Another blog that opens with a disclaimer…
If you’re a Christian, you’re probably not going to like this blog very much. Feel free to share your opinion, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I am a Christian, and I have been my entire life. When I was old enough to choose for myself, I chose to remain in the faith I was raised in. I believe that the Bible is the infallible Word of God, but I also believe that there are Scriptures that have been taken out of (cultural, historical) context and used to defend or justify a number of things. I believe that there is one Mediator between God and Man, and that is Jesus Christ. I believe in miracles, angels, the Rapture, heaven, and hell.
I don’t know that I should have to state my “Christian credentials,” but it’s probably necessary to clarify that, as a Christian, I probably believe almost everything you do. For the purpose of this blog, I will include myself as part of the Church that I’m talking about. It should become clear pretty quickly where I land on some of these issues. However, as a Christian, I will lump myself in with everyone else, since that’s what non-Christians tend to see.
Bah. That was longer than intended.
This will probably be a multiple-part blog that gets added to whenever I feel like it. I don’t have a format for this particular post…just what I’ve been thinking about.
Christians… we are NOT being persecuted. Not in the Western world, at least.
We have GOT to stop acting like the “world” is out to get us and to erase any visage of Christianity from the global landscape. Especially in America. According to the Pew Forum, 78.4% of Americans identify as Christians.
That’s the vast majority of this country.
Mind you, most would probably not consider themselves “practicing” Christians, but they obviously identify with “us.”
So why do we act as if we’re in the persecuted minority?
I’d venture a guess that Christians are confusing “persecution” with “disagreement.” Just because someone doesn’t agree with our beliefs, it doesn’t mean that we’re being persecuted. It means that they don’t believe what we believe. Pure and simple. And, as Christians, we want them to come to the faith, right?
Wrong.
For the majority of Christians I speak to or hear from, we don’t want them to become Christians, necessarily. We want them to leave us alone and let us keep running the place. We want them to let us put the Ten Commandments back in the public eye. We want them to let our kids pray in class, and to stop saying “Happy Holidays.” We don’t seek to connect with these “non-believers.” We just want them to shut up and go away. Or get saved and join us on our bandwagon.
I’m not even going to get into the fact that this kind of thinking doesn’t jibe with what Jesus taught. I’m not going to talk about loving thy neighbor and preaching the Word. That’s a separate topic that we can come back to a different day.
My concern is the hypocrisy of Christians. We wail to anyone that will listen that our rights are being taken away from us, that “they” are trying to take God out of our country. With nearly 80% of the population identifying at Christian, how is that 20% supposed to oppress us?
They’re not. We’re doing the damage to ourselves. We demand that everyone else listen to us and let us say our peace, but we don’t give anyone else the same respect. We act as though we’re the only ones entitled to an opinion, but we can’t seem to respect differing opinions.
As a Christian, I can’t help but refer to some people as “those Christians.” Because I can’t be one of “those.” And I know a lot of people like me, who love Jesus and love people and are thankful for the privilege we are allowed in our country.
If you want to see persecution of Christians, visit China. Visit Sudan or Iran. Talk to people whose children have been murdered for leaving a different religion to become Christians. Talk to the underground churches that move from house to house to avoid jail and worse. Don’t ask me. I don’t know a thing about real persecution. And neither do you…not on that level.
My alma mater posted earlier about the Day of Silence that is being spearheaded by GLSEN (the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network) this Friday. Students are encouraged to remain silent at school (other than during classroom participation…so, basically at lunch, breaks, in the halls, etc.) as an effort to encourage schools and students to stand against LGBT youth. It’s a way to bring some attention to everything from physical and emotional abuse of gay teens to the all-too-prevalent use of the phrase “that’s so gay” or gay slurs.
I stand with GLSEN to oppose any abuse or degradation of people regardless of sexual orientation or gender. As a Christian, the least I can do is show Christ’s love to people who are being told that they are “less than.”
Christian organizations (like the one my high school is supporting) are encouraging parents to keep their kids home from public school that day to protest the “politicizing” of classrooms.
