It's early in the morning. My favorite time of day, no matter what the season. Today is the first day of summer; the longest day of the year. Always a great day to enjoy sunlight and the sound of birds--especially early with a cup of coffee, and late with a glass of wine and a book. In a couple of hours, I'll be on my way to take my oldest to his college orientation, and my youngest will join me in a cabin at a beautiful state park where we will hike, swim and collect bugs for his summer homework. I'm so looking forward to the time we will spend together: it will soften any pangs from dropping his brother off, and will make amazing--and important--memories for both of us.
There's another special reason for the distraction, and the memories to come. Yesterday, a dear friend's father died. She, and two of her sisters, were with him. I knew the news was coming, but it still was impossible to brace myself for the onslaught of emotions when I heard the news. My heart went immediately to her and her family--where it had been for days, actually, but the funny thing is, I actually felt my heart leave and go to them, breaking in pieces along the way. Moments later it was back, heavy with the weight of grief and pain shared among loved ones. The memory of singing to my father with my sister just before he died fluttered through my mind, and I realized that Dad was surely welcoming my dear friend's Pop with the story, along with a warm man-hug, to the Heaven that I am sure all fathers share.
I cannot feel my friend's pain, but I so acutely understand. She was there, unexpectedly, at my father's wake, and for all these years I've known that I might not have made it through as well without her. I hope and pray that I can be as strong for her.
Bug collecting, hiking, and memory making with my son; this is how I will garner strength, and with all my heart, I will support her because she is my friend.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
It's a birthday day in our house today. The day couldn't be much more different from that day 16 years ago when we welcomed our second son. Today is chilly and damp; sweats and socks in the summer weather. That day was hot and sticky--I can still feel it!--and we had been strawberry picking over the weekend. It was a Tuesday, a solid week before my due date, and I was determined that the strawberries would not go to waste, so we were standing in a stinking hot kitchen stirring jam on the stove when I started to think I might be having contractions. We were going to finish that jam, though, dagnabit, so we sweated it out, me thinking these contractions were not so bad, considering their frequency, and Guy asking if we should get moving and just forget about the jam.
Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.
Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)
In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.
More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.
Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.
Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.
Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)
In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.
More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.
Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.
Friday, June 8, 2012
beginnings and endings...
Tomorrow is graduation for our oldest son. It's hard to believe it has been long enough since.......well, since ANYTHING for this to be the eve of such a special, wonderful, and, to be honest, emotional day. Although life is busy right now, I have found myself thinking of what this particular graduation means to me and to our family: he will be going off to college, and there will be one less person in the house, but he will always be here in so many ways. I look forward to the changes and challenges more than anything, as I have since the beginning of this adventure called parenthood. I often think of other milestones when a friend or relative experiences one, but graduations evoke a special set of memories....
My brother's college graduation, when we drove all the way to Ohio and met his friends for the first time. And how HUGE the arena at the University seemed to me. I had never seen anything that big in my life!
My own eighth grade graduation--the first time I picked out a "stylish" dress which, along with my sister's high heeled sandals, made me feel like a million bucks! Our class planned the entire ceremony, and learned all the words to The Carpenters' "We've only just begun". Along with my classmates, I felt so grown up, so special, and so very excited to move forward. Somewhere in my drawer, I have the picture Dad took when I got my diploma. That photo, in my mind's eye, is how I picture that night.
Horseheads High School graduation: sitting in the sun, in alphabetical order on the football field, as one of the few white robes (for girls) in my row, and one of even fewer stoles (for honors) and actually wondering if my parents would know which one was me from the back. (Silly me!! At the time I did not know that we, as parents, KNOW our kids when we see them!) I got an award that day that I wasn't expecting--a small scholarship award from the Business Department. I had taken a Marketing class--the only business class I took in high school--and joined DECA Club, where I competed in Manager Level challenges. I loved it! Being selected to receive the award was such a surprise! And after I received my diploma, Dad surprised me by being on the field, where he really wasn't supposed to be, but he was bursting with pride, and gave me one of his one-armed hugs that I loved so much.
My college graduation had a much different feel. I had been sick and out of school for three months, so I had fallen out of the loop with some of my friends. I was able to go through the ceremony, but I still had classes to take. The College had just gotten accreditation as a University, so we were granted University diplomas, which some of us felt were not deserved--we had not studied at the "University." We were young and cocky, and I was somewhat aloof. Most of my friends were going to continue their studies, but I was going to take "a year or two" off after my Associate's degree. I don't remember much of that day because I didn't care as much. That makes me sad.
