I am misunderstood. I believe most liberals are. This is not because I am inarticulate or that (all) conservatives are necessarily closed-minded. Rather, I feel there are preconceptions regarding liberals that conservatives must first see past before they can ever hope to see us clearly. A basic set of assumptions that just are not true, no matter how many times they are repeated by the talking heads on the right or on a certain “news” network. I will agree to accept that not every conservative channels Ann Coulter and that MSNBC might lean a little left, if those of you from the right can at least consider the following with an open mind:
1. Liberals are not (necessarily) atheists, agnostics, or anti-Christian
A lot of us lead personally conservative lives, are active in our churches, and have a very firm Christian faith. We do not appreciate having our faith questioned anymore than you would. It is possible to be a radically, liberal Christian. Liberals understand that freedom of religion also means freedom from religion. So while I want my right to practice my faith protected, I understand that in order to achieve this, atheists’, agnostics’, Muslims’, and Jews’ rights must also be protected. Yes, I am saying that even the far right wing needs their rights protected. And another thing, no, I do not believe that there is a war on Christmas. One only need to patronize a retail establishment from October through December to see that Christmas is alive and well. If you believe that Christ has been taken out of Christmas, then you need to address this in your local church. Legislating a nativity scene onto your courthouse lawn won’t get Christ back into Christmas anymore than its absence will remove Him. Faith is personal. The Government represents all people, regardless of their faith or lack thereof. If you mix the two, you are endangering the very thing you are hoping to protect.
2. Liberals are not pro-abortion
Liberals believe that abortion should be rare, safe, and legal. Liberals begin with the premise that we must first begin to value life that exists outside the womb. Liberals understand that we won’t decrease the abortion rate until we, as a nation, support and value adoption, address poverty, provide access to health care (including birth control), strengthen families and our educational system for all our citizens. The causes of unwanted pregnancies are complicated and varied. If you give young girls hope, an education, a purpose, a path out of poverty, and yes, access to birth control, you’ll have fewer unwanted pregnancies and therefore, fewer abortions. Will this eliminate all abortion? No, but neither will criminalizing women and doctors.
3. Liberals are not “angry” (all the time)
I’ve always been confused by the “angry” label that gets hung around liberals’ collective necks. Do we get angry? Sure, I do. I get angry about injustice, poverty, greed, and stupidity. I loathe selfishness and self-promotion. I happen to know a lot of conservatives who get angry about some of those things as well. I’ve seen a lot more angry conservatives since President Obama’s election. Does this mean their views are liberalizing? Doubtful. It means they see something they don’t like and it’s making them mad. Welcome to the party. Martinis all around.
4. Liberals are not socialists
Or fascists, or Marxists, or communists. Liberals believe in a free market. However, we understand that each administration walks a tightrope that spans too much regulation on the one side and too little on the other. Do we think there was too little regulation during the last eight years? Well, to quote one of my “favorite” conservatives, “You betcha.” However, just because we are for addressing this oversight in an aggressive fashion does not mean we want the banks and all industry nationalized. We would have preferred to not be faced with these huge economic issues in the first place. But, it is what is. You play the hand you were dealt the best you can.
5. Liberals are not (all) snobby elitists from Ivy League schools
If one of my children has the opportunity to attend an Ivy League school (c’mon Standford soccer scholarship), I’ll jump for joy. However, whether or not that happens is not the important point. What is important is that my children attend a university. I care a whole lot less about what they study than the experience they have while attending a university. I care greatly that they are exposed to different points of view (yes, gasp!, even conservative ones) and learn to reason and think for themselves. Logic is key. We haven’t had a lot of that in the collective sense recently and look where that has led. I care about the opportunities my children will have in life that otherwise will not be afforded to them if they do not receive a higher education. One need only to check the difference in unemployment rates between college educated workers and those who do not posses a college education to see how important this can be from a practical standpoint.
From a philosophical standpoint, I think it is the difference between having a quality life and fighting each day for quality of life. If after attending a university my children find their passion in a profession that does not require a college degree, I’ll support them all the way. However, I believe it better to choose among many options than to make the best out of limited ones.
