standing behind her man.

I just saw a news story that made me cringe. I guess the Kansas City Chiefs are getting a new head coach. Heh. I’m being facetious there. Of course they are. If you lived here, you would know that because apparently there is no other news this week. So, this morning I watched a story about the new dude’s wife. Now, most of you know I could care less about football, but I was waiting for the forecast, so what was I to do but watch the piece? The fact that the anchor introduced the story by saying, “we all know that behind a good man is a woman” really, really bothered me. Is it bad that as a woman, that offends me? It’s totally ridiculous, first of all, and it’s offensive to both women and men.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m married. I get the cliché, or the saying, or whatever it is, but it’s really, really stupid. I mean, first of all, why can’t the woman be in front leading the way? Are men really that stupid (as this cliché supposes) that they need a woman to tell them what to do? And more to the point, if any of you seriously believe that Andy Reid really chose this job in KC because his wife told him it was a good idea, I have a beach house to sell you in the arctic. I’m certain that they discussed this decision, but I imagine that she is going to go wherever the money is. Why wouldn’t she want to come to KC after being wined and dined at the Capital Grille and on the Country Club Plaza? I mean, her life will already afford her these things, why would she say no to more of that in a new city? Andy Reid wanted a job. He needed a job. Do you think the “woman behind him” is going to say no? On what grounds? The life she might live here wouldn’t be up to par? I doubt it.

Maybe that is why this story struck a nerve. When I think of women who “stand behind” their men. I think of Coretta Scott King. I think of Hilary Clinton, I think of Eleanor Roosevelt…women who, in their own right, are strong, smart and successful. Why should a woman’s place be behind a man? I take no responsibility for my husband’s success. I think that would be selfish and ridiculous, really. We talk, we share things and we create a life together, but we are separately successful and I would be offended if anyone referred to me as the woman behind her husband’s success. I hope he would be offended, too.  Just as I assume he wouldn’t take credit for my successes. That is not to say that we aren’t a team, but behind each other’s successes? No way.

I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to hear that Reid’s wife Tammy was going to practice law in KC. That she was a doctor or a teacher or would relocate her profession here, too. Instead, I heard a news story that included nothing personal about her: though it seemed as if it would go that way.  I had to do that research on my own.  (A “bling” jewelry business raising money for high school football, in case you wanted to know.) Because, as it turns out, of course no one cares what the hell Tammy Reid thinks as long as her husband is here. She’s in her rightful place, don’t you know? Behind her man.

36

This week I had a birthday.  Normally, birthdays sort of bother me.  I spend a lot of time thinking about particular birthdays of the past: the one, at 16, where I hung out in a car until midnight with my sweet friend Amy so we could celebrate our birthdays together (hers is June 12).  The birthday I spent crying about the boy who had broken up with me earlier that day…and that was the one where I was skinny and hot, but also? Who does that? Shame on him. My 21^st, where I wore a shiny gold dress to a club called The Edge and danced in a cage and then fell down half a flight of stairs – drunk on Midori sours…seriously.  The thought makes me simultaneously laugh and throw up in my mouth a little bit.  The one right after I had Lucy where I drank half a beer and thought I would die – I was 30 and remember thinking about how people did BIG things for 30^th birthdays.  That day I mostly felt like a giant boob. My point is that, at 36, I’ve decided to not ever be bothered with that trivial stuff anymore.  I’ve decided this is the year I will take back June 11^th. 

This year has been one of the best years of my life.  Honestly.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m really happy with my work – I’ve found a happy place in teaching – or if it’s because my children are old enough now that I can stand back a bit and relax and enjoy them more?  I’m not sure.  I don’t know if it’s because I’ve finally decided that this extra 20 pounds is really not that big of a deal.  I just feel like each year gets a little bit better for me, and that all the stuff I worried about when I could fit into that shiny gold dress doesn’t matter at all anymore.  Sure, I’m not that skinny and cute, but I’m also not that skanky and stupid.

