we felt so grown up when we were kids and now wonder that we are so old when we're not yet grown we started losing our parents to time and frailty. in the cycle of life things go upside down sometimes you rush d o w n the rabbit hole into a world above the logic of sorrow and find you are so small, but remember: Mom's high ceiling, your sure ground. see the sky and trees in your pool of tears they're the other side of life. how beautiful things are when they drown how clear it is underwater. you long to run to the garden beyond that door but you don't fit life would feel deformed under the weight of loss if it weren't for the faith that was bigger than the life that shut down she archived her fears and hopes in her kids, did anyone hear the story in between, did anyone look? hold fast your heirloom assurance the midnight of your dreams is really a new day. for HJ & anyone else who would like it
Men will want to read this for their wives, sisters, and daughters, too. Comments closed. Feel free to take them over there.
This guest post is written by K. Badgers, a valued contributor to this blog.
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” ~ George Santayana
Memory is intrinsically entwined with politics – there are restrictions on who is deemed important enough to remain in the history books and in the public eye. As a result, not everyone deserving leaves a legacy, whereas certain practices and beliefs are perpetuated to become part of our customs and culture which aren’t in the interest of the greater good. The root of several modern-day problems – including the widespread medicalization of the female body – can be identified by looking back into history. As the above quote by Santayana suggests, it’s often important to recognize these key, damaging moments of the past in order to successfully move forward.
Bad Medical Practice has Roots in Nazi Directives
In one of the most…
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Sorry. Have no photos, people.
Mrs: If I die, you’ll marry someone nicer than me. But dumber.
Mr: This is true. I’ve had enough of smart wives.
Mr: (Caressing wife) Honey, can you…talk 20% less?
I deserve flak from my female cohorts. As a young adult, I never got the I-AM-WOMAN-HEAR-ME-ROAR hullabaloo. Why Oprah and devotees, TV shows, and pop culture rattled on about the woman with all the balls up in the air, exhausted in the attempt to satisfy diverse roles. Then I got married.
And became a mother.
The breadth of the tasks in my day-to-day, not to mention the depth, is such that I actually forget a lot of what I do. It is a great much, the littlest things one tends to as a mom.
I tore out a page of our calendar for you. I usually do more lessons, and doctor visits obviously are not a regular affair. But this day was typical in the way it packed one activity right into the next:
Dental checkup 45 minutes away
Prep for husband’s lunch next day
It was 6:40 when I was able to sit. Come to the computer and catch my breath – for eight minutes before showering Tennyson and tucking him in. In the past, I’ve gone on to cook two, three meals ahead for the little Foodie, find my way to the end of the dish pile, and clean the kitchen. This year, I’ve let myself write.
So I give you a glimpse of my week to share a rendition of a pretty amazing show we have going in our home.
One day I walked into the master where I found Husband pacing. Out streamed from his mouth an uncharacteristically impressive list of To-Dos he had drawn up for the day. “…and I have to do oil change and detail the car and replace the tires pick up the timbau from Riverside mow the lawn get ready for Samba…”
“I think….I’ll naaap.”
And he sank himself into the lounger with the grace of a deflating hot air balloon on landing.
Once I had picked my jaw up off the floor and my bug eyes had resumed their Asian size, I kicked him out, his laughter trailing him. The thing is, he’d meant it. The man really was going to take a siesta. It wasn’t just at my stunned bafflement but for the delight in the sweet change of plans that he’d crowed. It is beyond me. My husband is beyond me. Men are beyond me. If mothers so casually replaced obligations with sleep or every impulse, the human race would go extinct.
Jody was new to town and after being introduced to Jeff, agreed to hang out. Over her glass of beer, she wondered, “Now, how am I going to tell him I’m a lesbian?” He said he was cool with it. She made it clear this wasn’t a date. At one point in the drinking marathon, she spotted white granules at the bottom of her shot before everything went dark. The taxi driver reported seeing Jeff half-drag Jody up to his condo. She woke up with her clothes rearranged, knowing she’d had sex. She did a few things the scores of other women had not. Jody went straight to the hospital, procured a rape kit, and spoke with the police. And she didn’t stay Jeff’s friend.
He said he was a surgeon, astronaut, and CIA agent. His Match.com profile showed him in scrubs as well as an astronaut’s suit, and he flashed a badge on dates. In reality Jeff Marsalis was a nursing school drop-out, now known as the “worst date rapist in the nation’s history.” He went on to earn an impressive string of rape accusations, twenty-one in the Philadelphia area over incidents that occurred between 2001 and 2005. Two weeks before the second trial that would acquit him in that city, Jody pursued her case in Idaho.
Like her, the other women found him a gentleman in the morning when they came to. A few vaguely recalled the terror and panic, feeling him on them. But he seemed very caring, sent flowers to some in the coming week. Jeff convinced them through the confusion that everything was fine. Many of them told ABC News that “they wanted to convince themselves of that” and continued seeing him. I didn’t “want to be traumatized by this,” said one, “…thinking oh, he’s a doctor…trying to rationalize this.”
Help me out here.
