Sisters. I can’t even begin to tell you how flattered and thrilled that I was because have you seen the photographers that post there? They’re amazing. my post is up now, if you’re interested.
Since I’m talking about photography, I thought I’d post a few of my favorite recent photos.
I hope you’re having a wonderful weekend.
Life Changing Words, Indeed.
A week or so before BlogHer, I received the following email:
Dear Y:
As you may or may not know, we accepted community submissions of *other* attendees’ work for the BlogHer ’08 Community Keynote. I am pleased to inform you that the committee has chosen one of your posts to be presented in the Letter To My Body category:
I was stunned.
When I first read about the Community Keynote, I briefly considered submitting a post if only because I wanted to be a part of what was sure to be an incredible event. But the more I considered, the less enthusiastic I became about submitting a post. Too many talented writers out there for me to think that they would even consider something I wrote as worthy to be read.
Also? I cry when I get nervous, so I was like “do I really want to cry in front of a 1,000 people?”
The answer was no, I did not. So, I didn’t submit. But! HA! Someone submitted on my behalf and HA HA! THEY CHOSE IT!
When I saw the post that was chosen, I was terrified. I knew that it would be impossible for me to get through the post without crying. And seriously, no one needs to see My Ugly Cry.
It’s uglier than Oprah’s, y’all.
I wanted to say “thanks, but I lovingly and politely decline.” But, I do not like to hurt peoples feelings, so I decided to put my fears aside, step outside of my comfort zone and just do it.
And I did it.
Listening to myself read those words inspired me to want to change. I don’t want to be that person anymore. I don’t want to shed tears about my weight ever again. I want to be the best example for my children, not just in word, but in deed.
I realize this is old news, but I’m so grateful for the experience. And I finally feel ready to share it here with all of you, even if it is 8 years after the fact. Thank you for making me feel safe enough to post something so personal (and terrifying.)
Laughter Through the Tears
My Grandpa is in the hospital again.
I went to see him and wasn’t allowed to get close to him due to a staph infection. That’s not the reason for his hospitalization, retention of fluid and difficulty breathing are.
It was painful to see him so swollen, barely able to talk. It was more painful to have to stand at the foot of his bed and not be able to hug him or hold his hand.
No matter how sick he gets, he never loses his sense of humor. He could barely talk, barely catch his breath, barely keep his eyes open and yet he managed to still make me laugh with his wicked, kind of perverted sense of humor.
That’s probably what I love about him the most. He’s always been funny. Always. And he continues to be funny even though his body is failing him ever so slowly.
As much as he made me laugh when I went to visit, he also broke my heart in a way that I’ve never experience before.
I had brought my children with me so that they could see him, but when we got to the Veterans Hospital, they told me that he had just been put in the isolation unit due to the staph infection and that the children would not be allowed to see him. Each one of them was upset because they love him and wanted to see him. Tony went to see him first. I waited downstairs with the kids. As we waited, Gabbers took out her spiral notebook and began to draw. When she was finished, she handed it to me and said “Give this to Opa from me, ok?” I folded it up, put it in my pocket and promised to give it to him.
I had every intention on giving him the picture as soon as I walked into his room, but when I saw him for the first time, I was stunned by his size (he’s gained over almost 30 pounds recently due to fluid retention) and forgot about the picture. However, as soon as he asked about the kids, I remembered and pulled it out of my pocket.
“They’re doing really good, Grandpa. They love you very much and are really sad that they couldn’t come up to see you. Gabby wanted me to give you this picture so you know she’s thinking of you!”
I handed it to my Grandma so that she could give it to him.
“He won’t be able to see it, Y.” She said. “He can’t see things anymore.”
I know he’s been losing his eyesight gradually, but this is the first time that it was presented to me in such a real way. This is the first time that I’ve given my grandparents a picture of (or from) one of my children and my grandmother didn’t pass the picture to him and say “look, Ray!”
I can’t put into words how deeply this affected me.
My Grandpa can no longer see.
