Bucket List Revisited

My Bucket List
1. Become fluent in Spanish.

2. Learn to play guitar.

3. Visit a family member who lives in California.

4. Go to New Orleans.

5. Take a mechanics class/learn about engines.

6. Take a self-defense class.

7. Learn to swing dance.

8. Master bellydancing.

9. Learn other formal dances.

10. Publish something -- book, short story, or poem.

11. Get a tattoo.

12. Learn massage therapy.

13. Conquer my anxiety and its symptoms.

14. Become competent at sewing.

15. Do something of an activist nature -- participate in a protest or rally.

16. Learn to drive a stick shift.

17. Picnic in a pine forest.


Well, as you can see, I've finally crossed off one of my bucket list items. I got a tattoo.

It's a peacock feather, on my hip, and it represents Stevie Ray Vaughan. I discovered Stevie Ray about 10 years ago. I love listening to him flat out wail on a guitar, and I love to sing his songs. I know a good many of them by heart. I listened to SRV so much, that after my daughter was born, the only way I could calm her down when she was inconsolably colicky was to sing SRV songs as loud as I could.

SRV had a tattoo of a peacock on his chest, and originally, my idea was to get the same tattoo on my hip. But as I came to the decision, I realized I didn't want the whole bird -- I'd rather just have the feather.

It took me 10 years to decide I really did want a tattoo enough to live with it forever. It took me 2 more years to pick just the right design. And today, I did it.

It hurt. I gasped. I trembled. I said ow and fuck a lot. I asked the tattoo artist if this was a typical reaction, and he said, "For an area this tender? Yeah." So for once, I guess I'm normal at something.

About 2/3 of the way through, I stumbled onto a trick. I breathed in. I hissed out the air. I realized that when I focused on hissing, the pain wasn't quite as bad. I ended up hissing the rest of the way through. The tattoo artist probably thought I'd lost my marbles, but he was a total pro and never said a word.

I am absolutely in love with it. And now I want another.

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For those of you paying attention, you'll have noticed I've added two more items to the list. I crossed off one and added two more. I must be ambitious.

Highs and Lows

Today is one of those days where I got to experience both the highs and the lows associated with the Hubster's long distance job.

Our income has finally reached the point where we feel comfortable and not pinched. Today, I had new tires put on the car. When I received the bill, I paid it casually, with no concern. A year ago, I would have been sweating bullets and sick to my stomach, wondering how I was going to feed the family this week. I likely would have found myself selling soda cans for gas money, using our last $20 to buy a boatload of ramen noodles, and pondering the merits of prostitution. Instead, I had lunch at a restaurant.

I rode the high of this feeling all day.  Until I picked up my daughter from school.

After she got away from school, into the safety of the car, she became wracked with sobs. Missing her daddy. Yelling at her brother, because she was so upset. When that happens, I just don't know what to do. The only solution I can offer is to let her call him, which she always turns down for some reason.

I don't know why, but I end up feeling like it's all my fault. My fault he's out there, my fault my kids are on an emotional roller coaster. My fault that sometimes I'd rather trade that time with my spouse for a little financial comfort. Even though I have the feeling we'll all be paying the piper for it later.

But I'm not sure why I take on that mantle of responsibility, when it was a joint decision. I guess because I'm the one here, dealing with it. Acknowledging that fact doesn't really make it any easier though.

I guess it's just life. You have to live it, to see how it turns out.

WWAMD?

Not long ago, I found myself angry at someone. It was a misunderstanding, and there’s a working out in progress. But what really fascinates me is my response to my own anger.

I keep feeling the need to apologize, and I understand that part. The part that perplexes me is the fact I feel a near-compulsion to add, “I’m sorry. Don’t mind me. I just get a little pissy and woman-ish sometimes.”

I want to analyze that phrase. A person can be pissed-off, and there is a feel of righteous anger to that word. But to say someone is pissy…. there is a diminishment there. A tone that acknowledges that the person is angry, but that it is an over-reaction.

