I love him.
I really do.
He is my anchor.
He grounds me.
All seems right when he's around.
Will he ever know how much he means to me?
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
It all started with those damned yellow signs
The narcissism in our country grows exponentially daily with Facebook and Twitter and blogs at our disposal. We no longer "need" each other so we concern ourselves with our rights, our thoughts, our feelings....
Where did it begin?
I am almost certain this obsession with ourselves began with those ubiquitous, benign little stick-up diamond-shaped yellow signs heralding "Baby on Board." Yes, it at first, probably prompted drivers surrounding the vehicle to drive more carefully. . . but shouldn't we be doing that anyway. . . not just for cars carrying children? Aren't we all precious cargo, I ask?
However, this expolded into a parental attitude as if we should all get out of the way when a child was concerned. I remember many soon-to-be helicopter parents traipsing about with humongous strollers barking "stroller. STROLLER!" demanding any common pedestrian to get the hell out of the way.
Those of this ilk began buying behemoth SUVs, mostly not knowing how to drive or park the aforementioned SUVs. The intent being. . . get out of my way. Now.
Am I surly? Bitter? Perhaps. But these are MY feelings. . . take heed. Hey, that might make a great stick-up diamond-shaped sunshine-yellow placard.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Where did it begin?
I am almost certain this obsession with ourselves began with those ubiquitous, benign little stick-up diamond-shaped yellow signs heralding "Baby on Board." Yes, it at first, probably prompted drivers surrounding the vehicle to drive more carefully. . . but shouldn't we be doing that anyway. . . not just for cars carrying children? Aren't we all precious cargo, I ask?
However, this expolded into a parental attitude as if we should all get out of the way when a child was concerned. I remember many soon-to-be helicopter parents traipsing about with humongous strollers barking "stroller. STROLLER!" demanding any common pedestrian to get the hell out of the way.
Those of this ilk began buying behemoth SUVs, mostly not knowing how to drive or park the aforementioned SUVs. The intent being. . . get out of my way. Now.
Am I surly? Bitter? Perhaps. But these are MY feelings. . . take heed. Hey, that might make a great stick-up diamond-shaped sunshine-yellow placard.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wish I had a camera
It was all right there. Unraveling in front of me. Like a play.
Walking toward me confidant in her size 2 skimpy casino waitress uniform the young girl shined in her physical perfection.
Looking away from me, stood the haggard older woman wiping down the outside of the casino elevator doors wiping sweat from her brow.
They crossed each other. I wondered if the one would turn (eventually) into the other.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Walking toward me confidant in her size 2 skimpy casino waitress uniform the young girl shined in her physical perfection.
Looking away from me, stood the haggard older woman wiping down the outside of the casino elevator doors wiping sweat from her brow.
They crossed each other. I wondered if the one would turn (eventually) into the other.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Growing up, giving it up
I've spent years unraveling the tethers born in my childhood. Or trying to. I still try. I guess I will my whole life. For many years, I've thought that I would hate my parents forever. But as a parent myself now and unwrapping the layers of my own parented self, I gain different perspective.
I never understood why my father was so hard on us. Why he seemed to expect perfection from his children when he indeed was so flawed himself. Did he really expect highly athletic, talented, beautiful children to spring forth from his loins when he himself never taught us, never encouraged us, never told us we were beautiful, I asked myself.
Yes, he did. In a very weird, strange and ineffective way, he dreamed that his children would be highly proficient at school, socially, musically and athletically--really the ideal for most parents. So when we mirrored he and my mother's negative traits or the byproduct of the crap we grew up with--he became disappointed and disillusioned. And angry. You see, he hated himself. He wanted us to be as unlike him as possible but he had no way of knowing, no skill set to get us there.
For if we were considered all these great things, we would legitimize him. We would heal him and make him whole. Pretty big of a burden to place on four kids who were basically raising themselves, huh?
But as I stood in the bleachers watching my son allow yet another volleyball whoosh past him, I had the epiphany about my dad. My son doesn't like sports. Even though he is blessed with strength and health and amazing talents, he chokes. Ask him to swing at a ball in a street game, he's fine. Yet, putting him in a team uniform seems to lobotomize him on the field.
His two best friends are known as The Smart One and The Nice One. My son has no identity. In fact, it seems his goal to skirt under the radar. This drives me to madness because he is so bright, so funny, kind, caring and pretty cool.
But as I sat in the bleachers with my stomach tight and (yes, I admit it sheepishly) getting angry, it struck me (hard) that if he were the star athlete, or the star pupil, or the most popular--somehow that would give me some creds. For I, just like my dad, don't like myself very much.
Now I realize it wasn't that my father hated us or we disappointed him so much, it was just that he was looking (in all the wrong places) for a way to feel good about himself. I'm not saying it was right or that my behavior is excused, but I am saying I understand.
I've accused my son (to myself) of "sitting in the bleachers and not being in the game" about athletics and about life. Maybe I need to learn to sit in the bleachers and relax. And enjoy. Enjoy him and his uniqueness and give us both credit for who we are.
It's going to take a lot of practice, but I'm willing to try. And that's all I can really do. Do my best. And let him do his best and let that be enough.
I never understood why my father was so hard on us. Why he seemed to expect perfection from his children when he indeed was so flawed himself. Did he really expect highly athletic, talented, beautiful children to spring forth from his loins when he himself never taught us, never encouraged us, never told us we were beautiful, I asked myself.
Yes, he did. In a very weird, strange and ineffective way, he dreamed that his children would be highly proficient at school, socially, musically and athletically--really the ideal for most parents. So when we mirrored he and my mother's negative traits or the byproduct of the crap we grew up with--he became disappointed and disillusioned. And angry. You see, he hated himself. He wanted us to be as unlike him as possible but he had no way of knowing, no skill set to get us there.
For if we were considered all these great things, we would legitimize him. We would heal him and make him whole. Pretty big of a burden to place on four kids who were basically raising themselves, huh?
But as I stood in the bleachers watching my son allow yet another volleyball whoosh past him, I had the epiphany about my dad. My son doesn't like sports. Even though he is blessed with strength and health and amazing talents, he chokes. Ask him to swing at a ball in a street game, he's fine. Yet, putting him in a team uniform seems to lobotomize him on the field.
His two best friends are known as The Smart One and The Nice One. My son has no identity. In fact, it seems his goal to skirt under the radar. This drives me to madness because he is so bright, so funny, kind, caring and pretty cool.
But as I sat in the bleachers with my stomach tight and (yes, I admit it sheepishly) getting angry, it struck me (hard) that if he were the star athlete, or the star pupil, or the most popular--somehow that would give me some creds. For I, just like my dad, don't like myself very much.
Now I realize it wasn't that my father hated us or we disappointed him so much, it was just that he was looking (in all the wrong places) for a way to feel good about himself. I'm not saying it was right or that my behavior is excused, but I am saying I understand.
I've accused my son (to myself) of "sitting in the bleachers and not being in the game" about athletics and about life. Maybe I need to learn to sit in the bleachers and relax. And enjoy. Enjoy him and his uniqueness and give us both credit for who we are.
It's going to take a lot of practice, but I'm willing to try. And that's all I can really do. Do my best. And let him do his best and let that be enough.
© It's All Wanderlust 2010
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