As an education junkie and lover of all things school, my twin daughters’ Kindergarten debut was all that we hoped. Their bright eyes and sweet little uniforms and overburdened backpacks signalled the beginning of an auspicious and successful educational career.Or so we thought.
Also, what do YOU think about elective c-sections??
So what is this strange thing you wise ones call patience? How do some people seem to have a natural grace and quietude, while others of us thrash around like bees trapped in jars? Patience. WTF? Does it taste like chicken? Is it better salty or sweet? Thus far in my life, I’ve been action Jacqueline… If something isn’t working, POOF, onto something else. Children notwithstanding, of course. New job, new house, new clothes, new exercise program.
Well, it is quite clear where this approach has gotten me. To be fair, this isn’t such a bad place. I’m forced into a healthy (like Castor Oil) holding pattern, as I review, reflect and digest my life choices thus far. Step Four in the Twelve Steps is “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”
Can you imagine?
I couldn’t. Not until now anyway.
So patience. It’s new. It’s different. It’s the last ever-loving thing I’ve ever wanted to try….
Her Bad Mother’s post about WonderBaby’s little euphemism got me thinking about parents and kids and the words we teach (or don’t teach) them to use. Maybe I read too much “Our Body Ourselves” as a young person, or maybe my Mom dragged me to one too many NOW meetings. Whatever the case, I came into parenting assured that teaching children the correct terminology for their bodies would furnish them with knowledge and power and pride.
Knowing the accurate words for themselves seemed an excellent first step in empowering them to know who to ask for what, when, and how they could carry themselves confidently through life. And when I had girls, I felt even more strongly about that.
Fast forward six years and each evening I’m reminded of this solemn undertaking in all its asinine glory.
“Mama, she touched my vagina without permission!!”
“EW. Your vagina STINKS!”
You get the idea.
I’ve promulgated such pride and power and accuracy that I’m afraid my inner Maiden Aunt rears her head simultaneous to each evening’s outcry. “Ladies. Please refrain from yelling out every little thought about your body. Let’s work on discretion.”
Yes. Discretion. A powerful motivator of 6 year olds everywhere.
I should write a parenting book.
Even though I flinch a bit inside, and admire that my friend had the smarts to teach her daughter to call “nursing,” “snack” (I know you’ll be shocked to hear that my youngest just calls out loudly “I want the BOOOB!!”), I am a bit proud of my daughters. They are weird, strong and outspoken. And haven’t yet learned to buckle under and act properly.
Let’s hope they never do…
For more fun with anatomy, go to Strollerderby
I’ll be 40 in July of this year. Like a humming hyper chant boiling through my brain, it’s distracting me from my zen quest, dammit! I look at myself in the mirror for signs of age, I wonder how old I look (39), knowing how old I feel sometimes (80).
In other words, I’m engulfed in vanity. I feel 15 again, but without the wolf whistles and bad eyeliner.
And there’s this other thing. I feel quite comfortable fessing up, since he admitted his secret dreams. I am, after all, a red blooded American woman. Woe. Man. I’m completely lusting after men in their 20s. Or men who appear to have bodies like men in their 20s.
I have occasion to be in a particular place every day now. And there is a changing cast of characters and an ever-changing vantage point from which to appreciate the incredible beauty of men, particularly young men. And while I usually succeed in keeping my eyes focussed inward and on the spiritual principles I’m trying to learn, sometimes I completely and utterly fail.
I blame turning 40.
I blame dwindling beauty and youth.
I completely deny culpability. Some things never change.
But it is lovely, watching these men with their fucked up minds, and gorgeous bodies. I’m watching only, after all (ok. once in awhile I fantasize). But they are beautiful. In their youth and vitality and mindless healthy strutting. And don’t even get me started about the jeans.
Is this aging? Lusting after youth and beauty?Have I achieved some measure of serenity only to be sidetracked by Generation Z? It seems so.
Not to worry. I won’t do anything but dream. And dreams are fun. At least I’m not the only person getting older around here.
More on Strollerderby…
In other news, I had my first sober New Year’s and here is my partner in crime, the lovely V:
Settling. Sitting still. Reflecting. Pausing before speaking. Quietude. These states are elusive in the hustle bustle opinionated brain of a former CrankMama. And while she has known this since she was born, I took the long way and I’m not there yet. And if all goes well, I’ll never arrive.
I’m speaking now of not speaking. Of holding one’s tongue. Of choosing not to express every thought flitting across the warped transom of one’s mind. You know what is most interesting about this not speaking bit? It gives other ideas, other happenings, a chance to come in and unfold. When I make my mental monkeys stop jumping on my goddamn bed long enough to enjoy the quiet, wisdom can break through all the screeching. Not my wisdom really. The wisdom of something greater than me (and beyond that, hell if I know what it/he/she is).
Fighting, arguing, drowning one’s feelings, pushing them down, or letting them out in all their fiery irrepressibility is draining. Tiring. Depleting. And I never realized how much of my exhaustion was due to my junkyard dog routine (when you are an angry doggie, everyone and everything is a bone).
So for now, I’ve laid down my weapons of war, picked up a feather and a flower (just like Ferdinand) and am waiting to see what happens next. Me? Wait? Never before have I endeavored such a mad journey… and I get no credit for the idea. NONE.
And as they say, “more will be revealed.”
Today on Strollerderby: What does Britney Spears tell us about our fascination with horrible parenting?