I laughed out loud when I read that. Not only is the Day of Silence something that is taking place outside of the actual classrooms, but Christians are guiltier than anyone when it comes to insisting our beliefs and rights be protected in the classroom.
How can you look at someone with a straight face and demand that we be allowed to pray in class and display the Ten Commandments, but insist that they are not allowed to acknowledge their beliefs or faith? Seriously?
How can you use arguments like “love the sinner and hate the sin,” and neglect to love the “sinner”?
How can you demand that abortion should be outlawed, and fail to provide or support resources for women with accidental or unwanted pregnancies?
It’s not enough to “like” a pro-life group on Facebook, and not do anything to support proven ways of cutting down on unwanted pregnancies.
It’s not enough to vote for a politician that opposes gay rights, and not seek to reach “those” people with Christ’s love.
And it’s not even remotely okay to insist that Muslims should become Christians, and then say in the same breath that we should just nuke the Middle East.
Now, I’m not perfect. I haven’t gotten as involved as I’d like when it comes to issues that I believe in. However, my goal in life is to love those people who, for too long, have been neglected by the church. I have found that I get much further with people by showing them that Jesus loves them and that He wants a relationship with them. I strive to make it about Jesus, rather than Christians.
Do you know why people dislike Christians?
Here’s a hint…it has nothing to do with Jesus.
I meant exactly what I said. As Christians, we seem to have nothing to do with Jesus. We’re basically a powerful political party, and not His hands, His feet, His ambassadors. We use the knowledge we have been given to attack others, rather than encourage them.
Please, stop letting hateful Christians speak for you. Don’t allow Pat Robertson to represent us. This is a man who publicly states that 9/11 was a punishment for allowing homosexuality to “run rampant” in the US. A man who insists that Hurricane Katrina happened because of sin in the French Quarter, and that the tragedy in Haiti was an overdue punishment for witchcraft practiced in the 1800s. We can’t allow someone like that to be the Face of Christianity to an unbelieving world.
Insist that the rights of human beings be honored, regardless of race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation. Stop perpetuating an “us against them” mentality, and seek to unite with our brothers and sisters, and show them Christ’s love.
And stop calling us “persecuted.”
Monday, April 16, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Meek? Me?
Gentle.
Meek.
Quiet.
Gracious.
Lovely.
These are some of the words you typically hear associated with a “godly woman.” However, they’re not words I typically associate with my personality. And, at 27, I’m trying to figure out how right or wrong these associations are.
For women like me that were born and raised in the church, we’ve heard it all. We’ve heard Paul’s teachings on the role of women in the church. We’ve been reminded to be “Proverbs 31” women. We’ve heard our pastors teach in Colossians and been exhorted to submit to our husbands, as the church submits to Christ.
As I was telling a friend last night, I was especially conservative when I grew up. By the time I graduated from high school, I was reaffirming my beliefs that abortion, even in the case of rape or maternal mortality, was always murder. That you couldn’t be a Democrat and a Christian. That gun control was an intrusion into our rights. That homosexuality was an abomination (but that you love the sinner and hate the sin). And that women should always, always be submissive to their husbands. I wanted to get married soon after high school (although I was single at the time), have children, and be a good wife and mother. That was my ultimate goal for my life, and my career would always come dead last.
In short, I was the ideal conservative Evangelical teenager. Never smoked, never drank, hadn’t even kissed a boy. I was saving myself for my husband (that one actually worked out), so I had avoided premature physical relationships.
Unfortunately for my parents, a lot of those firmly-held beliefs were shaken and sometimes abandoned when I went to college. Azusa Pacific University is a Christian university (unless you ask Biola grads), but it’s a bit more progressive than other Christian schools. I had professors that rejected the traditional Christian views and taught that our interpretations of the Bible weren’t always accurate or culturally relevant.
I was shocked. I had always questioned some of the ideals I had been raised with, but pushed those aside as traitorous thoughts. I never rejected my faith, but I had wondered if it was really accurate to insist on certain behaviors and politics as being classically “Christian.”