But then there was my sister's graduation, when Grammy took a whole pineapple from the centerpiece of one of the buffet tables and stuck it in her purse! We tried telling her that it was a decoration, but she proclaimed that it was on the table with the food we were supposed to take, so it was fair game--and besides, if she did not take it, they would only throw it away! To this day, we threaten each other that we want to "pull a Grammy" when we see centerpieces that are not just floral!
And my husband's graduation, which was the first party I planned on my own. His ceremony was beautiful, and hearing his name announced gave me goose bumps. As a gift, I had gotten him a beautiful leather briefcase. For a long time, he used it, and every time I saw him carry it, I thought about him standing in the sunshine in his cap and gown. (I try to forget the stitches he ended up with, causing him to miss the end of his own graduation party, but I remind him that everyone else had a really good time, although they missed him terribly!)
When I earned my Bachelor's degree, I had to miss the ceremony because it was hours away, and was the same day as our son's Confirmation. That was quite an emotional time, as these were the first such events that Dad was not here for, and that leads me to tomorrow....
At odd times this past week, I've found myself remembering that Dad loved life events: big birthdays, weddings, reunions, graduations, and he would have had just the right thing to say to Jonathan to make him laugh and know that Grampa was so very proud of him. I hope that I can find the words tomorrow. I hope that he will listen with his heart, and with his eyes, because I don't know if the words will come to his ears from my lips.
But with all my heart, I pray that he knows that I love him, I am proud of him, and I am so excited for his future.
My brother's college graduation, when we drove all the way to Ohio and met his friends for the first time. And how HUGE the arena at the University seemed to me. I had never seen anything that big in my life!
My own eighth grade graduation--the first time I picked out a "stylish" dress which, along with my sister's high heeled sandals, made me feel like a million bucks! Our class planned the entire ceremony, and learned all the words to The Carpenters' "We've only just begun". Along with my classmates, I felt so grown up, so special, and so very excited to move forward. Somewhere in my drawer, I have the picture Dad took when I got my diploma. That photo, in my mind's eye, is how I picture that night.
Horseheads High School graduation: sitting in the sun, in alphabetical order on the football field, as one of the few white robes (for girls) in my row, and one of even fewer stoles (for honors) and actually wondering if my parents would know which one was me from the back. (Silly me!! At the time I did not know that we, as parents, KNOW our kids when we see them!) I got an award that day that I wasn't expecting--a small scholarship award from the Business Department. I had taken a Marketing class--the only business class I took in high school--and joined DECA Club, where I competed in Manager Level challenges. I loved it! Being selected to receive the award was such a surprise! And after I received my diploma, Dad surprised me by being on the field, where he really wasn't supposed to be, but he was bursting with pride, and gave me one of his one-armed hugs that I loved so much.
My college graduation had a much different feel. I had been sick and out of school for three months, so I had fallen out of the loop with some of my friends. I was able to go through the ceremony, but I still had classes to take. The College had just gotten accreditation as a University, so we were granted University diplomas, which some of us felt were not deserved--we had not studied at the "University." We were young and cocky, and I was somewhat aloof. Most of my friends were going to continue their studies, but I was going to take "a year or two" off after my Associate's degree. I don't remember much of that day because I didn't care as much. That makes me sad.
But then there was my sister's graduation, when Grammy took a whole pineapple from the centerpiece of one of the buffet tables and stuck it in her purse! We tried telling her that it was a decoration, but she proclaimed that it was on the table with the food we were supposed to take, so it was fair game--and besides, if she did not take it, they would only throw it away! To this day, we threaten each other that we want to "pull a Grammy" when we see centerpieces that are not just floral!
And my husband's graduation, which was the first party I planned on my own. His ceremony was beautiful, and hearing his name announced gave me goose bumps. As a gift, I had gotten him a beautiful leather briefcase. For a long time, he used it, and every time I saw him carry it, I thought about him standing in the sunshine in his cap and gown. (I try to forget the stitches he ended up with, causing him to miss the end of his own graduation party, but I remind him that everyone else had a really good time, although they missed him terribly!)
When I earned my Bachelor's degree, I had to miss the ceremony because it was hours away, and was the same day as our son's Confirmation. That was quite an emotional time, as these were the first such events that Dad was not here for, and that leads me to tomorrow....
