Enough is Enough

I usually don’t use this format to voice my thoughts on societal issues but I have been unable to think about much else since the Brock Turner sentencing. This one case exemplifies so many of our societal ills: our biased criminal justice system, issues of privilege and race, and of course, our deeply ingrained injustices regarding sexual assault.

This man was caught in the act of one of the most extreme forms of sexual assault. He was appropriately convicted (which in itself is difficult to do in this country). And then slapped on the wrist because the judge is concerned about the negative impact that prison might have on him. Since when do we so thoughtfully consider the negative impact of prison on convicted criminals? We don’t. That is, except when the criminal is white and privileged.

Then there is the issue of sexual assault. This man went looking for a victim. He admittedly wanted to “hook up” with someone at this party and found the easiest victim to pick off. To me, this defines him as a rapist even before he committed any rape. Because rape is a mindset. If your intent is to figure out a way to trick, convince, or otherwise coerce a woman into having sex with you...you are a rapist, regardless of whether you have ever been successful. You have the mentality of a rapist and it is just a matter of time before you rape someone. The fact that this otherwise “good boy” could turn into a rapist is very simply the result of a rape culture.

Our culture consistently sends messages that women are objects of a man’s sexual desire and men are reduced to sexual predators. As objects, it is a woman’s duty and responsibility to guard her sexuality. In most cases, she is considered unfit to do so and needs to be protected by a male authority figure (i.e., those ridiculous memes of fathers protecting their daughters by threatening teenage boys with guns). When women are not successful in guarding their sexuality, they are either blamed for their victimhood or shamed for their promiscuity. There’s no way that a woman can have a healthy view of herself sexually. She’s either a failure or a slut.

The messages men receive regarding their sexuality are no less twisted. The cultural expectation that they be predators is everywhere. Viewing women as prey and sex as conquering that prey. As predators, their responsibility is to “get” sex by any means necessary. Sex is the objective. The woman doesn’t matter. Brock Turner’s victim said it very well when she reflected that if she had not gone to that party, this still would have happened. It just would have happened to someone else. If a man is not successful in conquering their prey, they are seen as weak and their manhood diminished. Portraying men in this way is just as disgusting and inaccurate as over-sexualizing women’s bodies. Women are more than their sexuality. Men are more than their sexuality. Everyone should be offended by these images and messages but very few actually are offended. The ones that speak up are marginalized through negative labeling (“crazy feminist”).

On the personal side, I have always known that I was more than my sexuality. However, I’ve been reduced to my sexuality over and over again. In my teens, there was the seemingly constant question of whether I was “still a virgin”. Once word got out that I wasn’t, boys suddenly showed interest in me. In my twenties, it became increasingly clear to me that no man would just be interested in me as a friend (with, of course, a handful of exceptions). If they showed interest, they were immediately deterred if I was already in a relationship. If we moved into a relationship, it fizzled quickly if we weren’t having sex. I will openly admit that this made me connect my personal value to sex. If I emphasized my sexuality towards men, I was valuable to them. If I didn’t, I was expendable and not worth getting to know. With this reflection, I am not in any way blaming the men in these situations. They are subjected to the same cultural pressures and expectations as I am and my insecurity is in no way their fault. I only reflect that these messages impacted me and my self-esteem greatly. And I can’t imagine that I’m alone in this.

The pattern of over-sexualizing women and reducing men to animals is so deeply ingrained into our cultural identity that we hardly even notice it. As long as these messages and images remain at the forefront of our media, we will continue to have cases exactly like Brock Turner. The only thing special about this rape is that Brock was caught. How many other rapes happened that night with other men looking to “hook up” and other women not realizing that they were about to be victims? The answer is easily in the thousands. Maybe not at Stanford, or in California, but count every rape on every college campus during or after a frat party and it’s easily thousands of cases of rape. All because men feel pressure to prove their manhood through sexual exploits and a woman’s value is constantly reduced to her sexual attractiveness.

