Category Archives: Family
The Misadventures of Mr. Muffet, My Chronically Confused Cat
Mr. Muffet was never destined for greatness, dignity or even a long life.
Quite the opposite in fact.
The moment he joined our family, his fate was sealed.
I was too young to remember how Mr. Muffet arrived at our house or even when his name changed.
All I know is that Mr. Muffet was Miss Muffet until my cat-loving grandmother from Massachusetts visited our Oregon home. All things considered, my grandmother probably thought my parents were trying to make some kind of statement about gender stereotypes, but she wasn’t going to have any of it. She told them in no uncertain terms that Miss Muffet was just not an appropriate name for a male cat.
My father, who had previously tried unsuccessfully to breed rabbits, (he was unsuccessful because they were all female) heeded her advice, and Mr. Muffet’s name was modified accordingly. But his status as a full-fledged member of the family never changed.
Which, apparently, is why he went with us on a family vacation to the Oregon Coast.
I was recently reminded of the trip during a conversation with a couple of co-workers. Both were discussing the trauma of having to ship their cats overseas.
“I’ve never shipped a cat,” I said. “But I do remember the time my family took our cat to the beach.”
They both looked at me in disbelief.
“Why,” they wanted to know, “would you take your cat to the beach?”
I couldn’t answer their question. But since cats were the topic, curiosity got the best of me. I had to call my mom and ask why.
“I don’t remember,” she told me.
“But we did take the cat to the beach, didn’t we?” I asked.
“Yes, we did,” she answered. “I just don’t remember why. Probably because cats are easy, and we didn’t want to travel an hour to have him boarded.”
I didn’t even ask why a neighbor couldn’t have taken care of Mr. Muffet. Instead, I pressed on with the bigger issue. “And he pooped in the car, right?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, your memory is correct. He pooped in the car.”
She was obviously done with the conversation, so I didn’t push the issue. But I did tell my co-workers that I wasn’t imagining the trip.
Not only did we take Mr. Muffet on vacation with us, but we didn’t even have a carrier for him. (Were cat carriers even around in the early 1970’s?) Because of that, he was simply free to move around the cabin. But he didn’t. He stayed on the vent behind the back seat where my brother and I were riding.
That was either his favorite spot or he was too terrified to move, even when he had to poop. As a result, he pooped in the vent right behind my head.
There is no way to describe 1) the smell, or 2) how determined my mother was to get the mess cleaned up.
My mom was determined for a long, long time.
The good news for Mr. Muffet was that he soon had a lot more places to poop.
Always an equal member of the Bartlett family, Mr. Muffet accompanied us on our first walk on the beach (a beach comprised mostly of sand dunes.) He probably thought he’d landed in the world’s largest litter box.
He did his best to take advantage of the situation, but after an hour of running through the dunes, scratching in the sand and doing his business, the poor cat was simply exhausted.
Fortunately, our trip home was much less memorable than the one to the coast. Unfortunately, I don’t have many more memories of Mr. Muffet.
He disappeared shortly after the infamous vacation.
For years, I was convinced that a less adventurous family had found and adopted him. I was equally sure that he was quite relieved that he didn’t have to live with my crazy family anymore.
I was well into adulthood before I learned the truth: Mr. Muffet had been hit by a truck on the highway near our home.
I appreciate that my parents tried to protect me from the facts, but I also think they were trying to protect themselves. I’m certain that the adventures with Mr. Muffet had a significant impact on them.
He was, after all, my only cat growing up. After he “disappeared,” we only had dogs. And, I must say, dogs travel a lot better.
Moving On, Missed Opportunities, and Making Memories
My brother and I in the Shaniko Jail in the 1970';s
Apparently, I’ve never been very impressed by men with power. If I had been, my life may have changed forever when I was seven years old.
But I wasn’t, it didn’t and all I have to show for my brush with fame is yet another story about how headstrong I can be.
There are a lot of those stories, but only one about my brief encounter with Hollywood.
A television crew had arrived near the small town where I lived in Central Oregon. At the time, my mother was an enthusiastic newspaper reporter who never missed an opportunity to combine her job with the opportunity to expose her family to a world bigger than the one where we lived.
As I recall, I was already impressed with the world around me. But then, my memory may be a bit biased. One of the advantages of living thousands of miles from your childhood home is that distance enhances the warm fuzzy glow of nostalgia.
And when it comes to my childhood, I am a completely nostalgic for everything that isn’t part of my adult life: sagebrush and juniper trees, cattle drives and rodeos and, most of all, ghost towns.