Woman-ish. That’s the part that really gets me. To restrict an emotion to my gender. There is a stereotypical assumption that women are irrational and not fully in control of themselves sometimes. But it can be a self-fulfilling statement. Girls are not taught how to handle anger. It is unladylike and therefore, unacceptable.

Women don’t express anger. They stuff it down. I can almost guarantee you that if you see a fat woman, you are looking at a woman who has swallowed her anger like chocolate syrup. It can be delicious. But if it becomes a lifelong habit, it is thick and choking and takes a toll on the body.

Now that I think about it, the above paragraph can include overweight people in general. But rather than let myself digress, I want to stick to the analyzation at hand.

When a man is angry, it is rarely questioned. He is angry, which means there is a problem, and a solution must be found. When a woman is angry, she is out of control, and must be dismissed.

A man would not apologize for his anger. “I’m over it. You over it?” “Hell yeah, let’s grab a beer.” Just a simple recognition that a misunderstanding too place, and it’s now water under the bridge.

I don’t want my anger dismissed. I don’t want others to dismiss their own anger. What Would A Man Do? A man would own it. I need to own my anger. You need to own your anger too.

It is hard though. There is a lifetime of accumulated cultural indoctrination (say that three times fast) to battle against. I fight against my own compulsion to dismiss the anger I felt. It involves a stepping out of the perspective of one’s self, to get a clear picture and recognize what one is fighting against.

If you dismiss your emotions, you dismiss yourself. It hurts the soul to be dismissed. So why hurt yourself? Anger is a mirror that shows there is a problem. Anger can be a catalyst to a solution.

It doesn’t have to be a gender issue. Angry women get called bitches. So what? Say it a few times. Roll around in it like a feline in catnip. Sew the Bitch badge on your Girl Scout sash. Wear it around a while and get used to the label. Hurt anymore? Nope? Then good, you own it.

Recognize your emotions. Sounds simple enough, but parents never think to teach their kids this because it seems like one of those obvious things. But I was well into my twenties before I realized a particular emotion was loneliness, that another was wistfulness, and yet another was disappointment. Emotions were a loose ball of yarn that I had to sort out.

Name it. Then own it. Or it owns you.

In Exile

I have come to a crossroads in my religious life.

Recently I had attended service at a church I have been frequenting regularly. The pastor began preaching on a couple of topics that are near and dear to me.

I don’t care to get into these issues in this particular blog, other than I come to my beliefs from a place of love and I feel VERY strongly about them, and that they run completely counter to the traditional conservative Christian mindset.

As I sat there listening to an otherwise nice pastor completely trash something dear to me, I realized that I had that exact same problem at my home church. I love my home church, the pastor, and the congregation, and miss them dearly.

I moved too far away to attend regular services at my home church, but it is likely I would have had this same experience at that church as well, for many times I can recall sitting in that pew, squirming and biting my tongue in anger.

Here, in a nutshell, are my beliefs about the Bible:

The Bible, though divinely inspired, was written down by men. Therefore, everything contained in the Bible is written through the filter of conservative, Jewish, Middle Eastern men.

The version of the Bible that most people read (KJV) was edited, with some books left out. (I don’t yet know the history of the other versions, as the KJV is the only version I’m familiar with.)

The disciples, though they loved Jesus and followed him to the best of their abilities, still didn’t completely “get” what he was all about. Therefore they oftentimes attributed their own thoughts and feelings about issues to Jesus.

The Bible as we know it, has been translated from its original languages such as Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek. Therefore, there is plenty of room for error in translation.

The only way to get true, error-free understanding of the Bible is to learn the original languages and read the original texts yourself.

Due to the preceding statements, the only parts of the Bible I put complete faith in are the words in red. Jesus own quotes. Even then, I take them with a very small grain of salt, owing to the possibility of translation errors.