I saw a sadness come over his face. I thought of how awful he must have felt in that moment. To know that his great granddaughter had made a picture for him and he couldn’t see it. I thought of the pictures that I send in the mail of the kids and how he can’t see them anymore. I thought of how much he loved to play cards and how he can’t play anymore because he can’t see.
Every time I think back to that moment, I want to cry.
And sometimes? I do cry.
But then… then I think of the way he laughed while I was there with him. How, in spite of how sick he is, he was still smiling. Still trying to make me laugh. I take comfort in that because even though his physical body is failing him, at the core of his being he’s still happy. Happy because he’s had a good life
And I’ve been blessed beyond measure to have been a part of that life.
I just received a comment that is so beautiful and expresses exactly how I feel so wonderfully, that I wanted to put it here with my post so that no one who reads this misses it. Thank you, Bridge
My great grandmother has lost her sight…and she’s a little forgetful.
But there is something so reassuring and inspiring about a well-lived life,
even housed in an imperfect and aging body. I want to be like her when I’m
a hundred…to have a soul so wise and beautiful that falling apart on the
outside is just secondary to who I am.
.
Uncensored
My daughter asks a million questions a day. Her most recent line of questioning is related to bodies.
“Mom, why we have teeth? To chew?”
“Mom, why we have hands? To touch things?”
“Mom, why we have ears? To hear things?”
I usually just nod and say “Yes! We have ears to hear!” and “Yes! We have teeth to chew!”
Today, she decided to take the questions to a place she’s never gone before and of course she did it while we were out amongst the general public.
Her (in her most sincere, but VERY LOUD voice): Mom? Do you have hair on your butt?
Me: (Smiling at the dude who turned his head to hear my answer, you know, to play it off as if my daughter did not just ask me if I have a hairy ass.) No, G. Mommy does not have hair on her butt.
Her: (Again, totally sincere, but also VERY LOUD): Ooohhhh. But do you have hair on your pachina?
Me: Um, Yes. I do. (Sorry, no brazilian wax for me because ha ha AM NOT GETTING ON ALL FOURS FOR A COMPLETE STRANGER.)
Her: Oh man. I wish I had hair on my pachina like you.
Me: Look! A bird! Flying!
Whoops!
I just deleted my Twitter account.
Twitter had become a time suck that had little- if any- benefit to my life at the moment. (although– knowing what y’all are doing throughout your day was damn fun to read. See: TIMESUCK!)
Things continue to crumble around us and I need to keep my focus on taking care of my family and keeping myself positive at all times. So, Twitter had to go.
(For now.)
(Because I already kind of miss it.)
(Except, not really.)
You would have called your pastor too if you had been forced to watch movies as a child where people were all baking cakes and stuff and then “poof!” they were gone!
To answer the question: “How are you guys doing?”
The company that hired my husband on after he was laid off doesn’t have any work. They’ve been trying to keep him busy doing odd jobs around the equipment yard, but on Friday, they told him to stay home today because there was nothing for him to do. I have a feeling he’ll be off all week. This is when the “you’re no longer on salary” shit starts to hurt.
Tony is trying to start a business which has very low start up costs and I have faith that he will make it work. I’m proud of him for being proactive and not sulking about what has happened to him. I fully support him in his new business venture and will do everything in my power to help him make it happen and be successful. I also have faith that good things will happen for me– things that I have been working hard for. I have to believe that they will pay off and my hard work will, at some point, be recognized and rewarded accordingly.
I’ve been continuing to pray every day and I started to read the bible. This is not the first time that I’ve read the bible on my own without anyone telling me what it all means, but the first time that I’ve stuck with it for longer than a couple of days. I find it hard at times to keep interest, because, you know– it’s totally different than a blog. Like, I can’t comment and be like “God, what does that mean? Email me! or ping me on G-chat when you have some time, k? Thanks!” (Also, I have an incredibly short attention span.) But then, I’ll read something that speaks to my soul, as if it were written just for me and I get sucked in, wanting to learn more. Wanting to understand what it all means and how it pertains to my life.