I loved visiting Shaniko, the ghost town near our home. I loved the stagecoach. I loved the jail. And most of all, I loved the old hotel with the wooden Indian standing guard next to the front door.
Apparently Hollywood felt the same, because Shaniko was the site of an episode of the short-lived television show “Movin On.”
(Thanks to the internet, evidence of that event still exists at http://www.fredmiranda.com/forum/topic/875245. I’m even convinced my dad is
The Shaniko Stagecoach
in the third to last photo standing just to the left of a sign that says ‘Home Style Cafe.)
At first, I was excited about the opportunity to be on the set of a national television show, but my interest was short-lived. Watching the television shoot was tedious and boring. The actors and crew just repeated the same short scene over and over and over again.
And while I was completely bored, my brother sensed opportunity and tried to seize the moment. Every time the cameras started rolling, he started coughing. There was no doubt he was determined to get his voice heard on national television.
The director was just as determined that it would not be heard.
And the battle between the two became epic. At one point, the frustrated director took a break to mingle with the crowd.
But he didn’t do much mingling.
Instead, he headed straight for my family.
I was hoping that he was going to ask us to leave or at least give my brother a muzzle. Instead, he focused all his attention on me and serenaded me with “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” He ended the song by kissing me on the forehead.
I should have been in awe. I should have been gracious. I should have seized the opportunity to suggest that I join Ron Howard’s brother, the kid from “Gentle Ben”, who was a cast member for that episode. Instead, I gave him what, in my adult life, has become known as “the Trina look.”
That look said it all: I didn’t want a song; I didn’t want a kiss; and most of all, I didn’t want to be watching this boring television show.
Our family left shortly after the incident.
Since then, I’ve often wondered if the director had recognized potential in me. I like to think so, although he probably just felt sorry for me because I had such an annoying brother.
Whatever the reason, he singled me out, and I didn’t provide the reaction he was most likely hoping for. Because, even back then, I didn’t like feeding the ego of people in positions of power. I still don’t.
But I’ve also come to recognize all the opportunities I’ve lost because of that.
Acknowledging their power, or perceived power, doesn’t mean I’m giving up mine. When I’ve rushed to judge people who seek the limelight , I’m most likely the person who is losing something. After all, the television director in Shaniko didn’t need to sing to me to build up his ego. He probably just saw a little girl in a crowd and wanted to make her feel important too. And I didn’t give him that chance.
And I’ll never have that chance again.
But other opportunities may arise, and when they do, I’m hoping the memories I make don’t end with “what if.”
Because a life with “what ifs” is similar to a ghost town: a shell of what could have been with few opportunities to make new memories.
I’m planning on making a lot more memories.
Ten Lessons about Love for My Ten Year-old Daughter
Being a very practical person, I’m extremely fortunate to have a pragmatic daughter. Unlike many of her peers, she’s shown little concern about romance and relationships. Other than incessantly listening to Taylor Swift songs and keeping tabs on Taylor’s love life, she just doesn’t seem to care.
And while I hope that doesn’t change, I also know that, eventually, it will.
I can’t imagine that she’ll ever be the type of person who feels incomplete without a significant other, but I do know that she will start dating at some point.
And that also means she’ll have her heart broken.
But before that happens, I feel obligated to share ten lessons I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) about love:
1. You can’t truly love someone else unless you love who you are. And who you are is an imperfect person who makes mistakes, gets mad and will sometimes say and do very stupid things. Love yourself anyone. How you handle your mistakes and flaws is more important than trying to hide them.
2. Love is only genuine when you are being true to yourself. Don’t pretend to enjoy something when you don’t. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t compromise. You should. Love requires a great deal of compromise. But compromise doesn’t mean you should pretend to be someone you’re not. If you do, you’ll wind up being miserable.
3. Love isn’t a competition, and you can’t make someone love you. You will always be loved for being the unique person you are and not because you are prettier, smarter, funnier, sexier or nicer than someone else. Therefore, you should never worry about what others are doing to attract attention or affection. Being yourself is enough.
4. You don’t fall in love. That indescribable feeling of “falling in love'” is usually a combination of infatuation and physical attraction. Love is something that is grounded in mutual respect, grows slowly and doesn’t necessarily bloom as much as it thrives.
5. Love isn’t about romance. It’s about experiencing someone at their very worst and realizing that walking away would still be more devastating than dealing with a tough situation.