My politics are a different story for a different day. As I mentioned in one of my blog posts, I’m a registered Independent, but tend to be more left-leaning on social issues. I might delve in to some of these issues down the line, but I can already tell this blog is going to be a novel.
My topic of choice today is the Godly Woman paradigm.
I’ve always, always questioned how I fit into that role.
I’m not quiet. I’m loud, outgoing, and sometimes boisterous.
I say things that people are thinking, but are afraid to say out loud.
I’m not shy or easily offended, and I enjoy shocking people sometimes.
I’m a classic type A. I’m high-strung, aggressive, and competitive.
I’m a perfectionist, and I always insist on being right.
Rather than crying and carrying on, I get quiet. The silent treatment is my preferred method of punishing people who hurt me, but I can also argue until the sun comes up.
I don’t mean to wear these personality traits (and flaws) as a badge of honor. There have been many times that I’ve asked myself, “Why are you so terrible?”
My husband is kind and patient and loving and generous and easygoing. It can’t be easy for him to be married to Attila the Hun.
I’ve looked at so many women in the church that I know and asked, “Why am I not like that?” I think of such lovely women as Brenda, my mother-in-law, and I hang my head. They’re so sweet! I mean, genuinely hugs and sunshine and rainbows sweet! Natural grandmothers—nurturing and soft-spoken and gentle.
That’s not me. I CAN be all of those things, depending on the situation I’m in and the people I’m with. But, typically, I’m much more of a sassy loudmouth than the woman with the quiet disposition.
Except…my mom isn’t entirely like that. She is one of the most incredible women I know, and she is a near-perfect example of how a godly woman should be. She is supportive, and loving, and hard-working. But she’s no doormat, and you wouldn’t confuse her for a kindergarten teacher. My mom, bless her heart, is a little spitfire. I know she wouldn’t notice or acknowledge most of these classifications. However, they’re accurate.
My mother is strong. Strong in character, strong in virtue, and strong enough to maneuver an entertainment center around the living room thirteen times before putting it back where it started.
She speaks her mind, and has become bolder and more confident and assertive as I have grown up. Maybe having two daughters that don’t fit into the sweet Little House on the Prairie mold has done that.
My sister is not your stereotypical girl. She loves action movies and football and outdoorsy stuff, and eschews typical “girl stuff” like chick flicks and gossip and boy drama. And she loves the Lord with her whole heart.
My grandma can accurately be described as a “saucy little minx.” (My favorite description of any woman ever…and my life goal.) She’s hysterical and dances around and will casually throw out little statements you typically don’t hear from grandmas. If I had known her as a young woman, I imagine she would have been like Rita Moreno’s character in West Side Story. Swishing her skirt around while she sasses the men around her. And she is also an example and role model for the members of her parish. At her 80th birthday party, the priest talked about how she had been an inspiration to him with her faith.
Now that I think about it, I come from a family of dames, in the grandest sense of the word. When Frank Sinatra sang about how “The Lady is a Tramp,” he may as well have been singing about the Salas/Aceves women. And, most impressively, they all carry with them an abiding love for the Lord. My mom can stand her ground and be firm, but she has shown me that being submissive to my dad isn’t a point of shame or disgrace. Natalie and I always knew who wore the pants when it came to my parents—both of them. When my mom defers to my dad, it’s because she trusts him to make the best decision for our family, and because that level of respect is part of what fuels their marriage.
So, yeah. Maybe I need to clean up my act a little. I should be a little sweeter, a little kinder, a little more patient. Okay, a lot more patient.
I’d rather be bold than aggressive.
I’d rather be saucy than crass.
I’d rather be firm than demanding.
I’d rather be gracious than deferential.
But, really, I just want to be like my grandma, and my mom, and my sister. I want to be a woman who loves the Lord, and my family, and my friends. And I want to be a saucy little minx.
Meek.
Quiet.
Gracious.
Lovely.