Oh, and just one more little footnote. Whenever I stir the conservative pot with my writing, it seems inevitable that I come across as sounding fat and ugly. I don’t know why that this, but someone always feels a need to point out that I’d be an excellent candidate for Extreme Makeover. For my group of “fans” that fall into this category, I’ll make a deal with you. If you get me a spot on Extreme Makeover, I’ll read a book to you while I’m recuperating from my plastic surgery and we’ll call it even.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Please
I am a safety nut. I have one friend who actually calls me “Safety Sally.” Primarily, my nuttiness applies to my children, but I’m pretty personally nutty as well. We wear our seatbelts, sunscreen, and bike helmets. We take the lightening detectors at the soccer fields very seriously. If lightening even looks like a possibility, my children are out the pool before they can utter a protest. We also do not bathe or talk on the phone if lightening is in the area. I recently woke both children from a dead sleep, dragged them down the stairs and into the powder bath because a tornado warning had been issued for my county. My almost twelve-year-old son still does not ride in the front seat of my truck, which has a passenger side air bag. My children are driven the ten minute walk home from school, through our nice neighborhood, and past their friends walking to the their own homes. You get the idea. I’m the better-safe-than-sorry mom.
My family owns ATVs and I’ve reluctantly indulged my husband and my children in this risky activity. However, we wear helmets, goggles, gloves, long pants, boots, and chest protection at all times when riding. We ride on designated trails and avoid areas where the dirt biking crowd likes to hang. My children’s ATVs have orange flags that protrude several feet into the air behind them as they ride. They have wristbands that are connected to the keys that will kill the engine the second they have an accident. I still worry, but have done all I can to mitigate the risk.
“Safety Sally” was created in two ways. The irrational fears I have came from being raised by a mother who is, indeed, afraid of her own shadow, mysterious one-in-a-million diseases, bizarre lightening out of a clear blue sky, and many other things that have yet to happen in the history of mankind, but are sure to occur at any second. The real, logical, and common things I am afraid of came from being raised in rural East Texas. Young men die a lot in East Texas. I don’t know any other way to put it. They do. They hunt, they boat, they drink, they drive. They don’t wear hunting safety vests, life jackets, or seat belts. And when they drive, they drive fast. As a young girl, it didn’t take me long to notice that every time one of these types of tragedies occurred someone, usually the mother, lamented the fact that if only the deceased had … (insert worn a safety vest, life jacket, or seat belt here). It seemed so simple, at least to me. I don’t live in a bubble, but I mitigate the risks of the world whenever I can.
Last week, my family received a heartbreaking reminder about what can happen if risk is not mitigated. My uncle and seventeen-year-old cousin went on a routine fishing trip. I dare anyone to find a more experienced boater than my uncle or a child who spent more time on a boat than my cousin. They knew what they were doing. They were not drinking. Another boat was not involved. A thousand times they had been fishing on this lake and returned safely. A thousand times since my cousin turned twelve (the legal age for going without a life jacket in Texas) they had not worn life jackets. A thousand times life jackets in the boat’s storage compartment accompanied them. But on this day, this one day, they needed their life jackets. The Texas Parks and Wildlife Department says that ninety percent of boating fatalities in Texas are not wearing life jackets. Six people drowned in single boat accidents on Texas lakes in March, including my uncle and cousin. Not one was wearing a life jacket.
We will never know for sure exactly what happened. But this we do know. At some point during their return trip to shore both left the boat and entered the water. Both drowned. The experts have told us that without life jackets they had almost no chance of survival. The search for them began three hours after they left the boat. The search for my uncle continued for five days. It took ten days to find my cousin. If you won’t wear a life jacket while boating to save yourself, please wear one so that your family does not have to stand on the shore of a lake wondering where underneath all that water your body might possibly be. Please wear one because there are people that will miss you when you are gone. People that are not done loving you. People who will never be the same without you. Wear one because you love someone and they love you back.
My family owns ATVs and I’ve reluctantly indulged my husband and my children in this risky activity. However, we wear helmets, goggles, gloves, long pants, boots, and chest protection at all times when riding. We ride on designated trails and avoid areas where the dirt biking crowd likes to hang. My children’s ATVs have orange flags that protrude several feet into the air behind them as they ride. They have wristbands that are connected to the keys that will kill the engine the second they have an accident. I still worry, but have done all I can to mitigate the risk.