I’m hoping that my 36^th year will include more traveling and less whining.  More eating delicious food and drinking really good wine, and less worrying about where those calories are heading.  More time spent with family living far away and less time crying about that family not living in Kansas City anymore.  My 36^th year will be about FINALLY getting started on my masters and not letting the excuse of kids, money or time get in my way.  It’s not a new epiphany…it’s just about finally getting off my own back.  Women are way too hard on themselves and I’m finally seeing some of that.  This year will be about loving myself more and criticizing myself less.  I hope that some of you will hold me to it.

growing up?

I had to take a few days to gain some perspective on a few things that have happened this week, and now that it’s behind me, I had to write about it.  I’m not going to tell you the details of what happened; just that what came out of it was the realization for me that not only am I an adult, I’m responsible for other human beings and the reckless, goofy, boob flashing (sorry dad) days of my past are just that – the past.  I feel a little conflicted about this. I mean, I know I’m a grown up, but at what point does being grown up equal boring? At what point does being grown up mean wearing mom jeans and driving a minivan? (I know I’m probably offending some of you out there, I apologize, it’s just my feeble attempt at trying to make a point)

Clearly, I’m going through a time in my life where I don’t want to lose my identity as “Kate” and yet, some of that identity is tied up in where I was ten years ago, or even earlier.  I can’t quite get past the fact that I have two little girls who look to me every day for guidance, rules, examples…and yet, I still think fart jokes are REALLY funny, and talk of body parts sends me into pre-pubescent fits of giggles.  I’m sorry. I just can’t help it.  My girls are getting older, and with that, there comes more responsibility on my part to show them what is acceptable behavior, not only for myself and for them, but also for girls in general.  What does that even mean? Frankly, I’ve never been one who feels comfortable with “acceptable behavior” – just look at my hair, my tattoos, my multicolored Chuck Taylors and my off color sense of humor.  How do I display what should be while not losing myself in the process?

One of the things no one tells you when you become a parent is how much of yourself you will lose in the day to day stuff.  That one day you will wake up and grab the keys to your minivan and wonder where the girl went who said that she would NEVER drive one.  You will go shopping and grumble under your breath about the rise of jeans or the length of skirts.  You will get your hair bleached blonde – something that used to be fun and part of your persona – and afterwards, you will look in the mirror and wonder if it’s just too much anymore.  You will hit your mid to late 30s and you will wonder where the line is between the fun girl you used to be and the example you are setting for your own young girls.  I guess in the end, I don’t know why it’s not ok to share my love of fart jokes, crazy hair and off color humor with my girls – because, really? What is life without some sort of humor?

I’m trying to maintain some of that humor these days.  I’ve realized that life is too short to worry that much about what is the right or wrong thing to do.  A former student from my preschool passed away this week at the age of seven.  Seven.  And I can’t even imagine what that is like for a parent to deal with - that is another story altogether - but I’m guessing that at the end of the day, even Cameron would tell us not to worry as much as we do about all the details of right and wrong.  Because, in the end, the fact that your child can tell a wicked fart joke probably means less than the fact that he or she was loved unconditionally – crazy hair and all.

on my own...

I’ve spent the better part of the past week trying to figure out how people handle single parenthood.  Seriously.  I’m a giant wimp.  Huge.  But I just don’t know how people manage this all the time.  I know plenty of women (and men, for that matter) who are single parents, and they just seem to make things work, but I’m that girl who will put it all out there for you and I have to say that I suck at this.  Steve is out of town on business this week and while it’s really quiet at night – something I always long for, to be honest – I’m just sick of being the bad guy all the time, simply because I’m the ONLY guy.  The juggling of schedules and packing of lunches and bathing of bodies and wiping of butts is one thing I’m pretty good at and I don’t mind.  I think I would lose my mind if I weren’t this busy.  It’s the lack of adult contact that is driving me insane.  It’s knowing that no one is going to walk in the door at 5:30pm and just run interference so I can cook dinner or pack lunches or just talk me off the ledge the kids have forced me upon, even if I bitch and complain about that person.  Which, I have been known to do – just ask him!