6. Love is about having passion in your life – but not necessarily in the way you might think. Never invest so much of yourself in a relationship that you don’t have time for everything else you love. Be passionate about a hobby. Be passionate about a cause. Be passionate about your family and friends. And also be passionate about your love.
7. True love means you aren’t worried about what other people think about your relationship. If you spend time worrying about what others are thinking or saying, you likely have concerns yourself. If you’re confident about your relationship and the integrity of your significant other, you won’t care what others say. Always stay in tune with your inner voice and be honest with yourself.
8. Love means saying you’re sorry. Unlike the quote “love means never having to say you’re sorry” made popular in the 1970’s movie “Love Story,” love means that you’re willing to let go of your ego. Admit when you are wrong or when you’ve said or done something hurtful. And when you are in a relationship, you will say and do hurtful things at times.
9. Don’t expect love to always feel exciting and new. Just like life, love can sometimes be dull and boring and predictable. Relationships are like roller coasters: sometimes they can be difficult and sometimes they can be easy and fun. But being able to work together during the uphill battles is what makes the downhill ride so enjoyable.
10. People do change, and that can affect your relationship. Our experiences shape who we become. The person who you fell in love with several years ago will probably be different from the person you know today. And you will be different too. Many times, you can join hands while you grow. Sometimes, you drop your hands and grow apart. Often, the decision is yours, but sometimes it isn’t.
As I share these lessons with my daughter, I realize that I could add so many more. But I figure one for every year of her life is enough for now. Besides, she often doesn’t listen to me anyway. Despite that, I do want her to hear one message loud and clear: even though she will ALWAYS have her mother’s heart, I hope she is also able to follow her own.
When It Comes to Sex and Relationships, I’m Pretty Sure America is Bipolar
I’m beginning to think that America suffers from bi-polar disorder when it comes to issues related to sex and relationships.
Either that, or we are simply a country of hypocrites.
Since I’d like to believe we aren’t a bunch of hypocrites, I prefer to blame our attitudes and behavior on something else.
But whatever the reason, we are definitely a country of extremes.
On one hand, the United States continues to have one of the highest teen pregnancy rates in the developed world: a rate almost three times that of Germany and France and over four times of that Netherlands (http://www.advocatesforyouth.org/publications/419?task=view). On the other hand, we have a really difficult time talking to our children about sex and sexuality.
Years ago, I felt completely beaten up when I was battling the issue of “abstinence only” education versus comprehensive sex education. But then, the issue got personal: I had children, and I want them to develop safe and healthy attitudes.
This means providing them with as much accurate information as possible. This also means providing them with the tools to use that information wisely and to feel comfortable talking with me about anything. If I don’t have the answer, I’ll help find it.
But I’m learning that’s often the exception. A lot of parents want to avoid any conversation. Period.
They freak out when certain body parts or behaviors come up in conversation, and they attempt to steer the discussion elsewhere.
This is ridiculous considering what our kids are exposed to every day in the media. I remember when 8:00 was reserved for family friendly television programs. Now, it’s hard to find anything on network television that doesn’t center around sexual humor and innuendo or that doesn’t portray casual sex as the expectation rather than the exception.
I’ve found myself explaining more to my daughter between 8:00 and 8:30 than at any other time of the day. But the discussion also becomes an opportunity to share my values, which I hope she and her brother eventually appreciate. And I hope both my children understand how self-love and independence are far more important than being in a relationship, at any age.
But that’s not easy, especially with girls. While the public service messages and textbooks are telling girls they can be anything, the rest of the world seems to be broadcasting that being in a relationship is what they should be striving for.
I was recently at a birthday party for a 10-year-old girl who was crying because her boyfriend had broken up with her. She had just turned ten, and she was crying over a boy. I just didn’t get it, and when I don’t get something, I ask questions.
First, I asked my daughter. Always her mother’s daughter, she said she didn’t get it either.
“Some of these girls always have to have a boyfriend,” she said. “It’s stupid. They waste so much time on that rather just having fun with their friends.”
I agreed, but, in a concerned manner, approached the mother about the issue. Her response? “I know, she’s heartbroken and will be up all night worrying about it. Hopefully, she’ll get over him soon.”
Get over him soon? At (barely) ten?
But then, I should have known better. This comment came from a woman who, recently re-married, has a signature on her text messages that reads “I love (the name of her husband).”
I’m thinking maturity regarding relationships isn’t her strength.
When I told a friend about how the girl didn’t enjoy her tenth birthday party because she was upset about losing her boyfriend, his response was, “They are just imitating what they see adults do.”
That’s what scares me most of all.