Words have come

When my brother-in-law Gregg passed away suddenly on April 26th, I had no words. I cried with my family and found myself filling the day after with obsessively finding every picture I could of him.  Pictures have always been my solace and I was glad to have them that day, when I had nothing to say. But today, on his 50th birthday, I have things to say. 

It's hard to pinpoint when I first met Gregg. We grew up in the same neighborhood and suddenly, he was just there, driving around in his cool car with his cool friends trying to impress my sister. I'm 7 years younger than my sister, Charlene. So of course, when she was a teenager, nothing was more cool to me than anything she was doing. So hanging out in the driveway, or the yard, or the street, just waiting for Gregg and his friends to drive by and stop became a bit of a summertime pastime. At that time, what stood out most was how nice he was to me. At that age (I'm guessing around 8 or 9), not too many people were nice to me. I was too skinny, wore glasses, and was painfully shy. But he (and his friends) were nice to me. 

As Gregg watched me grow into my young teens, he became the guy that would give dirty looks to the boy in the neighborhood who was trying to impress me. If I looked sad or my sister told him a boy hurt my feelings, he would ask if I needed anyone beat up. His parents let me swim in their pool and they eventually became extended parts of our family. Gregg's father, Jim (who passed away from cancer in 2007) made a point to show his interest in my life at every family picnic or gathering. I always figured that Gregg got his personality from his father, who was always so warm, sweet, and caring. 

What bothers me a great deal about his absence from my life from this point forward is the impact that it will have on my children. When I married my husband in 2007, his two kids from his first marriage became part of my family. My family has been better than most, in my opinion, at embracing the children as their own and fully integrating them into our family. But I'm here to honor Gregg and who he is so I will focus on his part. While he was someone who the kids only saw a handful of times each year, he stood out to them in their memory. I was quickly reminded of the knack he has for making children feel special. He would talk to them at their level, and show kindness and respect that many people just don't have for children. He would get on the floor and play with them, whether it was Barbie's, Bey Blades, or just wrestling around. The kids remembered him even when they were younger and looked forward to seeing him because they knew it would be fun. That experience in their life is now only a memory. While I can help them cherish the memory, I'm saddened that the experience of having "Uncle Gregg" is no longer in their future. 

When I was talking to my 11-year-old, step-daughter Emily at the funeral home, I told her how glad I was that she had a chance to know Gregg. I was happy that she became part of my family so that she could know not only him but everyone in my family. I cherish them. I cherish him. Her family is small and distant and it grew both in numbers and love when she entered my family. I will be forever grateful that Gregg showed her what an uncle can be, made her feel important and special, just like he did for me when I was her age.  

I cannot even bring myself to imagine what my sister, niece, and nephew went through on that day. Or what they continue to go through today and every day. But I wanted to share this story with everyone who knew him because his family deserves to know how important he was to everyone. This was just my story. 

My Graduation Day. Pride in his face. Like a brother. 

Perspective

The latter half of 2013 is a bit blurry. While I had time to attend to my photo journal, my blog was left empty. Given the mental health value that I put into writing and reflecting, it doesn’t surprise me…looking back…that it was during this same time frame that I lost perspective. Many things were happening in both my personal and professional life. I won't bore anyone here with the details but suffice it to say that in September, I had my first panic attack. I don’t mean that I was anxious and overwhelmed. I mean that my body said “you’re done” and induced heart racing, nausea, blurred vision, and difficulty breathing, followed by sobbing that was so out of my control, it felt like I wasn’t inside my body. If the episode lasted just a few minutes longer, Dan would’ve had me in the car to the hospital. But it didn’t. It ended. Like all panic attacks do. It left me with the knowledge of what just happened and the knowledge to accept that I had pushed too far.

          

After that, I had difficulty with almost everything. I couldn’t concentrate. It was difficult to keep my mind focused on what I had to do. I found even normal levels of anxiety to be intolerable. By October, with the help of family and the HR department at work, I decided to take a leave of absence. I put my pride down and accepted that I needed a break or I would break. (Or had I already broke?) On the first day of my leave, I chose a bible verse, memorized it, and kept it in the forefront of my mind every day.