I don’t quite think we can cast a blanket judgment that these women were stupid. Not only was Marsalis a skillful con artist but the women were intelligent working professionals. Curiously, the fact that they didn’t come across as bimbos made the jury question their testimonies in the first two trials. They were calm, didn’t cry. They had to be lying. And as sensitive as we women are, we know when something’s not right – especially with our body. The sheer number of victims also raises the interesting question on the psychology of guilt. An obligation is often a weight of guilt and in answering it, we allow someone else’s desire to overrule ours. Keep it up and your load ends up even heavier with resentment as your own prerogatives lose ground. Why are men less susceptible to the surrender of their boundaries and self-reproach in the face of their own inclinations? I’m not speaking in iron categories, saying all men are immune to people-pleasing. My guess is how we women tend to define ourselves by and draw our sense of worth from relationships more than men do. Because I don’t feel I quite fit the mold in this regard, I am confounded by the behavior of these women who swallowed the fear, suspicion, indignation, and shame, choosing instead to believe a fairy tale that the sweet-talking, smart, handsome doctor really liked or loved them and they would somehow ride into the happily ever after with him. Yes, the human condition tempts us to believe what we want to believe. We fear the truth. But why are women, over against our sixth sense, more likely to doubt our own perception and mistrust our ability to assess situations? Why more likely to blame ourself, as several of the victims later shared they did?
The defense attorney suggested that Jody was so drunk she didn’t remember wanting to have sex. But she wasn’t even conscious. “The defendant is accused of having sexual intercourse with a female who was unconscious due to an intoxicating substance,” the Idaho prosecutor said in court. “That is not consensual sex, it’s rape.” Not to mention that Jody would not have consented because she was gay.
After three-and-a-half long years, Jody and all the other victims could recover a measure of peace. Marsalis was sentenced to life, finally found guilty of rape.
Sugar and spice
And everything nice,
That’s what little girls are made of!
Snips and snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of!
What the heck are “snips”? Sounds like what’s leftover after the barber cuts hair. Snails? Ew! And the dog’s tails? As a child, this poem made me squirm. When I grew older, I heard another one:
A son is a son until he takes a wife. But a daughter is your daughter for the rest of her life.
Really? Sons equal desertion? And there’s the famous “Boys will be boys.” Often said to justify inappropriate or violent behavior.
All these unfortunate rhymes (prophecies?) disturbed and saddened me. You see, I was already blessed with a son, whom I adored. But back in my twenties, I watched my mother lament that I was the only sibling who ever kept in touch with her. My brothers gave her the equivalent of an over-the-shoulder nonchalant wave, “See ya! It’s been fun!” after college and poof…..were gone. I vowed to maintain a close relationship with my own little guy so history would not repeat itself.
Three years later I was pregnant again and (not admitting to anyone how much I was hoping for a girl this time) was ecstatic to be told that I was carrying twins. A boy and a girl! The doctors were certain. How wonderful! Another boy so my son would have a brother (and a playmate!) and now a daughter so I could experience motherhood from the other side of the coin. Like any mother, I began to fantasize and make preparations.
Fast-forward to delivery day. “Congratulations! It’s a boy!” Long pause. And finally one brave nurse ventured, “And…it’s another boy.” The silence was as sterile as the droning of the metal hospital equipment. Nobody understood the loss I felt. She had been real in my head and heart. Her name was Cassandra. And now she was gone. It felt like a death. The death of a long-time dream. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be happy with what I had?
“We are done having children,” my husband said adamantly. That was that. No more chances. His words sucked oxygen from air. And then to seal his decision, he promptly made an appointment for a vasectomy the day of the twin births. I heard a door slowly close with a creak, then slam itself shut, and finally deadbolt, echoing the finality of the verdict.
After that I was deemed “severely postpartum” and promptly drugged out of my mind with Prozac.
My mother came over to our home while I was still in the maternity ward to systematically dismantle the pink parts of the decorated nursery. She returned all the delicate, lacy dresses and hair bows to the boutiques and discreetly replaced them with yet more overalls and Lil’ Slugger pants. Welcome Home! Friends preached that I should just be happy that my sons were healthy. “You ungrateful bitch,” I thought I heard them whisper when I turned around. “Some people cannot have any children at all.” This was true.
I did everything a new mother does (nursed, sang lullabies, cuddled them) but still I couldn’t shake it. I was judged and condemned for not loving my little boys. Which was not it, not at all. Nobody got it. Nobody got me. I was alone with my thoughts and the pictures in my head of how things were supposed to be. Expectations. Expectations kill reality. I would rid myself of them all. Never look forward to the future, lest I be disappointed. Stay in the present moment. That’s the only thing they say we have, right?
Five years passed. And then it came to me. I had a little girl. I really did! She was already here, just waiting for me. All I had to do was locate her. I would adopt. International adoption gave me back my hope. Adoption held the tiny silver key that just might open a window of opportunity where that door had been shut. A door that I thought had come completely off its hinges, along with my sanity, a long time ago.
And finally there could be some acceptance, compassion and understanding. But it had to come from me as I bestowed it on all four of my little blessings – three sons and a daughter.
Little Miss Menopause at Once Upon Your Prime