“Safety Sally” was created in two ways. The irrational fears I have came from being raised by a mother who is, indeed, afraid of her own shadow, mysterious one-in-a-million diseases, bizarre lightening out of a clear blue sky, and many other things that have yet to happen in the history of mankind, but are sure to occur at any second. The real, logical, and common things I am afraid of came from being raised in rural East Texas. Young men die a lot in East Texas. I don’t know any other way to put it. They do. They hunt, they boat, they drink, they drive. They don’t wear hunting safety vests, life jackets, or seat belts. And when they drive, they drive fast. As a young girl, it didn’t take me long to notice that every time one of these types of tragedies occurred someone, usually the mother, lamented the fact that if only the deceased had … (insert worn a safety vest, life jacket, or seat belt here). It seemed so simple, at least to me. I don’t live in a bubble, but I mitigate the risks of the world whenever I can.
Last week, my family received a heartbreaking reminder about what can happen if risk is not mitigated. My uncle and seventeen-year-old cousin went on a routine fishing trip. I dare anyone to find a more experienced boater than my uncle or a child who spent more time on a boat than my cousin. They knew what they were doing. They were not drinking. Another boat was not involved. A thousand times they had been fishing on this lake and returned safely. A thousand times since my cousin turned twelve (the legal age for going without a life jacket in Texas) they had not worn life jackets. A thousand times life jackets in the boat’s storage compartment accompanied them. But on this day, this one day, they needed their life jackets. The Texas Parks and Wildlife Department says that ninety percent of boating fatalities in Texas are not wearing life jackets. Six people drowned in single boat accidents on Texas lakes in March, including my uncle and cousin. Not one was wearing a life jacket.
We will never know for sure exactly what happened. But this we do know. At some point during their return trip to shore both left the boat and entered the water. Both drowned. The experts have told us that without life jackets they had almost no chance of survival. The search for them began three hours after they left the boat. The search for my uncle continued for five days. It took ten days to find my cousin. If you won’t wear a life jacket while boating to save yourself, please wear one so that your family does not have to stand on the shore of a lake wondering where underneath all that water your body might possibly be. Please wear one because there are people that will miss you when you are gone. People that are not done loving you. People who will never be the same without you. Wear one because you love someone and they love you back.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Spanish Angels
I’m uneasy on ordinary days.
On ordinary days a simple tick of a second hand irretrievably changes everything.
On ordinary days, you’re moved in an instant from one place to another,
Your return path erased as if it never existed at all.
I’m uneasy on days of crystalline skies with goodwill on their horizon.
“There were seven Spanish angels,
At the alter of the sun.”-Willie Nelson and Ray Charles, Seven Spanish Angels
I prefer foreboding days with aphotic clouds, threatening lightning or a prodigious twister.
On dark days, you prepare for tragedy that never comes.
On ordinary days, tragedy accosts you in the most surprising of ways and never in the same way twice.
On ordinary days, things happen.
A fishing trip goes bad,
A wave washes away two lives.
On ordinary days, the small things last forever.
“There was thunder from the throne.
And seven Spanish angels,
Took another angel home.”-Willie Nelson and Ray Charles, Seven Spanish Angels
On ordinary days a simple tick of a second hand irretrievably changes everything.
On ordinary days, you’re moved in an instant from one place to another,
Your return path erased as if it never existed at all.
I’m uneasy on days of crystalline skies with goodwill on their horizon.
“There were seven Spanish angels,
At the alter of the sun.”-Willie Nelson and Ray Charles, Seven Spanish Angels
I prefer foreboding days with aphotic clouds, threatening lightning or a prodigious twister.
On dark days, you prepare for tragedy that never comes.
On ordinary days, tragedy accosts you in the most surprising of ways and never in the same way twice.
On ordinary days, things happen.
A fishing trip goes bad,
A wave washes away two lives.
On ordinary days, the small things last forever.
“There was thunder from the throne.
And seven Spanish angels,
Took another angel home.”-Willie Nelson and Ray Charles, Seven Spanish Angels
Friday, 27 March 2009
Monday
Monday while I was having my toes painted yellow, you fished.