At odd times this past week, I've found myself remembering that Dad loved life events: big birthdays, weddings, reunions, graduations, and he would have had just the right thing to say to Jonathan to make him laugh and know that Grampa was so very proud of him. I hope that I can find the words tomorrow. I hope that he will listen with his heart, and with his eyes, because I don't know if the words will come to his ears from my lips.
But with all my heart, I pray that he knows that I love him, I am proud of him, and I am so excited for his future.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
speed post
Life's been crazy, with no time to sit, and now there are cookies in the oven. The words need to get out somehow, so a stream of consciousness list is what we get. Here goes.....
This kind of cool weather has me in heaven, although it is kind of a drag when working at a pool.
Don't do something stupid because others do. It only makes you look stupid.
I'm proud when I find out my kid did not do something stupid.
A bully is a bully, no matter how popular s/he happens to be.
Don't get on the good side of the bullies just to stay out of their way. They will still feed on you.
Weren't we just pregnant together???
I can't believe it's over!/Thank God it's over!!
Oh, how I miss those days when I could do something stupid and say it was because someone else was going to do it, too. So I looked stupid once in a while.....at least it was never something STUPID!!
I am your mother.
Bullies exist in every age group. I was bullied as a kid. I was bullied in college. I have been bullied as an adult. I've stood up to bullies more as I've gotten older, but they still make me cry. (should probably go on a Post Secret postcard, but there you have it.)
I am not your mother. Leave me out of it.
My boys make me so proud. Each and every day, and I wish I could make them really understand that.
Time's up.
This kind of cool weather has me in heaven, although it is kind of a drag when working at a pool.
Don't do something stupid because others do. It only makes you look stupid.
I'm proud when I find out my kid did not do something stupid.
A bully is a bully, no matter how popular s/he happens to be.
Don't get on the good side of the bullies just to stay out of their way. They will still feed on you.
Weren't we just pregnant together???
I can't believe it's over!/Thank God it's over!!
Oh, how I miss those days when I could do something stupid and say it was because someone else was going to do it, too. So I looked stupid once in a while.....at least it was never something STUPID!!
I am your mother.
Bullies exist in every age group. I was bullied as a kid. I was bullied in college. I have been bullied as an adult. I've stood up to bullies more as I've gotten older, but they still make me cry. (should probably go on a Post Secret postcard, but there you have it.)
I am not your mother. Leave me out of it.
My boys make me so proud. Each and every day, and I wish I could make them really understand that.
Time's up.
Monday, April 2, 2012
jazz lover
This past weekend, one of our sons performed in the band's annual Jazz Festival. Of course I went to see him, and I enjoyed every minute of the performance, as well as the time I put in volunteering for the event. Something happened, though, that made this particular performance all the more special.
I saw my dad.
Oftentimes, my friends or family members will tell me of the dreams they have had about those they have lost, but in all these years, I've only had two dreams (one that was particularly reassuring, and one that still has me perplexed), and I've felt his warm, one-armed hugs on many occasions, but this was the first time that I saw him, with me, where I was.
When my sister and I were kids, my parents had a subscription to the local Little Theater, and we would go to see all kinds of plays, musicals, and concerts. The Clemens Center Theater was--and still is--a beautiful place, and always seemed so huge to me; with velvet covered seats, long aisles, a balcony, and a nifty orchestra pit. We learned theater etiquette there, which carried on to lecture hall and classroom etiquette later on. We learned to read the program, cover to cover, because each person listed is listed for a reason (that's why we watch credits after movies--as Kermit said in The Rainbow Connection, "Those people have families, too."), which has recently led me to designing programs for the Jazz Festival. During intermission, Dad would encourage us to go for a walk with him, up and down the aisles, exploring the details of the theater. We might take a look at the reliefs on the walls, or wonder about the instruments in the pit, or even sit in a vacant seat for a moment to see how different the perspective was. The result of all of this is that when I go to any theater, I drink in the details, comparing and contrasting them with the performance, other theaters, even the cost of my ticket. I love it! And it reminds me of all those intermissions with Dad.
In that way, I've been reminded of him many, many times, but only in my heart. And a smile comes to my lips as I say a silent "thanks" to him for teaching me to appreciate what others might take for granted. And, like him, whenever I leave a performance, I tend to be humming or singing one of the songs, or repeating favorite lines.
Following a few of the boys' concerts, I have been moved to tell them that I think Grampa would have liked some piece in particular, and I do believe it when I say it--it's not just to bring up his name. There have even been a few times that I have cried, wishing he could have been there to see and hear them.