Phillipians 4:6-7 Be anxious for nothing. But in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Every day after that, I wrote. Not publicly, of course, and not really at length. But I took time and I wrote down my thoughts. Noticing every day a little more clarity returned. With clarity, came the peace that everything was going to be okay whether things changed or didn’t change. It’s like I had forgotten that simple fact. I’m going to be okay. I always have been. I always will be. I had gotten myself tangled up in thoughts that I HAD to do something and I HAD to make a decision or I would be miserable forever. Looking at it now, it seems so silly that those thoughts even entered my mind. I know better. But, like I said, I had lost perspective.

Glad to be back. 

By the way, Merry Christmas. Happy new Year. And all that Jazz.  

Santa Who?

I swear to you that I don’t set out to be different. I don’t wake up in the morning and think, “Gee, how can I make myself stand out today. I was hoping people would look at me funny.” Regardless, I have found that this holiday season in particular has made me feel alone in a world I don’t understand. I will try to explain…

            Here are three things about me that you will need to know for this story. First, I am a Christian. Second, I am a private person. Third, I have a 2-year-old son. Your need to know this information will hopefully make sense by the time you’re done reading.

            I am a Christian. This means I believe in the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. I believe he lived on this earth, having been sent by his Father, Our God In Heaven. I believe that he died as an eternal sacrifice for my sins and that I am forgiven because of this sacrifice. This makes me feel pretty strongly about his birthday, which I happen to be celebrating tomorrow. However, I’m not celebrating by telling my son a story about a man that will be coming to our house while we are asleep in order to bring us presents. I’m celebrating how I would celebrate any birthday. Family, food, desserts, and gifts. Except, instead of giving Jesus gifts (he’s impossible to buy for), we give each other gifts to acknowledge our appreciation and love for one another.

            I am a private person. The words I just wrote may surprise some of the people that know me. That would be because I choose not to shout them from the rooftops. But the bottom line is that I’ve always felt this way. Way before I ever had plans to have children, I knew what Christmas was about and how I would choose to celebrate it. However, I never tried to convince anyone that I was somehow right, and they were somehow wrong. I feel strongly against lying to children. I don’t play tricks, I don’t prank, and I don’t lie, even for “jokes”. How then could I look a child in the face and work so hard to convince him something is true, when it’s not? And how could I then expect that child to believe me when I tell him about Jesus and God…other things that he can’t see but is expected to take “on faith”? Given this conundrum, I made a personal decision to just leave Santa out of Christmas. Again, this occurred long ago. It’s only becoming an issue now because of my beautiful son.

          

           I have a 2-year-old. This means that every person that talks to him in the month of December asks him about Santa. And when he doesn’t respond the way he’s expected to, they give me that side glance like, “He doesn't know Santa?” My response? Smile and shrug. However, my inside voice says, “Hey, don't look at me like I'm nuts just because I’ve decided that the Santa hubbub is a distraction from what I actually wish my child to understand about the season.  But that private person prevails and I just breathe…smile…shrug.

            So, here’s my declaration to this cultural phenomenon. I will never tell you how I wish to celebrate Christmas as loudly as you tell me how you think I should celebrate Christmas. However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel strongly about it. And I won’t be swayed. This means everything to me. My Child. My God. My Savior. This is Christmas.

Happy Birthday, Jesus. 

Gracie's Story

Our story begins many years ago. A young black greyhound was transported from Florida to Maryland to be adopted. She ran a few races but wasn't much interested in that lifestyle so retired early; ready to be a couch potato for someone special. She lay waiting in a bed of fall leaves the day I arrived to bring her into my life. 

Self-defined as “not a dog person”, I was attracted to the breed for their calm nature. “You mean they almost never bark and spend much of their time lying around relaxing? Sign me up!” I remember teasing myself for buying a cat in dog’s clothes. But she was more than that. She was my friend.