My point is that I have a new respect for all of those people in my life who are raising children on their own.  Big children, small children – really, anyone who is making rules and keeping them without losing their mind.  And honestly, I would like to write more about this, but I’m more tired than I’ve been since having a newborn, so I will leave it at that.   

trying to get a grip.

I have about twelve different posts that I've started in the past weeks and had to stop writing. I don’t know what is wrong with me lately – a combination of exhaustion, lack of time and a funk that has come over me in the past few weeks, I suppose. Tonight, though, my goal is to get something…anything, really, on the blog. Writing has always been my escape, and I can tell a difference in my entire personality when I get writer’s block.  Recently,  I have been thinking about women, mothers in particular, who are really hard on themselves. I fit into that category, as do a multitude of my friends. Why are we like this? Why, at 9:30 on a Thursday night am I just now sitting down to do something for myself? We beat ourselves up because our houses aren’t perfect, our children aren’t perfect and there just isn’t enough time every day to accommodate everything that needs to be done. I just had a conversation with another mom about this very thing tonight. Who is holding us to this ridiculous standard but ourselves? I, for one, am sick of trying to be someone I’m not.

I’m getting used to juggling working full time again. Honestly, I really love it, but I just don’t know how other people do it, really. Are the other women out there just lying about getting things accomplished? My kitchen is constantly dirty, the sink is full of dishes and there are crumbs on the counter. Dirty laundry has piled up so high I hardly know where to start. And you know what? I haven’t worked out in 15 months. Yep, I said it and no, you didn’t misread that. And you know what? That is the part I beat myself up over. The laundry? We have clothes (thank God for school uniforms and the fact that I can get away with wearing crap to work most days) and we have food both on the counter and in our bellies. I’m going to admit something else (wahoo! Look at me!) I would much rather sit my fat ass down with a glass of wine and a good book – or some Thursday night TV than even think about going for a walk or to yoga. Yep. I said that, too. There are just not enough hours in my day for me to be skinny again. Sounds terrible, but it’s true – I have to choose to sit and read or write when the girls are in bed because if I don’t, I will lose my mind. I promise you that I will. And, I would much rather be out of shape and happy any day. Now, if only I could figure out how to get my brain to stop running over the “have to, should have, need to” list while I’m trying to relax…I suppose if I could do that, I could also find time to work out. Meh. Nevermind.

anything but nothing...

I just finished the novel Iodine by Haven Kimmel.  I liked it very much and at one point toward the end of the book, Kimmel writes about the interesting differences in relationships between fathers and sons and mothers and daughters.  She writes, “At some point a father is expected to say to his son, Here is the key to the kingdom, and hand it over.  But mothers?  They say, Here is the key to your catastrophe, and they keep it on their key ring as a sign, nestled among the spare change, the linty gum, and the used Kleenex at the bottom of their decaying bags.”

This comment about the dynamic between mothers and daughters struck me probably more deeply this week than it would have in the past.  This week my mother was put into an assisted living facility.  She is 65 years old and has some sort of dementia.  No one seems all that sure of her diagnoses, but she is no longer able to care for herself in the ways deemed fit for independent living. 

I live nine hours away from my mother.  I don’t have a particularly good relationship with her to begin with.  This week has been difficult because I don’t know what to feel.  At all…not a clue.  Kimmel’s fascinating commentary on the peculiar relationship between mothers and daughters has left me numb.  Silent.  Pondering.  As much as my mother and I released our connection years and years ago – maybe even at my birth? I still can’t seem to let go of the nagging feeling that she is indeed the woman who birthed me, so, I should feel something more about this situation. Right? 