Saturday was different.
I knew our son had a solo, but I didn't know which song. Sitting in the balcony's opera seats with Mom and our youngest, I sat excitedly chatting and sharing stories with a dear friend. Our band started to play, and they sounded great. The all looked so enthusiastic, and the band director beamed at them. (I like the opera seats because I can see his expression, too.) Just before the solo, I saw Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his smiling eyes half closed with joy. His lips, also smiling, were slightly parted in his "da--da--da" position as he oh-so-softly sang along. Elbows raised, fingertips touching as though ready to snap out the rhythm, he chair-danced along.
As my heart leaped, two tears ran down my cheeks and I watched Dad tune out everything except his grandson: never a more beautiful sight.
I saw my dad.
Oftentimes, my friends or family members will tell me of the dreams they have had about those they have lost, but in all these years, I've only had two dreams (one that was particularly reassuring, and one that still has me perplexed), and I've felt his warm, one-armed hugs on many occasions, but this was the first time that I saw him, with me, where I was.
When my sister and I were kids, my parents had a subscription to the local Little Theater, and we would go to see all kinds of plays, musicals, and concerts. The Clemens Center Theater was--and still is--a beautiful place, and always seemed so huge to me; with velvet covered seats, long aisles, a balcony, and a nifty orchestra pit. We learned theater etiquette there, which carried on to lecture hall and classroom etiquette later on. We learned to read the program, cover to cover, because each person listed is listed for a reason (that's why we watch credits after movies--as Kermit said in The Rainbow Connection, "Those people have families, too."), which has recently led me to designing programs for the Jazz Festival. During intermission, Dad would encourage us to go for a walk with him, up and down the aisles, exploring the details of the theater. We might take a look at the reliefs on the walls, or wonder about the instruments in the pit, or even sit in a vacant seat for a moment to see how different the perspective was. The result of all of this is that when I go to any theater, I drink in the details, comparing and contrasting them with the performance, other theaters, even the cost of my ticket. I love it! And it reminds me of all those intermissions with Dad.
In that way, I've been reminded of him many, many times, but only in my heart. And a smile comes to my lips as I say a silent "thanks" to him for teaching me to appreciate what others might take for granted. And, like him, whenever I leave a performance, I tend to be humming or singing one of the songs, or repeating favorite lines.
Following a few of the boys' concerts, I have been moved to tell them that I think Grampa would have liked some piece in particular, and I do believe it when I say it--it's not just to bring up his name. There have even been a few times that I have cried, wishing he could have been there to see and hear them.
Saturday was different.
I knew our son had a solo, but I didn't know which song. Sitting in the balcony's opera seats with Mom and our youngest, I sat excitedly chatting and sharing stories with a dear friend. Our band started to play, and they sounded great. The all looked so enthusiastic, and the band director beamed at them. (I like the opera seats because I can see his expression, too.) Just before the solo, I saw Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his smiling eyes half closed with joy. His lips, also smiling, were slightly parted in his "da--da--da" position as he oh-so-softly sang along. Elbows raised, fingertips touching as though ready to snap out the rhythm, he chair-danced along.
As my heart leaped, two tears ran down my cheeks and I watched Dad tune out everything except his grandson: never a more beautiful sight.
Monday, March 26, 2012
standing up
I have a confession to make: when I was a kid, I was bullied. Funny it should be that I feel like saying so is a "confession," and I don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny. Why should I feel as though being bullied is something that should be hidden? Why do I feel as though it diminishes the strength I have now? Today's headstrong woman is not related much to that beaten down girl. Not really.
What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.
Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.
Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?
"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.
A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.
When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.
The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.
College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.
Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.
What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.
Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.
Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?
"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.
A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.
When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.
The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.
College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.
Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.
Friday, March 23, 2012
personal connections
Lately I've been wondering why things have been getting to me as much as they have. It's frustrating to me to be frustrated--I prefer to take life one day at a time, and look at the bright side. Instead, I've been feeling rather cold and prickly every day. I've come to the conclusion that in addition to needing more warm fuzzies, I have become seriously deprived of adult interaction. I guess a few minutes here and there at work, and contact via email and/or text message is NOT ENOUGH!!
People who know me, or have looked at my profile, know that I am not one to go out of my way to be with people. For reasons I don't understand in the least, the thought of being around people fills me with some emotion related to dread, but nowhere near as strong--and yet, once I am in the company of people, I feel so much better. Parties, games, gatherings of all kinds are a bit of an effort to attend. In all honesty, I've wondered if I'm alone in feeling that way, or if everyone thinks they'd rather just stay home, despite enjoying the outcome of social interaction.