Bringing her home came with a list of instructions. First up, always, always and I mean always use a leash when outdoors. Okay, got it. On our first potty break I had the leash wrapped up just like they told me. At the time, I lived on a second floor apartment and racing greyhounds do not learn how to climb (or descend) stairs. So as we walked out of our door and looked down the stairs, she definitely gave me that “What am I supposed to do now?” look. I coaxed her a bit and she decided to take her best shot, which was a flying LEAP down the stairs. It took her two bounds to go down 11 stairs. And since I was securely attached to her leash, I went tumbling after. That was our first day together. November 10, 2001. 

I spent the next three weeks unable to walk due to a foot injury. Turns out that is plenty of bonding time because we were inseparable after that. We had our struggles with house training since they don’t teach that at the racetrack either. But I noticed the more love she got, the less pee on the floor. Alright, she’s got attitude…just like her mommy.

Over the next 11 years, we traveled numerous times back and forth from Maryland to Michigan to visit family. After finally moving back to Michigan, I relocated four more times. She became so used to moving that home was wherever I was. As long as I was there, she could adjust. Her separation anxiety was most apparent when she would stand in front of me and lean in whenever she saw a suitcase, as if to say, “You aren't going anywhere without me, Sister!”.

She was 8 years old when I married Dan and all of a sudden there were kids. Small ones. Running around, playing, being noisy, and occasionally falling on top of her. She faithfully stepped aside a bit, allowing them to take my attention, knowing they were important to me. That’s not to say that we didn't have a resurgence of her peepee attitude, but I still loved her and felt guilty for being too busy to just lay with her on the couch like the old days. With the bringing home of a new baby, the poor thing had to step further aside as my attention and time was consumed. Regardless of my life having changed from the days of just her and me, she remained ever faithful. She would simply and quietly just be wherever I was. With all of this said, I would like to openly and publicly thank Ms. Gracie for being my companion through a time in my life when she was the only thing that didn't change. I thanked her the day she died and this post will forever remind me of what she meant to my life. 

My Former Self

It’s been five months since I started using a handy little app for my Kindle Fire called “Ultimate Value Diary Plus”. It uses the point system of the Weight Watchers program, which was something I was unfamiliar with but willing to try. My weight has followed a very common course of slowly creeping up as I age. I’ve had previous success in losing some of the extra pounds and did relatively well during pregnancy. But last year, after I stopped breast feeding in August, I became very aware of how much my habits had changed when I quickly gained 10 pounds by Christmas! I realized just how easy it was to quickly lose control over your weight. I set out to simply lose the 10 that I had gained and call myself successful. With that goal in mind, I started using the app to log my food and exercise and start playing “the point game”.

It was hard at first. I felt hungry ALL THE TIME for the first two weeks. But after that, I felt great. In those two weeks, I had lost 4 pounds and that was enough to stay motivated. Within 6 weeks, I had met my goal. 10 pounds gone. Since then, amazingly another 10. No tricks, No gimmicks. The app simply informed me of what food choices I was making that were really busting my diet. I began to make better food choices in an effort to stay under my “point limit”.  In five months, I have become a 36-year-old version of the old me. I sit in amazement at what this little app did for my life (Yay, technology because I guarantee I wouldn’t have done all this on paper). It’s also changing the lives of my loved ones. I passed the little app on to my mom who also got a Kindle Fire for Christmas. As of today, she’s well on her way to meeting her own personal goal WAY before her deadline. A recent annual visit had her doctor singing her praises for the progress she has made already.  

So I share today with one goal in mind. Express my sincere gratitude for my family, who went together and bought me a Kindle Fire for Christmas. I thank my sister-in-law Jenny for inspiring me to try the weight watchers system (Her story is TRULY amazing). And to spread the word that this was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. The app did much of the work for me. I just had to be faithful in logging and honest about what I ate. So, for all of you tech geeks out there who use at least 5 different apps to waste time; how about trying one that will be WORTH your time.

My version is for Android users, but it's also available for the iPhone folks. Happy summer everyone. Where’s my swimsuit?!

Goodbyes

After months of deliberating, Dan and I finally decided to give our whippet Mikey to a rescue organization. We found a wonderful foster family who would keep him in their home with their other dogs until he was adopted. He would have free rein of multiple dog beds, couches, and playtime with other animals. We knew it would be great for him and better than we had been able to provide for quite some time.