Despite efforts to build their self-esteem, I’m afraid the predominate message girls receive is that being in a relationship is a measure of who they are. Is that why so many woman are involved in abusive relationships? Is that why one in four women will experience domestic violence in her life and why an estimated 1.3 million woman are the victim of physical assault by an intimate partner every year? http://www.ncadv.org/.
But I can’t blame the media too much. They simply sell what people are willing to buy, such as magazines with pictures of unrealistically beautiful and barely dressed women on the covers. Apparently, our country is fine with seeing pictures of half-naked woman while in line at the grocery store, but is struggling with issues of breastfeeding in public: http://healthland.time.com/2011/12/27/the-nurse-in-why-breast-feeding-moms-are-mad-at-target/?xid=gonewsedit.
We need laws so mothers can breast feed their babies, but we are forced to look at “stars with cellulite” while buying milk?
I understand that we all get mixed messages, but our country is one big mixed message, especially when it comes to the human body, sex and relationships.
If it was up to me to resolve the issue, I’d say we need to start with some honest discussion about what we really value rather than what we pretend to value.
But then, I also know Americans have a love/hate relationship with honest discussion.
I’m guessing that’s also part of our disorder.
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Halloween may be the most ghostly holiday, but like Ebenezer Scrooge, I have always found Christmas to be more haunting. 
And just as with Scrooge, my Christmas ghosts remind me of what used to be and what I still hold dear.
Unlike Scrooge, my ghosts don’t necessarily encourage me to reconsider my life path. They are simply reminders about change, about being a parent and about how the best Christmas gifts often go unopened for years and sometimes even decades.
And every holiday season, my ghosts remind me of when I was an adolescent and received gifts that I didn’t unwrap or appreciate until years later.
They were given to me when I was struggling with the usual angst and therefore oblivious to anything my parents were dealing with.
And they were dealing with a lot.
My dad was unhappy with his current employment and seeking a new job. My mom was happy and fulfilled with her role in the community, but supportive of my dad. Therefore, the needs of my dad, the family breadwinner, won out and he accepted a job almost all the way across the country from our Oregon home.
Shortly after accepting the new job, he packed up his Ford truck and our family dog and drove cross-country to West Virginia. And my mother, my brother and I were left behind.
He made the move in early fall, and even through my self-absorbed haze, I knew much my mom didn’t want to move.
She even insisted that no one was going to buy our house anytime soon. But it sold almost immediately, and plans were made for the rest of the family to move to West Virginia over the Christmas holiday.
I continued my life as usual, pretending the change wouldn’t occur. My mother appeared to do the same. And with the holidays approaching, she made sure all the family traditions were kept. We decorated the house and the tree. We participated in holiday events. And we baked Christmas cookies and breads. Our house was warm, festive and inviting. In fact, there were very few indications that our life would soon be disrupted in ways that would take me years to understand.
But that Christmas WAS different.
My dad wasn’t around, and my mom’s eyes would tear up every time ‘”I’ll be Home For Christmas” came on the radio.
Too soon, school was out for winter break, my dad came home to help with the move, we hurriedly celebrated Christmas and just as quickly packed the house. Then we left. Forever.
Initially, I thought I would never adapt to my new life. Everything was different – the way people talked, how they viewed the world and what their priorities were. But I was young, and I eventually adjusted. But because I was young, I was also self-absorbed. So, the fact that my mother was facing the same issues at the “real-world” level didn’t seem important.
I knew she was unhappy. I knew that she went from being a community leader to being someone fairly unknown. And I knew that she just couldn’t conform to the suburban culture that we suddenly found ourselves in.
But I also thought she was “old” and just wasn’t affected by things the way I was. Or at least she knew how to deal with everything better.
I’m now even older than she was at that time, and I know we “old” people don’t always know how to deal. At least I don’t. And I don’t always hide my frustrations and imperfections… not even from my children. And during the holidays, I sometimes simply choke.
But my mom never choked. Even when she was going through one of the hardest times of her life, she never put her own issues, concerns and needs before those of her kids. She pretended that whatever her children were going through was a much greater priority. And she knew the importance of making us feel like we were home, even if she didn’t feel like she was.
That’s why, the Christmas after “the big move” felt just like every other Christmas. We decorated the house with the same decorations that we’d put out in years past. We baked the same cookies and breads that we baked in the past. And we listened to Christmas carols on the scratchy records we’d always listened to. It felt like we were home for Christmas.