These are some of the words you typically hear associated with a “godly woman.” However, they’re not words I typically associate with my personality. And, at 27, I’m trying to figure out how right or wrong these associations are.
For women like me that were born and raised in the church, we’ve heard it all. We’ve heard Paul’s teachings on the role of women in the church. We’ve been reminded to be “Proverbs 31” women. We’ve heard our pastors teach in Colossians and been exhorted to submit to our husbands, as the church submits to Christ.
As I was telling a friend last night, I was especially conservative when I grew up. By the time I graduated from high school, I was reaffirming my beliefs that abortion, even in the case of rape or maternal mortality, was always murder. That you couldn’t be a Democrat and a Christian. That gun control was an intrusion into our rights. That homosexuality was an abomination (but that you love the sinner and hate the sin). And that women should always, always be submissive to their husbands. I wanted to get married soon after high school (although I was single at the time), have children, and be a good wife and mother. That was my ultimate goal for my life, and my career would always come dead last.
In short, I was the ideal conservative Evangelical teenager. Never smoked, never drank, hadn’t even kissed a boy. I was saving myself for my husband (that one actually worked out), so I had avoided premature physical relationships.
Unfortunately for my parents, a lot of those firmly-held beliefs were shaken and sometimes abandoned when I went to college. Azusa Pacific University is a Christian university (unless you ask Biola grads), but it’s a bit more progressive than other Christian schools. I had professors that rejected the traditional Christian views and taught that our interpretations of the Bible weren’t always accurate or culturally relevant.
I was shocked. I had always questioned some of the ideals I had been raised with, but pushed those aside as traitorous thoughts. I never rejected my faith, but I had wondered if it was really accurate to insist on certain behaviors and politics as being classically “Christian.”
My politics are a different story for a different day. As I mentioned in one of my blog posts, I’m a registered Independent, but tend to be more left-leaning on social issues. I might delve in to some of these issues down the line, but I can already tell this blog is going to be a novel.
My topic of choice today is the Godly Woman paradigm.
I’ve always, always questioned how I fit into that role.
I’m not quiet. I’m loud, outgoing, and sometimes boisterous.
I say things that people are thinking, but are afraid to say out loud.
I’m not shy or easily offended, and I enjoy shocking people sometimes.
I’m a classic type A. I’m high-strung, aggressive, and competitive.
I’m a perfectionist, and I always insist on being right.
Rather than crying and carrying on, I get quiet. The silent treatment is my preferred method of punishing people who hurt me, but I can also argue until the sun comes up.
I don’t mean to wear these personality traits (and flaws) as a badge of honor. There have been many times that I’ve asked myself, “Why are you so terrible?”
My husband is kind and patient and loving and generous and easygoing. It can’t be easy for him to be married to Attila the Hun.
I’ve looked at so many women in the church that I know and asked, “Why am I not like that?” I think of such lovely women as Brenda, my mother-in-law, and I hang my head. They’re so sweet! I mean, genuinely hugs and sunshine and rainbows sweet! Natural grandmothers—nurturing and soft-spoken and gentle.
That’s not me. I CAN be all of those things, depending on the situation I’m in and the people I’m with. But, typically, I’m much more of a sassy loudmouth than the woman with the quiet disposition.
Except…my mom isn’t entirely like that. She is one of the most incredible women I know, and she is a near-perfect example of how a godly woman should be. She is supportive, and loving, and hard-working. But she’s no doormat, and you wouldn’t confuse her for a kindergarten teacher. My mom, bless her heart, is a little spitfire. I know she wouldn’t notice or acknowledge most of these classifications. However, they’re accurate.
My mother is strong. Strong in character, strong in virtue, and strong enough to maneuver an entertainment center around the living room thirteen times before putting it back where it started.
She speaks her mind, and has become bolder and more confident and assertive as I have grown up. Maybe having two daughters that don’t fit into the sweet Little House on the Prairie mold has done that.
My sister is not your stereotypical girl. She loves action movies and football and outdoorsy stuff, and eschews typical “girl stuff” like chick flicks and gossip and boy drama. And she loves the Lord with her whole heart.