Here's the handsome guy himself. Goodbye Mikey!

The harder part? Explaining it to the kids.

I knew right away that it would be best for them to come with us to drop him off, see where he was staying and how nice it would be for him. Both of them were happy with that. They even understood why Mikey would be better off with this family rather than ours. What they didn’t understand is why they would never see Mikey again. Each of them expressed contentment with the decision until they asked about whether they could go visit. I could barely look at them while saying, “No, he will need to bond with his new family”. They each kept a stiff upper lip and expressed discontent but not horror, outrage, or any other perfectly understandable emotion.

That is, until we piled back into the van without Mikey.

A quick peripheral glance towards the backseat found Emily facing the other direction, trying to hide her tears. Seeing her upset, tears welled up in my own eyes and I quickly told her that it was okay to be sad. I moved myself to the back, sat next to her, put my arm around her, and let her cry. Which she did…the entire way home. Not the dramatic cry of a child throwing a fit. Emily is nine. She doesn’t really throw fits anymore. But she silently sniffled while she thought of how this loss affected her. I asked her about her thoughts. At first she didn’t want to talk about it, which I accepted. Shortly thereafter, her words flowed much like her tears as she made sense out of those difficult feelings. And to me, that was the point of bringing them along. I knew it would be difficult but there was a teachable moment where I knew I could help Emily process and cope with her difficult feelings. This skill is so necessary to develop when they are young. The difficult emotions that await them in adolescence won’t be quite so overwhelming if they’ve learned that emotions are okay to have, okay to talk about, and do not have to be feared/avoided. That’s what I want for my children. I cannot prevent them from feeling bad but I can show them how to feel better. As for Dylan…stone-faced most of the way home. Then he burst into tears as soon as his mom greeted him that evening. Sometimes, a boy just needs his mommy. I accept that too. 

The Melancholy Dragon

For those of you familiar with Florence Littauer’s personality profiles, I am nearly equal parts Peaceful Phlegmatic and Perfect Melancholy. For the unfamiliar, this simply means that I have tendencies to be introverted, analytical, observant, and pessimistic. The melancholy part of me is detail-oriented, organized, thorough, scheduled, and solution-focused. The phlegmatic part of me is consistent, relaxed, quiet, and agreeable. On most days, my peaceful side trumps my perfectionistic side and I find this has served me well overall. But three weeks ago, my son began spending his weekday time with people other than his parents. Three half days in day care and eager grandparents the rest of the time. This situation had just the right portions of uncertainty, lack of control, and anxiety to wake my sleepy melancholy dragon and call it forth to take over.  As soon as we heard that Dan was going to start daytime work and that we needed to organize daycare for Cole, that dragon reared its head to take control of the situation and make sure everything was absolutely and perfectly organized. I haven’t seen that peaceful phlegmatic since.

The process began with the daycare tours. I scheduled them ahead of time and we took a day or two to walk through classrooms, talk with teachers, read through brochures, ask questions, and process our reactions to each one. We followed up with grandparents (Cole has three full sets of them) to see what type of schedule they could commit to. Once it was settled, I made out a pick-up/drop off schedule for an entire month, a copy going to each grandparent with their specific schedule highlighted for them. Along with this schedule was a daily schedule for Cole, including when he gets up, eats, and sleeps, as well as food choices and diaper changes. “Did I miss anything?” the dragon asks. “I don’t think so. You can go back to sleep” I reply. But now that she’s all roused up, she keeps poking her head up, “How about now? Need anything?” 

“Everything is alright. I assure you”, is my response. Over and over again. Every time that pull of anxiousness tugs at my core, I say it. “Everything is alright. I assure you”.

With each passing day, it gets easier to lay that dragon down. I need her. There’s no doubt about that…but not today. Please let my laid back, easy-going, peaceful self come back and shine on. Quite frankly, she’s more fun to be around. But don’t tell the dragon I said that. J



Here we are on Cole's first day of "school". That bewildered look, which is so unnatural for Cole clearly states, "So, you're leaving me here? With these people?"