I do feel sad.  Sad for her loss of freedom that she no doubt feels in this situation.  Sad for her that she is likely 20 years younger than most of the other residents at the facility.  Sad that I don’t know the right thing to say.  Sad that I don’t know if there is a right thing to say.  I feel sad that my hands are her hands, my face and my mannerisms are hers…I see bits of her when I look into any mirror.  I hear her voice when I speak.  But I am not my mother.  And other than those eerie characteristics, I feel nothing. 

I remember literally digging to the bottom of my mother’s purse as a child.  I can still smell the lingering scent of cinnamon gum.  I can still see the dust from old Kleenex surrounding everything in that space. I know this is not really what Kimmel meant, but I understand the message she is trying to convey in her writing.  Mothers have a way of letting go, but not.  Of wanting their girls to become women, but also to not stray too far from the example they were given.  This week I feel like I have to break away from the example I was given in order to see more clearly and to feel…something.

yo' mama

It’s no secret that my relationship with my mother is rocky at best.  I don’t want to talk about her, but this week I’ve been thinking a lot about being a mom.  I would like to preface this by saying this post is not about anyone in particular.  If you would like to get offended by what I say here, go ahead, but it won’t be because I was talking about YOU.  Whomever you are.

First I would like to say that I think mother’s day is a sham.  I mean, I’m a mother every single day out of the year and I don’t need one silly day for people to kiss my ass. How come people don’t feel like that stuff is important on other days? I will not say who I think came up with mother’s day, because it has offended my husband, but I just think the entire day is ridiculous. I find it offensive that there is only one day out of the year that we call our moms and say thank you. Shouldn’t that happen more often? I mean, really.

So, this mother’s day, my husband told me I could do whatever I wanted to do. I chose to go shopping all by myself.  Any of you with children know what a special gift that is.  I even went to the grocery store ALL by myself – no little hands putting extra things in the basket, no one throwing her body on the floor because I chose the wrong kind of fruit snacks.  It was a little piece of heaven – and yet, most of this week I’ve gotten the stink eye from other moms when I tell them about my day.  I don’t really know why it’s caused such reaction, but maybe I should say that it’s the one upside of having a shitty mother – I don’t have an obligation to spend time with her one Sunday in May.  The downside? I don’t have a mother. Want to trade?

Here’s the thing about myself as a mother: I believe the only thing that matters is that my children are healthy and happy and mostly well behaved.  I didn’t have children to fulfill some empty place in my life – frankly, I had kids so I could see who they’d look like – me or Steve.  I wanted children because I love my husband so much that I wanted to make a human being with him, not because I needed something to do with my time.  My children are my soul, but they do not define ME.  Inside, I am still the same person I was before I had them – and I still need time to myself.  Actually, I covet time to myself.  And while the quantity of that time is wayyyyyyyy less than it was before the girls came along, it is still very important to my mental state and I make time for me every week.  I MUST, or I will lose my mind.

I don’t know how my children will look at me when we are all older – will they remember playing Candyland and laughing at old MGM cartoons until we thought we might wet our pants? Will they remember that I read Goodnight Moon every single night of their lives thus far? Or will they remember me as that lady who never cleaned her bedroom until their daddy threw a fit, and who sometimes made breakfast for dinner because she was just too damn lazy to do anything more?  I don’t know. But I do know this: my own mother did all the things that moms were “supposed” to do back in the day, she stayed home with us, made all the meals, did all the laundry, served on the PTA and the church committees. Where did it get her? She was miserable and still is, and we don’t have a relationship at all.  Clearly, I don’t know what particular qualities make a good mother. I only know how to be me, and I know that sometimes “me” doesn’t quite fit the traditional mold.  If I teach my girls anything, I hope they learn that they don’t have to fit into any particular category, and that just being who they are is always better than forsaking themselves to fit in.