There are points, though, when I realize I have been avoiding social situations longer than is good for me. I start to feel the world closing in on me, and my thoughts start to crowd together. I do sleep well, though, and start every day refreshed and ready to go, so please don't worry about me! :) From experience, I know that I can survive quite happily for a month or more at a time as a solitary entity, surrounded by no more than my wonderful family. Mixed into my latest need for a 'hit' is having to really absorb the fact that the dynamic of my family is about to face its biggest shake-up. When our oldest goes off to college, nothing about our family will be the same. Being happy about that does not change the fact that it stresses my psyche--whether I'm thinking about it or not.
So, for the first time in a long time, I'm faced with the decision to make a huge effort for me. The last time I had to do this so consciously was when our oldest was born and I joined a New Moms group. Too bad there is no "New College Family" support group where I can go and meet people who understand what no one else can. (read: what I don't really know how to talk about with the people I already know because I don't just want reassurances or to be told how great my kid is and that he'll do great. I want to talk to people who are also scared to death that the past 18 years have not worked, and that no matter how happy I am about his happiness, I'm still scared to death.) I love my friends dearly, and know that every single one of them would gladly listen to my fears, laugh and cry with me. I'm just plain scared to share some fears, hopes, even successes.
Tonight, we're having dinner with some great friends (ironically, friends we met when I was taking college classes!), and I know the visit will energize me, and bring me back to me. I also know that under normal circumstances, I would allow myself to think it would be enough to sustain me. Thankfully, I have the most wonderful friends, and have a grown-up evening planned with another amazingly warm friend on Sunday.
Taking care of me so I can take care of them is something I've always known is necessary. What I had forgotten, or maybe not even realized, is that what I need to do to take care of me is not a static thing. At times, exercise and diet are the keys to well-being. At others, as now, the extroverted part of myself needs nourishing so that the more comfortable introvert does not become a speck. Life is good. :)
People who know me, or have looked at my profile, know that I am not one to go out of my way to be with people. For reasons I don't understand in the least, the thought of being around people fills me with some emotion related to dread, but nowhere near as strong--and yet, once I am in the company of people, I feel so much better. Parties, games, gatherings of all kinds are a bit of an effort to attend. In all honesty, I've wondered if I'm alone in feeling that way, or if everyone thinks they'd rather just stay home, despite enjoying the outcome of social interaction.
There are points, though, when I realize I have been avoiding social situations longer than is good for me. I start to feel the world closing in on me, and my thoughts start to crowd together. I do sleep well, though, and start every day refreshed and ready to go, so please don't worry about me! :) From experience, I know that I can survive quite happily for a month or more at a time as a solitary entity, surrounded by no more than my wonderful family. Mixed into my latest need for a 'hit' is having to really absorb the fact that the dynamic of my family is about to face its biggest shake-up. When our oldest goes off to college, nothing about our family will be the same. Being happy about that does not change the fact that it stresses my psyche--whether I'm thinking about it or not.
So, for the first time in a long time, I'm faced with the decision to make a huge effort for me. The last time I had to do this so consciously was when our oldest was born and I joined a New Moms group. Too bad there is no "New College Family" support group where I can go and meet people who understand what no one else can. (read: what I don't really know how to talk about with the people I already know because I don't just want reassurances or to be told how great my kid is and that he'll do great. I want to talk to people who are also scared to death that the past 18 years have not worked, and that no matter how happy I am about his happiness, I'm still scared to death.) I love my friends dearly, and know that every single one of them would gladly listen to my fears, laugh and cry with me. I'm just plain scared to share some fears, hopes, even successes.
Tonight, we're having dinner with some great friends (ironically, friends we met when I was taking college classes!), and I know the visit will energize me, and bring me back to me. I also know that under normal circumstances, I would allow myself to think it would be enough to sustain me. Thankfully, I have the most wonderful friends, and have a grown-up evening planned with another amazingly warm friend on Sunday.
Taking care of me so I can take care of them is something I've always known is necessary. What I had forgotten, or maybe not even realized, is that what I need to do to take care of me is not a static thing. At times, exercise and diet are the keys to well-being. At others, as now, the extroverted part of myself needs nourishing so that the more comfortable introvert does not become a speck. Life is good. :)
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