I actually received several unwrapped gifts those two Christmas holidays. I received the gift of learning to move forward with my life while still embracing the past. I received the gift of understanding the importance of traditions at Christmas. And I received the gift of a role model who gave of herself at a time when there was often little left to give.
I unwrapped those gifts years ago, but I’ve held onto them. Every year when we hang the decorations on the tree… some which go back to my childhood…these Ghosts of Christmas Past come back to haunt me. And they remind me that life is constantly changing: new people arrive while others leave. Circumstances sometimes improve and sometimes get worse. And sometimes, even the entire culture seems to dramatically shift. But amid these changes, we can still appreciate the Ghosts of Christmas Past, celebrate the Ghosts of Christmas Present and hope that the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come provide opportunities for our children to open the unwrapped gifts we’ve given them. And that they too are haunted by Ghosts of Christmas Past.
The Addams Family Has Nothing On My Family
One of the stories that gets told and re-told every time my family is together is how I was switched at birth.
Truth be told, the story really isn’t all that interesting. I never actually got sent home with the wrong family. There were only two babies born in the rural Montana hospital that day, and I was over eight pounds while the other baby girl was much smaller. So in reality, there was never any significant confusion. The hospital was just so small and births were so infrequent that wristbands weren’t used. As a result, my parents were handed the wrong baby when they were getting ready to leave.
But even though the circumstances weren’t all that dramatic, there were times growing up when I was convinced that I was living with the wrong family. I was sure my dad made a mistake when he told hospital staff that they had given him the wrong baby. At least, I really, really wished this, and I fantasized that someday my real family, the ranchers in Montana, would come rescue me from my plight.
Putting aside the obvious family resemblances, I was convinced that there was no way I could actually be related to the people I was being forced to live with. They were just too weird, and even worse, they were making me weird. I knew this because I spent a lot of time comparing our family to other families.
There was simply no doubt. We were abnormal: my parents didn’t care about the things other parents cared about; they had different expectations and priorities for my brother and me; they didn’t listen to popular music; they rarely watched any television other than PBS; they didn’t care about pop culture and they would express opinions that were outside the norm of suburbia. Even the food we ate was weird.
There were times when the hopelessness of my situation got so bad that I would secretly watch an episode of the Addams Family
just because it made me feel a little bit better. But only a little bit, because I knew the Addams Family was fictional, while my family was real. Besides, my mother never approved of such frivolous shows.
But, like so many other situations in life, I grew up and got some perspective.
I’m not saying I completely overcame my compulsive need to compare myself to others and to worry that I was a bit off kilter (I always have been and always will be), but I did realize that there really is no such thing as normal. Most people spend a lot of time and energy putting up appearances rather than truly engaging in the world. I was raised in a family that just didn’t worry about what other people thought and lived accordingly. Because of that, it took me a long time to figure out how much other people were trying to cover up.
I’ll never forget an incident that occurred when my children were small. They had been invited to a birthday party at the home of someone who I thought had it all together. Not only did she have a career, but she was always talking about the amazing meals she cooked, how she was decorating her home and how her children were exceeding at a variety of activities. At that point in my life, I was feeling accomplished if I arrived at work with matching shoes and if my children were fed before I collapsed in the evening.
Needless to say, I didn’t want to go to the party. But I did.
I don’t remember much about the actual event. What I do remember is trying to find the bathroom and opening a door to a bedroom instead. At least, I think it was a bedroom. I couldn’t tell from all the junk that had been thrown in and piled up to get it out of view. This was obviously the mother’s attempt to make her home and her life appear perfect.
At that moment, staring at all that junk piled to the ceiling, I realized how many people spend too much time and energy trying to create an image of who they think they should be rather than simply being who they really are.
My family may have been weird, but at least they taught me the importance of embracing and accepting differences and imperfections, especially our own. They also taught me that no great discoveries or great works of art were the result of simply following the crowd or doing what everyone else was doing. Great advances come from thinking outside the box and having the conviction to do things differently.
My parents innate ability to do this may have skipped me, but it went right to my children. Neither of them seems to care about doing what is considered to be popular or the “in” thing. They are simply happy pursuing their own interests and are comfortable in their own skin. I admit that I sometimes forget what I’ve learned and start comparing them to other kids.
Then I remember the Addams Family. Their neighbors and community members may have thought them strange, but not only were they oblivious to what other people thought, they were also incredibly happy.
I like to think my family is too.
The Gift of a Dead Bee
I’ve finally figured out how to deal with the gift of a dead bee.
It’s only taken most of my life, since no one ever told me what to do with one. Or, at least if someone did, per usual I ignored the advice.