This week on CBS Sunday Morning, they aired a great piece on the writer Erma Bombeck.   I remember my grandmother having her books, but I wanted to know more about her so I did some digging.  While she raised her children and wrote about those trials in a much different time, much of what she wrote hit close to home for me.  Especially these words about a different kind of mother: “She wanted children too, but for another reason.  They fulfilled a strong desire to love, raise, and leave as a legacy another human being. But they didn’t fulfill her ambitions, her struggle for individuality, or her need to make a contribution to this life, no matter how small.”  I wish more moms would think about these words and spend less time catering to other people and more time worrying about themselves. What a place that would be – a different world for ourselves and for our children.

the best ship of all is friendship

Today I had lunch and hung out with one of my dearest friends in the world.  She has a five-month-old baby and we hadn’t seen each other very much since the baby, (or my babies, for that matter!) it’s been a long time since we’ve been able to hang out on a regular basis.  We lived together for a few years before I met Steve, and by far she’s the best roommate I’ve ever had – and I miss sharing her closet and her bed.  Before you jump to conclusions – go head, jump, why don’t you? – I’m a huge slob and when my bed was too covered in clothes, I would go sleep in Julie’s room.  I still ask her if she’d like to spoon every chance I get.

We were sitting on my front stoop talking and watching my girls get along for once in their lives, and I started thinking about the best kinds of friendships.  The ones where you don’t see each other for four months, but you talk as if not one day has passed.  The best friends are the ones who are friends regardless of your finances, your weight, or the fact that you would some days choose wine and cheese over your family.   A true friend will love you for all of those things and will not pass judgment when you talk about your marriage, your job or, when, in the middle of lunch, your daughter announces that her “butt is like garbage.” 

Our lives have changed immensely from our days at the LaBobbi, which was the name of our apartment complex – and also the entire reason we chose to live there.  We no longer have the luxury of time in our friendship. Time to shop, time to sleep, time to decide over brunch to get a tattoo that day, or even time to fight over who got the couch and who got stuck with the big chair during lazy Saturday afternoon TV marathons.  What hasn’t changed throughout the years are the things that matter the most – oh, and also that if I asked Julie to sleep in her bed, I’m certain she would scoot over for me. Her husband? I’m not so sure.

selfish

I’m probably going to offend someone with this. Probably someone in my very close family – maybe someone who is upstairs right now. As human beings, we are constantly striving to find companionship and relationships and we are wired to be social creatures.  But what happens when that social part of our lives takes over and there is no longer any time for being alone?  What happened to quiet? I struggle with this and lately it’s really been something that has consumed me.  I wouldn’t change my family life for anything.  Really and truly. I love my husband and adore my children AND the time we spend together, but I miss being alone sometimes. It occurred to me this morning that I couldn’t remember the last time I was alone in my home. I’ve been married for seven years and for nearly five of those years there have been children here, too.  When I’m in a bad mood or need alone time, I feel guilty about it because now it affects other people. It used to be that my bad moods were just that, and I could wallow in them for a while and move on – but now I feel like I have to apologize for them.  Yesterday I got out to run some errands and left the kids home with Steve and the entire time I felt guilty because it’s the weekend and aren’t weekends for family time? These are the things that people don’t tell you when you get married and have kids – I know it sounds ungrateful and crass, but I also know I can’t be alone in my thinking here – other people must share this feeling sometimes, right?  Recently, my credit card’s magnetic strip has stopped working at our local gas station’s pumps – the one that is well lit and safe – and so I have to either wait until I’m alone to get gas (which, as you might guess is a rarity) or unbuckle both kids and go inside to have them process my payment manually.  These are the little things that you don’t think about until you are faced with making the decision in 12-degree weather – do I wait with the gas light on, or do I just drag the kids in and out of the car in the freezing cold?