On choppy waters you caught six.
(How many fish fry’s did I enjoy as a child in your home? Too many for me to count.)
Monday while I was having my afternoon latte, you were swept into the choppy water.
The lake had been your friend for all the years of your life, but on this day it selfishly claimed you for its own.
(Why can’t I get that song you used sing after Thanksgiving dinner out of my head? You know the sad one about the senoritas and the crosses and the sun?)
Monday while I drove home, somewhere under the water you roamed.
Did you know you would see your beloveds no more? Did you know we missed you right away?
You could not have heard us searching for before we even began you were gone.
Today we forced the cruel lake to return your body to us.
Your life it will keep.
Monday I had my toes painted yellow.
Never again.
On choppy waters you caught six.
(How many fish fry’s did I enjoy as a child in your home? Too many for me to count.)
Monday while I was having my afternoon latte, you were swept into the choppy water.
The lake had been your friend for all the years of your life, but on this day it selfishly claimed you for its own.
(Why can’t I get that song you used sing after Thanksgiving dinner out of my head? You know the sad one about the senoritas and the crosses and the sun?)
Monday while I drove home, somewhere under the water you roamed.
Did you know you would see your beloveds no more? Did you know we missed you right away?
You could not have heard us searching for before we even began you were gone.
Today we forced the cruel lake to return your body to us.
Your life it will keep.
Monday I had my toes painted yellow.
Never again.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Naughty Stepford Mommy
I participated in the PTA’s “Lunch with Mom” yesterday. Logistically, it was a stretch, but since traffic is much lighter during lunchtime than it is during rush hour I was able to make it work. My husband, he got to do “Breakfast with Dad” at 7:15 Tuesday morning. You know dads have to work so they get to do breakfast with the kids instead of lunch. I’m sure it’s occurred to the Stepford PTA that lunch with the kids might be tough on a mom’s schedule—this is why lunch does not begin until after the morning gym classes are over. They are very considerate.
In the middle of a driving rain storm, I pulled the Palinmobile into the school parking lot on two wheels. No worries. I had on three-and-half-inch heels to keep myself above the puddles in the parking lot. I was two minutes late, but was able to navigate the office sign-in Nazi, I mean secretary, and make it into the cafeteria with my daughter’s McDonald’s Happy Meal before she had completely convinced herself I was not coming.
She and I sat at the PTA table that was decorated with a tablecloth and flowers. My daughter chose two of her friends to eat with us—one girl and one boy. I know both of these children well and I can say with all honestly that I adore them both. I don’t say that about most children, but I really dig these two kids. They are kind, bright, and very funny.
As we began lunch, my daughter’s girlfriend busted into a monologue about how irritating her older brother is, how much trouble he’s been getting into at middle school, and how he only discusses his issues with their father, rather than their mother, because “Dad gets all that boy crap and doesn’t freak out like Mom.” I muffled a snort.
Then my daughter’s other friend decides to chime into the conversation. If my daughter one day marries this child, I will be insanely jealous and worried at the same time. He is a seven year old player and he plays me like a fiddle. He has shaggy brown hair, bright blue eyes, a sly grin, and is missing two of his front teeth. In short, he’s a lady killer.
He leans in really close to me and says, “Hey, Miss Kristi. You know what I did at lunch yesterday?”
I said smiling, “Noooo, what?”
He replies conspiratorially, “I got up from my seat and got some ketchup packets without asking the teacher. And I didn’t even get caught!”
I snickered and said sarcastically, “You weren’t being naughty were you? I would have a hard time believing that.”
To which, much to my genuine surprise, he says, “Nooooooo, Miss Kristi. YOU know I would NEVER be naughty. I don’t say the F word like the third graders do. You know the F word? F - U - C - K? I would NEVER say that. Now that’s naughty.”
After almost choking to death on my chicken nugget, all I could muster was “Well, yes. That would be.”
As I pulled out of the parking lot, all I could think was that I had been called out by a second grader. I’m a very, very naughty Mommy, indeed.