Like most of valuable lessons, I’ve had to learn the hard way – through experience. And, to quote Randy Pausch, “Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.”
I’m a very experienced woman. And I’ve been given a lot of dead bees.
I’m not simply referring to the dead bees, or any other small critters, that my cat brings me as gifts. I’m referring to all the times I’ve been given something that was intended to be a gift – a piece of advice, a kind thought or even responsibility – that I didn’t want. Not only did I not want the gift, but I overreacted to it – if not outwardly then inwardly.
Unfortunately, I’ve wasted a lot of time and energy on dead bees.
My mother was a master at giving them. To be fair, just like my cat, she was giving dead bees out of love. But, unlike my cat’s gifts, hers were harder to deal with.
Even before I hit adolescence, I remember her telling me to accept my body type since it wasn’t going to meet society’s standards for the female form. “It’s o.k. to be a big-boned girl,” she told me. ” I always wanted to be small too, but it’s just not how we are built.”
Really? I don’t remember worrying about my body type. I remember complaining that I wasn’t cool, but I didn’t think that had anything to do with my size. In fact, I never thought my 11-year old body was particularly big… kind of dorky, maybe, but not big. But from that moment on, I was sure my hips were going to grow so large that I wouldn’t be able to walk through doors.
I was almost thirty before a doctor finally convinced me I simply didn’t fit the definition of “big-boned.”
But that was nothing compared to the dead bee my mom gave me when I was 16.
The gift came during a conversation in her car. She had been covering something for the newspaper and was all worked up about the unfair treatment of a female official.
“They just won’t listen to her.” she told me. “They won’t take her seriously because she’s attractive.”
And then my mother did something she rarely ever did. She actually turned and looked at me, instead of looking at the road, while she was driving. It was brief, but it was still memorable.
“You are so lucky,” she told me, “that you are smart rather than pretty.”
That bee stung even though it was already dead. Those are just words no 16 year-old girl wants to hear. Not only did they linger when they came out of her mouth, they hung in the air long enough for me to grab hold of them and carry them with me for years.
Since them, I’ve collected hundreds more dead bees from very well-intentioned people. But only recently have I understood that these dead bees were actually gifts.
My mother’s comments about my looks and my body helped shape who I am: someone who recognizes that character is far more important than appearance.
Dead bees also make good stories. And those who know me best know I’m always telling a story – whether the listener cares or not.
Finally, they shine a spotlight on what’s really important: the relationship with the giver.
A few weeks ago I was making the bed when I flipped up a blanket to find a dead bee on the sheet. My cat had brought me another gift. But instead of freaking out over the fact that I’d been sleeping with a bee, I just laughed. You see, Skitty isn’t the most affectionate cat in the world. My husband calls her mean, but I disagree. Every night, after she thinks we’ve all gone to sleep, she jumps onto the bed and curls up next to me. I love the fact she does that, and if it means dealing with a few dead bees in bed, I’ll accept the trade-off.
In fact, I’m getting really good at dealing with dead bees in general. All it takes is focusing on the intent of the giver rather than on the gift itself.
I say this in recognition of the biggest dead bee my mother ever gave me: the tendency to give them myself. I’m pretty sure I’ve exceeded her abilities at giving dead bees, and I’ve already given a lot of them to my own children.
I can only hope I’ve also passed on how to accept and even embrace them.
Lesbian Is Not a Dirty Word
Relationships with other parents were so much simpler when my children were little. That’s primarily because we all had the same rules for our children: share with each other, don’t hit when you get mad and don’t throw temper tantrums, especially not in public.
But as our children get older, the issues become more complicated. And so do the relationships with other parents. Because the tougher the issues are, the more likely the adults are to have different values and opinions.
Take the issue of love and relationships.
My husband and I have always believed in tolerance and love. It doesn’t matter who you love. What matters is that you do love and, hopefully, are loved back. The power of love is so much greater than bigotry and hate, and we’ve tried to pass down that value to our children.
But not everyone shares that value. There are those people who believe that there is a right kind of love and a wrong kind of love. And they pass that value down to their children.
Unfortunately in that process, they try to pass their values down to other children too.
Take a recent incident in the neighborhood. Like so much neighborhood drama, it started on the school bus.
A neighbor boy called my daughter and her BFF lesbians.
My daughter was completely unaffected by the comment. She probably would have forgotten about it if her best friend hadn’t told her father, who completely freaked out. In fact, I wouldn’t have even know about the incident if the BFF’s parents hadn’t felt the need to include me in on their concerns.