I’ve always found the bible to be a liiiiiiittle scary. Most of my memories of biblical teachings were of the “You’re going to burn in the pit of hell if you do not repent of your sins!” There wasn’t a whole lot of teachings of the Grace and love of God.
And don’t even get me started on the whole “Jesus is coming soon” sermons. SCARY.
Now, that’s not to say that I don’t believe in “The Rapture.” (Although, I’ll fully admit I started to roll my eyes when my dad would say that to me because YOU’VE BEEN SAYING THAT SINCE THE DAY THAT I WAS BORN AND WE’RE STILL HERE SO I’M NOT SCARED ANYMORE! But, that was probably just my rebellion and NOT my disbelief) However, there was a time I believed it and I feared it with every fiber of my being.
Example:
Anytime my parents were late coming home, I would start to panic. “The rapture most have happened! And I was left behind! I’m going to have to have my head chopped off to get into heaven!” But before I’d have a full on meltdown, I’d pick up the phone and call people who I was sure would not be “left behind”, like, our pastor! And if he would answer the phone, I’d rejoice because “The Rapture didn’t happen after all! I wasn’t left behind! I’m not going to have to have to suffer persecution to make it to heaven after all!”
(True story!)
Needless to say, I didn’t really experience a lot of the “Joy” that I hear people talking about when they speak of their faith.
I want to experience that joy. I’m ready to know what that feels like.
If you were raised in the Christian faith, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the Rapture. What were you taught about it? Do you believe in it as an adult? Do you think that we’re “living in the last days?” Your point of view will be valuable to me.
I’d like to think that if God had a blog, he’d post this and title it “Best Bedtime Prayer EVER!”
Dear Jimminy Father,
I pray that you help me to stay in my bed so that I don’t get in twubble.
I pray that you remember to buy lots of picture frames.
Oh! And don’t forget to buy a big party hat when it’s your birthday.
And Jesus name is Amen.
I’m going to go ahead and just call this “The Happy Birthday Blog!”
One of my best online friends celebrated a birthday today.
He is the person who kept me motivated when I lost weight after having my daughter– sometimes he used Asshole Motivation Techniques that made me cry**, but most of the time, he was supportive and kind and for that, he will always have a special place in my ass.
(ha ha. You thought I was going to say heart.)
I was finally able to meet him in April when I went to NYC and while there was a little bit of awkwardness in the cab ride on the way to dinner because ha ha ha! I’m riding in a cab with “Dateboy”, it really was like hanging out with an old friend.
I never posted the one picture we took together in NYC, because we both had a case of The Droopies. (My droopy eye. His droopy whole entire side of his face. Or whatever it was he said, because he doesn’t have any Droopy whatsoever, he was just trying to make me feel better. DROOP THIS, man.) But, I’ve accepted The Droopy Eye and so, here we are. Together at his office, just before we played about 30 rounds of Beer Pong (and when I say “we” I mean “Him and his friends” because he only let me play one game and then totally forgot I was there and so I had to pretend like I had to be somewhere so that I didn’t feel like a big giant asshole standing there by myself with a camera strapped around my neck.)
I had the pleasure of meeting his drop dead gorgeous girlfriend and except for the part where I talked about milk squirting out of my tits and cried over dinner, it wasn’t awkward or weird at all hanging out with someone who I had never met or even had one internet conversation with. I emailed her today and asked her if she would like to post a birthday message to Michael on my blaawwwg and she was all “OMG! YES!”
From Ruthie:
Today is a very special day because it is the birthday of the amazing, talented, caring, intelligent, wonderful guy, My Boyfriend, Michael. Although older… it appears that he hasn’t changed a bit.
(Me: hahahahahhahhahahahaaa. And also? Awwwwww.)
Happy Birthday, Michael.
Love,
Me and Ruthie.
**That was only one time, he was laughing at me while I was trying my hardest on the treadmill saying things like “you suck!” Oh, yeah, and it was just a dream. So, I totally forgive him.