In the middle of a driving rain storm, I pulled the Palinmobile into the school parking lot on two wheels. No worries. I had on three-and-half-inch heels to keep myself above the puddles in the parking lot. I was two minutes late, but was able to navigate the office sign-in Nazi, I mean secretary, and make it into the cafeteria with my daughter’s McDonald’s Happy Meal before she had completely convinced herself I was not coming.
She and I sat at the PTA table that was decorated with a tablecloth and flowers. My daughter chose two of her friends to eat with us—one girl and one boy. I know both of these children well and I can say with all honestly that I adore them both. I don’t say that about most children, but I really dig these two kids. They are kind, bright, and very funny.
As we began lunch, my daughter’s girlfriend busted into a monologue about how irritating her older brother is, how much trouble he’s been getting into at middle school, and how he only discusses his issues with their father, rather than their mother, because “Dad gets all that boy crap and doesn’t freak out like Mom.” I muffled a snort.
Then my daughter’s other friend decides to chime into the conversation. If my daughter one day marries this child, I will be insanely jealous and worried at the same time. He is a seven year old player and he plays me like a fiddle. He has shaggy brown hair, bright blue eyes, a sly grin, and is missing two of his front teeth. In short, he’s a lady killer.
He leans in really close to me and says, “Hey, Miss Kristi. You know what I did at lunch yesterday?”
I said smiling, “Noooo, what?”
He replies conspiratorially, “I got up from my seat and got some ketchup packets without asking the teacher. And I didn’t even get caught!”
I snickered and said sarcastically, “You weren’t being naughty were you? I would have a hard time believing that.”
To which, much to my genuine surprise, he says, “Nooooooo, Miss Kristi. YOU know I would NEVER be naughty. I don’t say the F word like the third graders do. You know the F word? F - U - C - K? I would NEVER say that. Now that’s naughty.”
After almost choking to death on my chicken nugget, all I could muster was “Well, yes. That would be.”
As I pulled out of the parking lot, all I could think was that I had been called out by a second grader. I’m a very, very naughty Mommy, indeed.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Time Warp
I’m not a baby boomer—my young parents were part of that generation. I’ve never found a niche in Gen X, although I supposed technically that is my generation. I’ve been intrigued by my contemporaries who dropped out, but way too responsible to try it myself. The pursuit of the almightily dollar has been a hollow one for me. I have felt out of sync most of my life. I felt old when I was young and now that I’m older, I feel young. I’ve been frugal in the midst of excess and excessive when scarcity was the rule of the day. I’ve been a liberal almost washed away by a tsunami of conservatives. I’ve been outspoken when most have remained silent and sadly silent while those around me have banged their gong of ignorance. I’ve searched most of my life for my place. I was probably the most content during the Clinton years when I falsely believed we as a Nation had turned a corner. Then came W. And with W came an uprising of thought that just about turned my mind inside out. I stumbled around for eight long years looking for something to make me feel better.
If you’ve read any of my writing, you know that I went temporarily insane last year. The insanity began around the time of Obama’s race speech. This speech enticed me into drinking the heroin known as blue kool-aid. It’s true what they say. Try it once and you’re hooked. And so I was. All through the summer, I was high on NPR, MSNBC, and the NY Times. I drank at the fountain of Keith Olberman, sometimes more than once a day.
I decided to detox over Labor Day weekend while on my family’s annual trip to the lake, but the damned Republicans would have none of it. They went and nominated Sarah Palin the very Friday I was to enter rehab. I secretly snuck into my family’s cabin every chance I got for a hit off the TV. It was never enough. I longed for the drive home so I could listen to the radio for two hours straight. It was a downward spiral I knew could only be cured by election day. Funny thing was … Election Day didn’t really help much. Maybe it was the Inauguration I needed. Nope … that was not the cure either.
Here was my problem. The Clinton years were haunting me. Just when I felt some joy about Obama’s election, some hope about the future, some pride in what we had all accomplished, a voice whispered in my head, “at most, you have eight years.” Oh, what buzz kill it is when your voices refuse to come along for the ride.