“They were called a name,” the frantic father told me.
“What name?” I asked.
“I can’t say it in front of the girls,” he said. “When they are older and learn what it means, it will scar them.”
This seemed ridiculous to me since his daughter had obviously heard “the name” and had repeated it to him. But, my daughter, who never misses anything, reinforced the concept.
“I already know what ‘it’ means,” she said.
At this point, I was still completely unaware of what “it” was, but my daughter caught my confusion. “Lesbian,” she whispered.
The BFF’s father looked a bit confused then muttered, “Well my daughter doesn’t know what it means.”
Being raised not to think any of this was a big deal, my daughter immediately chimed in, “Yes she does. I told her.”
Here’s the deal. If my son or daughter even mentions an issue related to sex or sexuality, I make sure to contribute to the conversation. I want to ensure they get the facts. I’ve seen the research that shows the more accurate information youth have, the more likely they are to make safe choices when the time comes. Which means there are a lot of interesting, and honest, conversations in my house.
Apparently, those conversations aren’t happening in the home of my daughter’s BFF. Instead, she’s getting her sex education on the school bus.
After getting over his initial shock that my ten-year old daughter had told his ten-year old daughter what a lesbian is, the BFF’s father ranted on.
I only heard a small part of what he was saying. First, I knew I didn’t agree with his concerns. My only concern was that any of the children would use lesbian as a derogatory term. Of course, in the world of ten-year-olds, it was intended to be an insult to two girls who don’t yet shave their legs (which is apparently what the conversation was about). Secondly, I was thinking there are a lot worse names my daughter could have been called.
Regardless of my attention to his rant, my daughter WAS listening because she later wanted to know if lesbian is a dirty word. (My daughter’s new obsession is dirty words, and she’s hyper-vigilant as to anything that even has the appearance of being one.) And even though I reassured her that it wasn’t, she still seems very concerned. Over the last week, I feel like I’ve spent more time undoing the negative influence of the BFF’s father than I ever had to spend on conveying that love is ALWAYS a good thing.
“No,” I told her. “Lesbian is not a dirty word. Prejudice is a dirty word. Bigotry is a dirty word. Hate is a dirty word. But not lesbian. It’s a clean word.”
She seems a bit confused that none of the words I recited were on her list of dirty words, but I know that, through my persistence, they’ll land on her list eventually.
After all, I know a dirty word when I hear one.
Please Don’t Feed the Drama Queen
My house was invaded by bees this month. Well, according to my husband, they are yellow jackets. But to me? Anything that has stripes, wings and a stinger is a bee.
But regardless of their taxonomy, they invaded my basement and my life.
We eventually got rid of them thanks to our hero, Gary the Exterminator Guy. But, in the meantime, they created a bit of drama in the house.
I should have expected that. I live with a drama queen. The invasion of the stinging beasts simply emphasized that fact.
I warned my kids that the bees, make that yellow jackets, dying in the basement could still sting. My son, per normal, didn’t listen. Instead, he went barefoot into the Kid Cave, stepped on a yellow jacket and got stung. He then calmly came upstairs to tell me he’d been stung and his foot hurt. That was it. The incident was over, and he never mentioned it again.
My daughter, on the other hand, over reacted as usual.
She was already perturbed that I didn’t share her belief that the start of school also marks the beginning of Halloween season. She was insistent that the time to decorate had come. When I didn’t respond to her demands to bring up the tub of Halloween decorations up from the basement, she took matters into her own hands.
But, a dying yellow jacket had found the tub first. Keep in mind, it had died. It could have been easily flicked away. But, that would have been under normal circumstances when a drama queen wasn’t involved.
A drama queen changes everything.
My daughter ALMOST touched the yellow jacket, and the subsequent scream traveled farther than the recent earthquake that shook the East Coast.
I absolutely love my daughter, but about eight years ago I came to the inevitable conclusion that Shakespeare knew a girl just like her when he said “all the world’s a stage.”
On the positive side, there are benefits to being the mother of a drama queen. It not only helps you to be less reactive, it also helps you to completely ignore it.
Which is a good thing considering what’s going on in our country right now. We’ve got a lot of drama queens and people who encourage them. I’m not sure which is worse.
Anyone who has lived or worked with a drama queen, knows this is someone who blows things way out of proportion. A drama queen often views the world in absolutes. In short, drama queens are all about creating crisis out of any situation. And the more people pay attention, the more drama ensues.