My Eternal Valentine

            Many years ago, at the beginning of a new school year, a 13-year-old boy sat behind a 13-year-old girl in 8^th grade English class. Being a nice boy interested in a nice girl, there were lots of jokes and laughing before, after, and during class. Not much else to speak of except for recollections of “that’s when we met”. Freshman year art class came and went with collaborative projects and good times securing our place in “the friend zone”. Until one day, sophomore year, that boy asked another friend what she thought about his chances with that girl. She gave him just the confidence he needed to ask that girl to the next high school dance that just happened to be associated with Valentine’s Day. She readily accepted his invitation and that became “the beginning”. At the dance, they did their first slow-dance to Bryan Adams, “(Everything I do) I do it for you”, which became their song.

The excitement and energy of the following 12 months is simply immeasurable. To this day, they can both recall various moments that have been burned into their memories due to the lasting effects on their lives. I can attest that the aftermath of that time was considerably painful for her because like most first loves, it became history. Over the next year, they were able to reach a place where a friendship flourished. However, the elements of intimacy and the energy of love were always there; making it rather uncomfortable to spend too much time together. Under that strain, they inevitably moved on with their post-high school lives and registered each other as firmly rooted in “the past”. Although each will admit that they remained emotionally reminiscent every time they happened to hear that Bryan Adams song.

           

Fast forward 10 years through incredibly ugly times, not even worth mentioning in a Valentine’s post kind of times. That boy and that girl, forever changed by their circumstances, barely recognizable as their former selves, find each other again.

See!                               

I’m almost embarrassed to say that it all started again with a Google search. I’m sure plenty of long lost loves have similar stories that include a Facebook search but for us, it was Google. What I most noticed about him when we finally decided to see each other again was that he hadn’t changed a bit. He looked exactly the same to me and every emotion that had ever occurred in his presence came flooding back, making me literally sick to my stomach. I couldn’t finish my lunch entrée and I noticed that he didn’t eat much of his either. Less than a year later, we were married. Each of us vowing never to lose each other again. While grieving over the time lost. Each of us remorseful for our part in it.

Since our wonderfully small and intimate wedding, we’ve lived enough life to fill those ten gone years. Bought a house, renovated it, changed jobs, changed careers, became pregnant, moved into a new house, and had a baby. It’s been a whirlwind to say the least and I’ve been happy to do it all with him. It’s funny how I can still see that 13-year-old boy despite the years gone by and the heartache he has endured. He can still start my heart with a look and reduce me to childish glee with a few words. And it’s wonderful to see the kind-hearted, generous, sensitive, reliable, and loyal man that he has become. He says kind things to me, such as how I helped him become the man we all see today. But I know that I just saw him for who he is and maybe reminded him of what was real. I also thoroughly enjoy when he tells me that he still sees that young girl when he looks at me. The one that he felt compelled to protect and always wanted only good things to happen to her. So much so, that he thought she’d be better off without him.

I wasn’t.

Here it comes

As an employee at a university, I get to enjoy the lull that is inherently present in the summer months. Sure, there are students around but much less than in the fall and winter. At lunch time, there are plenty of available benches and tables to sit at and enjoy the sunshine. And I am much less likely to be found eating at my desk and catching up on paperwork. I even enjoy the occasional visit with a loved one who travelled downtown to see me for lunch. To put it simply, it’s the most joyous time of the year and I sing praises to my employer from May to August.

But you may have noticed that we are in September. It’s still nice enough for me to look out my window and long to head outdoors for lunch. However, here’s what you would hear if you had a cozy place in my head to hang out. “That intake report isn’t gonna write itself and I have another one scheduled for tomorrow so I better get to it. Back to back clients are scheduled for the rest of the day so it’s now or never.”

Ho Hum, it’s September again. People are everywhere and I mean everywhere. Even if I had a moment to wander outside my office, I would find hoards of young adults busying themselves with going to class, eating, socializing, and doing homework. There are no benches open, no tables available. The “kids” have once again taken over their rightful place as a student on a small but very busy campus.