I know. I sound like an asshole. My kids are almost three and almost five and it has gotten easier over the past year to sit down or to get things done, but they are still really needy.  When you spend nearly 30 years of your life doing things for YOU before kids come along, it’s a hard transition to constantly have two (sometimes three) people looking to you for everything they need or want.  I wouldn’t change it – I am fully aware that there are people out there who can’t have children or who long to be in a relationship like mine. I know people like that might gladly trade places with me in a heartbeat.  And I am fully aware that one day my house will be quiet again and I will long for the screaming fights between my kids, the getting up at 6am with one after being up half the night with the other, the “I want a snack!”, “Moooooommmm!!! She hit me!!!”, the hugs and snuggles and laughs and stories. The good definitely, without a doubt or a second thought, outweighs the bad, but some days I have to step back and reflect in order to see that clearly. 

this one's for the ladies...

I’ve been really busy since school started again, so it was a big treat to go out last night with two good friends to a wine tasting. Yum! For the past few weeks, after an incident with some girlfriends, I have been thinking about the dynamic of female relationships.  Last night there were 13 people in the wine class and it’s always fun for me to watch and listen to people interact, so I had a nice opportunity to take my pick of interesting people – and only one man in the group.  About midway through the class, the two girls at the end of the table (two of a group of four) started laughing about how one of them had decided to compare each of the seven Argentinean Malbecs we tasted to an ex-boyfriend.  I’m not sure how that works, but at the end of the class, after we had all sampled seven wines and were feeling much less pain, the boyfriend girl starts talking about herself.  Seriously.  Like, her entire life history. As if we asked.

She then told everyone the name of her blog and that is the point when we snuck out. Thank goodness the class was inside a lovely little wine shop and my girlfriends and I excused ourselves to go browse the great selection – I could not bear another moment of the self-absorbed droning.   Why is it that when women get into groups, there is usually an alpha who dominates conversations and overshadows the group?  Why do women fall into these weird friendship dynamics?  And more importantly, why am I so bothered by this subject??? After the wine tasting, we grabbed dinner and over more wine I asked my girlfriends why they thought women were so strange.  I told them that I thought there could NEVER be a group of friends like the Sex and the City girls – someone would have feelings hurt or would constantly be ganged up on. Someone would finally tell Samantha what a whore she is, she’d get her feelings hurt and that would be the end of that group. In pairs, women are fabulous. In groups, we can be poisonous.

Women often bite our tongues when we shouldn’t. We are often made to feel like our accomplishments and feats should be shared, but not too loudly.  We do a lot of backhanded complimenting.  We often say things we don’t mean and more often than not, we don’t say the things we should.  I was a student of my own mother’s shoddy examples – and as a mother of two girls, I often worry what kind of example I am setting for them.  I have amazing girlfriends. Women I would jump in front of a moving vehicle for, but I’ve recently found myself unable say simple things to some of them. Things like, “I’m sorry”, or “I should be around more often for you”, or even, “please, please quit talking about this subject before I take my fork and poke my eyes out”.  Instead, I listen and nod and offer what I believe to be kind words of support and encouragement.   I don’t know what this says about female relationships in general, but it says to me personally that I’ve been too busy or lazy to work very hard at mine.

My point in all of this is that women teach our daughters certain unspoken rules of womanhood and of female friendship.  It starts early…as in, I see it in my preschool class.  Girls are the first to pick a leader but are also the first to throw that leader under the bus when she says or does the wrong thing. It’s a wonder we ever make lasting friendships at all.  I thought about all of this while the boyfriend blogger was busy telling us her most recent addresses in 3 states and 2 countries; while her friends sat and nodded and sometimes threw in a tidbit of information to the story.  It was clear who the leader of their group was, and also clear that this was nothing new for them.  Think about this next time you are in a group of friends, or you see a group of women out in public.  Watch what happens, it will fascinate you and might even disgust you.  

This morning, as I was rehashing last night’s events with one of my girlfriends, she pointed out that despite the female dynamic, a person's success is often 10% ambition and 90% balls.  This blogger boyfriend girl had some giant balls and it’s probably what irritated and yet intrigued me about her, and it’s also probably why her stupid boyfriend blog is going to go viral and I’ll just be here blogging in my dirty sweatpants on Saturday nights.