If you pay any attention to the news, you probably think the world is being taken over by drama queens. If the invasion of the yellow jackets had made the news? I’m pretty sure there would be a world-wide scare and a call to exterminate every flying insect.
Sadly, I’m pretty sure that a lot of people pay more attention to drama queens than they are to the facts.
I’m not saying our country is perfect or that changes don’t need to be made.
But I am saying that using fear or emotional blackmail to drive the political process is completely ridiculous. Very few matters or situations are black and white, but drama queens love black and white.
They thrive on it.
But, as the mom of a drama queen , I’ve learned that one of the best way to deal with faux drama is to simply complicate matters. Add facts, variables and diverse opinions. Instead of creating drama, create genuine discussion.
And if the drama continues anyway? Simply do what I do with my daughter – ignore it.
I’m pretty sure it works with most drama queens.
I’d like to create some more buzz about the issue. But, the moment, I’ve had enough of both buzz and drama.
Is that a Compliment or Are You Just Trying to Confuse Me?
I used to think a compliment was a compliment.
Of course I also used to think that life was like a math equation.
That is, I thought that if you did the right thing, then good things would happen to you. And, if you were greedy, mean or cold-hearted, then bad things would happen. In other words, in the balance sheet of life, everything would add up.
I also believed that if you watched what you ate and exercised on a regular basis, there was no reason you shouldn’t be able to fit in the same sized jeans you wore in high school.
I was clearly delusional.
Now that I’m older, I’m a bit more realistic.
I also find myself analyzing every compliment I receive.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those people who thinks all compliments are back-handed or have some hidden meaning.
I’ve simply found that compliments say more about the people who give them than about the people who receive them. They provide great insight into motivations and personalities.
For example, I used to go absolutely crazy with friends who would criticize people behind their back only to make insincere compliments to their faces.
Not that I necessarily felt the need to be rude to people whom I disliked or didn’t respect (at least most of the time), but I certainly didn’t feel the need to lavish them with phony compliments.
But, to be fair, that’s a trait that can actually be very beneficial. Personally, my lack of it has cost me dearly at times. Because what I figured out was that the people who give such compliments simply want to keep the peace. It’s more important to them than being self-righteous. That’s very admirable.
Not that I’ve been able to change my ways all that much, but at least I understand.
What I’m still trying to understand are the compliments that come from my own family.
I didn’t grow up in a family that threw compliments around. And I didn’t marry into one either.
That’s not a bad thing at all, because the compliments that I did receive are definitely memorable…not necessarily ones to treasure.. but definitely memorable.
Take my husband.
Nearly 20 years ago, before we were married, he told me that I was “a worker.” He then explained. “That’s the highest compliment you could receive from my mom’s side of the family. ”
The effect of this compliment was short-lived when I realized that, while his grandmother may have appreciated “a worker,” my husband had higher regard for people who can sit back, relax, enjoy life, and watch the same episodes of a favorite television show over and over and over.. AND OVER again. Based on that, I’m surprised he married a woman who has a hard time sitting still for five minutes and feels guilty if she’s not accomplishing something 24 hours a day.
More recently, I was confused by what, I think, was intended as a compliment from him.
We were discussing why married couples complain about their spouse’s personality traits. My comment was that personality traits don’t change no matter how long you are married, so they shouldn’t have gotten married to begin with if they were that annoyed.
This led to the question as to whether people can and do change and inevitably to my asking “have I changed?”
My husband thought about it a minute, then told me I had. When I asked how, he said “You’re more mature.”
To put this in perspective, my husband has complete disdain for women whom he considers “immature.” I’m not exactly clear what his exact definition of immature is, but I think it has something to do with people who get upset when the world doesn’t revolve around them, or who expect life to constantly be exciting or who put their own wants and desires above all else. That’s based solely on my keeping a list of all the people, mostly women, who he has identified as “immature.”
Logically, one would think that the definitions of mature and immature would be exact opposites.
But, in this case, I’m not so sure. Because after considering if I had ever been one of those women, I realized that, for the most part, I hadn’t been. So his definition had to mean something else. But when I asked him what he meant, he couldn’t explain, and I was a bit worried.
Maybe because when I hear the word mature, I immediately picture a matronly woman buying clothes in the “old lady” section of the local department store.
I’m not there.. yet.
So, I gave up trying to figure out exactly what my husband meant and just decided to take it as a compliment. After, all, as I said before, compliments say a lot about the person who gives them. And my husband is a great judge of a character, so he had to mean something positive.
At least I’m pretty sure.
Just So You Know 