And with the combination of college and late September comes STRESS. The early days of the semester are over and those who are vulnerable to poor coping are feeling the anxiety, only to be followed by depression in another four weeks or so if they don’t “get their self together”. And that’s where I come in. As a helping professional, I try to remember that I am serving those in need. This is my calling. People need what I have to offer and I should be HAPPY to provide that for them. But after two back to back crises in one day (that occurred yesterday), and a particularly difficult long-term client with a personality disorder, I admittedly want to go home and crawl in bed….for a week. And let me quickly inform you that when I say “crisis”, I mean people who are contemplating committing suicide. REAL crisis. And it’s my job to help them.

So when people say that fall is their favorite season. I get it. It’s pretty outside. Not too hot or too cold. There’s football, warm food, and comfy clothes. But when I see the leaves start to change color, I brace for myself for impact. Because it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

What is Nontraditional?

My story starts out traditional enough. My parents were part of a generation when it was still possible for people to work towards a life that was better than their parents’ lives. So, as an up-and-comer from modest means, my father turned to the automobile production industry at 18 to care for his young pregnant wife. He chose a back breaking, blue collar existence but this choice allowed my mother to stay at home until her three little ones were all in school.  Seems traditional enough, for sure.

But that story ends at age 12, when I became one of the first among anyone I knew with divorced parents. I gained a step-father and step-sister at 13, a step-mother at 14, and tried my best to navigate the roles of step-daughter and step-sister as well as maintain a relationship with my father, who was a noncustodial parent. High school was a blur of keeping my grades up for college and a series of weird boyfriends (minus the one that became my husband three years ago but that story is for another time). This was a time when too many of my peers were getting pregnant or generally floating through life with no real direction. Despite risking the label of “nerd”, I focused my attention on trying to make something of myself by attending college. As a student in a public university, my new set of peers were more interested in late night binge drinking than academic success, so I didn’t fit in there. As an art student, followed by psychology major, others did their best to suppress their obvious doubt when discussing my “future”. Possibly for the sole purpose of proving them wrong, I went on to graduate school. From a rare bout of optimism came the thought, “Finally, I’ll be sure to fit in here”… Nope. These new peers were from the privileged upper class. They could hear my “Midwestern accent” and looked at me with, “How did she get here?” eyes.

In my mid-twenties, I found myself separated from family, living in Maryland with years of graduate school ahead of me. How did I pass the time? I got around to marrying one of the few halfway decent men I had met in college. We could not have been more incompatible but we were both nice enough to keep trying…for 7 years. Then I found myself divorced and 30 years old! Oh, the horror! J Follow this with a remarriage to my high school sweetheart where I instantly became a step-mother of two with no prior knowledge or experience with children other than being “Awesome Aunt Amanda” (as named by my niece).  I took on the almost daily chaos of “the ex-wife” with as much dignity and compassion as I could muster. As many in my home state can sympathize, my new husband lost his job after less than one year of marriage. In his infinite grace, God granted me a job with enough to sustain our new family.  When I came to desire my own child, I couldn’t even manage to do that in the traditional way. I had to go by way of in vitro fertilization and now have a 7 ½ month old son. Given our need for that above-mentioned blessing of a job, I was back to work after three months and my husband takes care of the daily childcare duties. Of course, that’s another issue that brings the cocked heads and confused looks from others. I can almost see the smoke coming out of their heads as their brains struggle…”Man at home? Does not compute.” But I digress. 

 In contemplating my new blog, I realized the relative nature of the term “Nontraditional”. It’s certainly possible that the idea of traditional is a simple fallacy. Maybe there is no one whose life fits our cultural ideas about tradition. Regardless of the reality, it seems that many people still try to uphold an illusion that we measure ourselves against. With this blog, I hope to rid myself of this illusion. My path to this point may have been a mess of twists and turns but I have a feeling yours may have been too. That’s why I think it’s important to let go of our ideas of tradition and embrace the nontraditional. Will you embrace with me?