Jesus was a very compassionate man. He did not condemn others. Nowhere in the Bible did He HIMSELF even mention any sort of opinion on the subjects in question.

So, during that fateful service, I sat there broiling in anger and sorrow. I realized I could no longer, in good conscience, attend a church that spewed vileness and hatred in Jesus’ name. That misled its people with good, but misinformed, intentions. That I could no longer in good conscience or in good faith, attend any church that taught as such.

That from that church, and even from my home church, I was in exile.

In Exile.

It hurts. It hurts to think that I must be cut off from these churches. I feel it in a way that anyone in exile from their homeland must feel.

But I realize it is the sort of hurt that comes from pulling a troublesome tooth. That it is raw, and sore, but I am the better for it.

It frees me. I have given myself permission to see what’s out there, and to find a new church. And if I’m unable to find one in my area that I feel comfortable with, that it’s perfectly fine to have solitary Bible study. If it comes to that, I will miss the companionship and warmth of a congregation, but I will not sacrifice my peace of mind just so I can be misled with a flock.

I am in exile. But it’s ok.

I am in sorrow. But it’s ok.

I am now a wanderer. Again. But it’s ok. I will find His path. And when I do, I will follow it the best I can.

Where’d My Baby Go?

“Where’d your baby go?” my husband asked me today on the phone.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I sent her to school and they turned her into a big girl.”

That is SOOO true. I marvel at what a remarkable year it has been. In the beginning, she was clingy. She didn’t like school. She didn’t like one girl who was boisterous, chatty and a bit bossy.

For at least a month, maybe two, the issue of school was a dramatic battle between her not wanting to go, and my insisting that yes, she did have to attend. Wondering to myself if she really WAS ready for school. Perhaps I should consider Montessori, or the private Christian school, or home schooling.

Some kids push for independence. She craves being sheltered and overprotected. Mentally, I waffled between giving her what she felt she needed, or putting us both through the pain of pushing her out of the nest a tiny bit, for her own good. Unable to know whether it was for the best, or would end in a family drama of failed experiment.

But I think I made the right call. It’s been a bumpy road. She entered school tearfully, clingy, and barely able to write her own name. Now she brags about that she didn’t have any tokens taken away today. That she likes music and art classes, loves library time, and doesn’t like P.E.

She can read nearly whole sentences, only needing help with the big words.  Just yesterday, she completely read Green Eggs and Ham, completely by herself.
She makes careful drawings and labels them, “For my Daddy”.

She’s learning to tell time and count by 2s, 5s, and 10s.

Has lost 4 baby teeth in the past 2 months.

She surprises me with her thinking aloud. Things like, “I don’t know whether to take a bath or shower. I’m dirty, so the bath water would get dirty and I don’t want to sit in dirty bath water. A shower would be faster and use less water, so it wouldn’t be as wasteful.” 

She hounds her brother for leaving his bedroom light on and wasting electricity. She's chided me on many occasions, because we don't recycle.

She makes introductions for her and her brother, stating to other kids and sometimes grown-ups, their names and ages.

In the past month, she’s finally mastered how to tie her shoes, and she is ABSOLUTELY thrilled with herself.

What a remarkable Big Girl she has turned out to be, and I’m thrilled to be her mother! I wonder what surprises are in store for me next year...

So done

This has not been a great evening. I see now this started building earlier in the day, about 1 p.m.

I had dozed off, and hardly been asleep for 20 minutes when my son said he wanted me to get him something.

Not long after I picked my daughter up from school, I settled in on the couch with a book.  I started getting drowsy. I thought, "I may just take a little nap." No sooner had this thought crossed my mind, than my children started playing a little game I like to call "Mommy, Get Me."

"Mommy? Can you fix me some tea?" my daughter asked.
"Mommy? Can you make some lemonade?" asked my son.