Then something remarkable happened at church over this last weekend. No, God did not speak to me. I’ve apparently offended Him somehow and He has not been on speaking terms with me since, well, ever. Nope, our communications are strictly one way and if I am to be truthful, I suspect most of the time my calls get dropped. It happens. Anyway, I’m sitting in my usual spot this weekend enjoying the sermon entitled “Outrageous Grace.” Grace happens to be a concept I’m all about, so I was very interested in what my beloved minister and dear friend had to say on the topic. And just when I thought my minister was about to wrap up the sermon, he did something outrageous. Certainly very outrageous for Stepford. He pushed the bounds of conservatism just a tick past the progressive mark (Okay, okay, liberal.) And he had the nerve to do it while standing right there in the pulpit. It was all I could do not to jump up and shout “Amen Brother!” or “Hallelujah, Thank ya Jeeesus!” Lord, if only I had had a tambourine! My minister, God love him, showed my congregation a video of the Gen We Declaration. And I was captivated. And momentarily convinced I was born twenty-five years too late. That explains a lot.
You don’t know Gen We? You better get acquainted. They are coming, they are organized, and they are unlike any generation we have ever seen. Members of Gen We were born between the years of 1980 and 2000. I could outline their Declaration, but I don’t posses the writing skills to do it justice. You should read it for yourself at gen-we.org. Familiarize yourself with it, get comfortable with it, and accept it.
Gen We will soon be the largest voting demographic in our nation. They will achieve this milestone … wait for it, wait for it, in 2016. (I can almost hear the Hallelujah chorus.) In ten years, Gen We will make up 50 percent of the workforce. They are smarter, better educated, less partisan, less religiously dogmatic. They are globally focused, racially mixed, and environmentally responsible. They are technologically brilliant and righteously angry about the state of the world. Oh, and they are determined to take it on. And I, for the life of me, cannot see anything on the horizon of the Republican party that will appeal to them. Suddenly those annoying little buzz-killing voices don’t have so much to say. And guess what? I’m the proud mother of not one, but two members of Gen We.
Perhaps my place has been in Gen X all along. After all, its Gen X that gave birth to Gen We. And I could not be prouder of the generation I see coming. And I not only intend to cheer them on, but join them to fight for, repair, and heal our world. I love the line in the movie the Shawshank Redemption where Morgan Freeman’s character says, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Gen We is about to get busy living and I’m going to be right there with them.
If you’ve read any of my writing, you know that I went temporarily insane last year. The insanity began around the time of Obama’s race speech. This speech enticed me into drinking the heroin known as blue kool-aid. It’s true what they say. Try it once and you’re hooked. And so I was. All through the summer, I was high on NPR, MSNBC, and the NY Times. I drank at the fountain of Keith Olberman, sometimes more than once a day.
I decided to detox over Labor Day weekend while on my family’s annual trip to the lake, but the damned Republicans would have none of it. They went and nominated Sarah Palin the very Friday I was to enter rehab. I secretly snuck into my family’s cabin every chance I got for a hit off the TV. It was never enough. I longed for the drive home so I could listen to the radio for two hours straight. It was a downward spiral I knew could only be cured by election day. Funny thing was … Election Day didn’t really help much. Maybe it was the Inauguration I needed. Nope … that was not the cure either.
Here was my problem. The Clinton years were haunting me. Just when I felt some joy about Obama’s election, some hope about the future, some pride in what we had all accomplished, a voice whispered in my head, “at most, you have eight years.” Oh, what buzz kill it is when your voices refuse to come along for the ride.
Then something remarkable happened at church over this last weekend. No, God did not speak to me. I’ve apparently offended Him somehow and He has not been on speaking terms with me since, well, ever. Nope, our communications are strictly one way and if I am to be truthful, I suspect most of the time my calls get dropped. It happens. Anyway, I’m sitting in my usual spot this weekend enjoying the sermon entitled “Outrageous Grace.” Grace happens to be a concept I’m all about, so I was very interested in what my beloved minister and dear friend had to say on the topic. And just when I thought my minister was about to wrap up the sermon, he did something outrageous. Certainly very outrageous for Stepford. He pushed the bounds of conservatism just a tick past the progressive mark (Okay, okay, liberal.) And he had the nerve to do it while standing right there in the pulpit. It was all I could do not to jump up and shout “Amen Brother!” or “Hallelujah, Thank ya Jeeesus!” Lord, if only I had had a tambourine! My minister, God love him, showed my congregation a video of the Gen We Declaration. And I was captivated. And momentarily convinced I was born twenty-five years too late. That explains a lot.