So it began. No sooner than I would hit that drowsy point, one of them HAD to have something. Right now. Help loading a movie. Help in the bathroom. Help with a snack. Didn't matter that I would soon make dinner, they had to have those friggin' snacks RIGHT NOW.

And if it wasn't a child interrupting me, it was the phone.

After about an hour and a half of this, I gave up. But they didn't.

My daughter was bitten by an insect and needed my assistance.  My son HAD to tell me a 10 minute convuluted story that had no point.

They were sufficiently snacked up and distracted, so I fixed a plate of leftovers. However, I was caught in the act and my son demanded one too.

I sit down to eat, and then my daughter ever-so-conviently comes in the kitchen, and asks for a plate too. AFTER I'd already put everything away. At some point, I just gave up, and left my dinner to get cold on the table.

I'm just so done. I want time to myself. I'm so sick of picking up their messes, walking behind them and straightening up whatever they've deigned themselves to mess up. Couch cushions, cups in the living room. I just want them to go to bed and leave me alone.

I want to take a drive. By myself. I want to leave them here with someone and just go for a while. But I can't.

I'm angry, grouchy, put-upon and resentful. This is one of those days I have ceased finding things to be a blessing, and more of a bother.

Who are these kids and why are they calling me mom? And why the fuck can't they do anything for themselves?

A Blogpodge!

This week, I actually have a lot to say, so this is going to be a hodgepodge! A blog hodgepodge! A blogpodge, if you will!


Ok. Glad that’s over. Still with me?

So there was a family function at my daughter’s school last night, and the kids and I went. We had a good time. But there was one moment that stuck with me. We went to a presentation that only a few people attended. I looked to the left of me, and there was a couple. I looked to the right of me. Another couple. And there I was.

Alone.

It hit me that that is what a single mom feels like, every day. I may have to deal with the ups and downs of being a single mother while my husband is out working his long-distance job, but I least I have a vague deadline of when this will all be over. Most single mothers do not have the luxury of having an end in sight.

It doesn’t make my job any easier, but it makes it slightly more bearable. I guess what I’m trying to say is I really sympathize with all you single moms. Thanks for doing what you do.

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This also reminds me of the old saw about parents having to sacrifice for their children. That had never truly hit home for me until this past year. True, if we didn’t have kids, the hubs and I would get to do more in the way of entertainment. We would probably settle for a lot less as well, and not worry so much about our living arrangements and the like.

But that’s not really sacrifice. We’ve learned sacrifice the hard way this year. Sacrifice is having your daughter cry for her daddy when he’s not there, because he’s out trying to make our lives a little better than last year.

Sacrifice is the hubs not seeing the kids for weeks at a time, and usually not even getting to hear their voices, because they don’t like talking on the phone. They love daddy, but the phone is just an annoyance to them.

Sacrifice is wearing contacts for 6-8 months longer than you should, when they are supposed to be replaced monthly. Enduring stabbing eye pains and hoping you don’t end up causing yourself to go blind. Then finding out you’ve basically caused yourself to have an allergic reaction to the contacts, all because you couldn’t afford a new set, or even a pair of glasses.

Sacrifice is saving cans and going without haircuts, so you can buy your children consignment store clothing and shoes.

I could go on, but it’s really not necessary. Sacrifice. Check. I’ve learned it.

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On to more fun things:

This morning, as my son awoke, he said in his half-stupor, “My umbrella is a clarinet instrument.”

That right there is funny, people.

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My cats like to catch frogs, and even more so, they like to show them off. Every morning I leave the house, only to find a frog corpse on my front porch or sidewalk. I’m actually finding it quite amusing.

I kick them off to the side, and have a little collection of dead frogs in what would be my flower bed if I’d muster the energy to plant flowers. It makes me wonder what any visitors would think (if I ever had a visitor). Would they consider me a voodoo queen? Oh, if they only knew what strangeness lurks in the heart of a person…. bwah ha ha ha ha!