You don’t know Gen We? You better get acquainted. They are coming, they are organized, and they are unlike any generation we have ever seen. Members of Gen We were born between the years of 1980 and 2000. I could outline their Declaration, but I don’t posses the writing skills to do it justice. You should read it for yourself at gen-we.org. Familiarize yourself with it, get comfortable with it, and accept it.
Gen We will soon be the largest voting demographic in our nation. They will achieve this milestone … wait for it, wait for it, in 2016. (I can almost hear the Hallelujah chorus.) In ten years, Gen We will make up 50 percent of the workforce. They are smarter, better educated, less partisan, less religiously dogmatic. They are globally focused, racially mixed, and environmentally responsible. They are technologically brilliant and righteously angry about the state of the world. Oh, and they are determined to take it on. And I, for the life of me, cannot see anything on the horizon of the Republican party that will appeal to them. Suddenly those annoying little buzz-killing voices don’t have so much to say. And guess what? I’m the proud mother of not one, but two members of Gen We.
Perhaps my place has been in Gen X all along. After all, its Gen X that gave birth to Gen We. And I could not be prouder of the generation I see coming. And I not only intend to cheer them on, but join them to fight for, repair, and heal our world. I love the line in the movie the Shawshank Redemption where Morgan Freeman’s character says, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Gen We is about to get busy living and I’m going to be right there with them.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Be The Mommy
Raising children is not for the faint of heart. Hell, life is not for the faint of heart and when you add two little people who depend upon you to keep their world right side up, motherhood can be daunting. I’m not a parenting expert, I’m not a pediatrician, or child psychologist; I do not possess a degree in early childhood education. I’ve never taught public school. I am not a perfect mother, although I believe if ever two children existed in the world that were close to perfection, mine would be them. My only qualifications to speak about motherhood at all is my own personal experience.
I’m a voracious reader and would like to become a writer that voracious readers read. I encourage reading in everyone I know: my children, my husband, my friends. However, there is one small group to which I actually discourage too much reading. That group is new mothers. Why? Well, because from my perspective most of what is written about how to mother is not helpful. What a new mother needs more than anything is to learn how to mother her particular baby. And if you can encourage a new mother to listen, her baby will teach her all she needs to know.
Now, I’m not talking about chucking all the technical manuals out there that serve as much needed reference guides on the topics of diaper rash, colic, or how much breast milk or formula a baby of x months of age should be eating. I’m not talking about the books that guide new mothers’ expectations as to when their baby may roll over, crawl, or walk. I’m talking about books that make sweeping generalizations about the kind of mother one should be. Books that set an expectation that if a mother is not doing her mothering a certain type of way, then she’s not doing it correctly. New mothers are insecure enough, they don’t need reading material that speaks in absolutes. Absolutes like: working outside of the home and mothering a young child are incompatible; you must always feed on demand and never let your baby cry, or the reverse of you must keep your baby on a strict feeding schedule even if that means letting him cry; never, ever let your children sleep in your bed, or the reverse of co-sleeping is the only way to insure a proper mother-child bond.
Here is what I know to be true. Each child is unique, special, and unlike any other. Just as each new mother comes to the task of mothering with her own history, background, and expectations, so does each child come into the world with its own temperament, personality, and set of needs. My son, a snugly sleeper who was only contented by being next to me while he slept. My daughter, an independent sleeper that would only sleep after being laid down awake in her crib. My son, a happy homebody who thrived on me being a stay-at-home mom. My daughter, a restless and curious child who was never happier than the day I dropped her off at full-time daycare. My son, a pacifier-sucking, formula-loving, happy, and chubby baby. My daughter, a pacifier-rejecting, stubborn, and screaming baby. Same gene pool, same parents, different children.
Here’s the point. If you’re a new mother, get quiet and still and listen to your heart and to your child. If you want to be a stay-at-home and you and your child have the temperament and financial situation to support that, DO IT. If you cry every morning while watching with envy as other women drive out their driveways to work, find the best available care for your baby and go back to work. You choose. Not someone who has never met you or your child. If you want to breastfeed until your baby is two, go for it. If the thought of having a baby clamp down on your tender and swollen nipples makes you want to scream, ask your pediatrician what bottles and formula he recommends. If you want to co-sleep, take down the crib and slap a double bed in the nursery (it’s allowed, I’ve done it). If your baby needs to be put to bed awake, then kiss her goodnight, lay her in the crib, and turn the monitor on.
If you were a fly on the wall in my home, you would often hear me say, “Because I’m the mommy, that’s why.” If you’re a new mother, be the mommy you know you are. As your baby responds positively to whatever decisions you’ve made about working, pacifiers, or sleeping arrangements, trust the confidence you feel and roll with it. Know this: whatever you decide, there will be a library full of reading material to support your decision. Go ahead and decide first and save yourself a lot of unnecessary and unhelpful reading written by people you will never meet and who have no business expressing their opinion about the kind of mommy you’ve decided to be.
I’m a voracious reader and would like to become a writer that voracious readers read. I encourage reading in everyone I know: my children, my husband, my friends. However, there is one small group to which I actually discourage too much reading. That group is new mothers. Why? Well, because from my perspective most of what is written about how to mother is not helpful. What a new mother needs more than anything is to learn how to mother her particular baby. And if you can encourage a new mother to listen, her baby will teach her all she needs to know.
Now, I’m not talking about chucking all the technical manuals out there that serve as much needed reference guides on the topics of diaper rash, colic, or how much breast milk or formula a baby of x months of age should be eating. I’m not talking about the books that guide new mothers’ expectations as to when their baby may roll over, crawl, or walk. I’m talking about books that make sweeping generalizations about the kind of mother one should be. Books that set an expectation that if a mother is not doing her mothering a certain type of way, then she’s not doing it correctly. New mothers are insecure enough, they don’t need reading material that speaks in absolutes. Absolutes like: working outside of the home and mothering a young child are incompatible; you must always feed on demand and never let your baby cry, or the reverse of you must keep your baby on a strict feeding schedule even if that means letting him cry; never, ever let your children sleep in your bed, or the reverse of co-sleeping is the only way to insure a proper mother-child bond.
Here is what I know to be true. Each child is unique, special, and unlike any other. Just as each new mother comes to the task of mothering with her own history, background, and expectations, so does each child come into the world with its own temperament, personality, and set of needs. My son, a snugly sleeper who was only contented by being next to me while he slept. My daughter, an independent sleeper that would only sleep after being laid down awake in her crib. My son, a happy homebody who thrived on me being a stay-at-home mom. My daughter, a restless and curious child who was never happier than the day I dropped her off at full-time daycare. My son, a pacifier-sucking, formula-loving, happy, and chubby baby. My daughter, a pacifier-rejecting, stubborn, and screaming baby. Same gene pool, same parents, different children.
Here’s the point. If you’re a new mother, get quiet and still and listen to your heart and to your child. If you want to be a stay-at-home and you and your child have the temperament and financial situation to support that, DO IT. If you cry every morning while watching with envy as other women drive out their driveways to work, find the best available care for your baby and go back to work. You choose. Not someone who has never met you or your child. If you want to breastfeed until your baby is two, go for it. If the thought of having a baby clamp down on your tender and swollen nipples makes you want to scream, ask your pediatrician what bottles and formula he recommends. If you want to co-sleep, take down the crib and slap a double bed in the nursery (it’s allowed, I’ve done it). If your baby needs to be put to bed awake, then kiss her goodnight, lay her in the crib, and turn the monitor on.
If you were a fly on the wall in my home, you would often hear me say, “Because I’m the mommy, that’s why.” If you’re a new mother, be the mommy you know you are. As your baby responds positively to whatever decisions you’ve made about working, pacifiers, or sleeping arrangements, trust the confidence you feel and roll with it. Know this: whatever you decide, there will be a library full of reading material to support your decision. Go ahead and decide first and save yourself a lot of unnecessary and unhelpful reading written by people you will never meet and who have no business expressing their opinion about the kind of mommy you’ve decided to be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)