My grandma can accurately be described as a “saucy little minx.” (My favorite description of any woman ever…and my life goal.) She’s hysterical and dances around and will casually throw out little statements you typically don’t hear from grandmas. If I had known her as a young woman, I imagine she would have been like Rita Moreno’s character in West Side Story. Swishing her skirt around while she sasses the men around her. And she is also an example and role model for the members of her parish. At her 80th birthday party, the priest talked about how she had been an inspiration to him with her faith.
Now that I think about it, I come from a family of dames, in the grandest sense of the word. When Frank Sinatra sang about how “The Lady is a Tramp,” he may as well have been singing about the Salas/Aceves women. And, most impressively, they all carry with them an abiding love for the Lord. My mom can stand her ground and be firm, but she has shown me that being submissive to my dad isn’t a point of shame or disgrace. Natalie and I always knew who wore the pants when it came to my parents—both of them. When my mom defers to my dad, it’s because she trusts him to make the best decision for our family, and because that level of respect is part of what fuels their marriage.
So, yeah. Maybe I need to clean up my act a little. I should be a little sweeter, a little kinder, a little more patient. Okay, a lot more patient.
I’d rather be bold than aggressive.
I’d rather be saucy than crass.
I’d rather be firm than demanding.
I’d rather be gracious than deferential.
But, really, I just want to be like my grandma, and my mom, and my sister. I want to be a woman who loves the Lord, and my family, and my friends. And I want to be a saucy little minx.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Baby Love...Or Not.
All right, kids. This one is starting with a big, fat disclaimer. This is my blog, and I get to say what I want, when I want. However, this is one of those topics that gets women riled up, and I don't want to hear it from them.
So, if you are pregnant, a mother, or hope to be one in the foreseeable future,
please click the little 'x' in the corner if you don't want to hear someone
less-than-thrilled about babies.
Now, since absolutely none of you closed out of this (either because you're going to agree with me,or you have a morbid desire to get insulted), here's the deal... I don't mind someone disagreeing with me. But, if you're going to get all huffy and angry and act like I'm some soulless baby-hating monster, you can keep it to yourself. Deal?
Good. Let's get started.
When I was in high school, I had my future all planned out. Graduate, go to college, meet Future Husband, and get married at 21 (because I wanted to be able to drink at my own wedding, dammit, and because I didn't want to look like I was having my own personal prom). We'd have our first kid at 23, second at 25, and I'd be a young, hip mom.
So much for that.
I turned 27 last month, and I am blissfully child-free. Husband and I got married when we were both 23, which is crazy young for anyone who didn't grow up where I did. Half of my friends got married before they were 20, and I'm going to keep my fat mouth shut on the state of 70% of those marriages.
When we got married, I figured we'd have our first kid two years later. Clay planned on five years, and we settled right around three. In a funny (or not) reversal, I became more and more baby-averse the longer we were married.
[This is not a reflection on my husband by any means. He will be an incredible father, and I love him more than words can express. He will be the reason we eventually become parents, not the reason we don't.]
Simply put, I like my life. I like that we can come and go as we please, and only consult each other. I like that we can stay up late (or, more commonly, go to bed early) and sleep as long as we'd like. I like cracking open a bottle of wine on a Friday night and playing video games until 2am. Also, I like my boobs and don't relish the thought of having a kid deflating them until they look like tennis balls in socks.
Also, I can't stand a majority of kids. Toddlers snatching your iPhone out of your hands with their grubby little fingers so they can play Angry Birds? Oh, hell no. Screaming babies in restaurants? Pass. "Dora the Explorer"? Never never never never never never never.
They just bug me. I mean, I get it--they're kids. They cry, they demand attention, they're fussy. But I'm not into it. I don't want to hear your story about your Star Wars figurine, kiddo. Why don't we watch the movie and you can keep your story to yourself? I don't need you interrupting my conversation to take you to the potty. And I absolutely LOATHE the word "potty."
Most of you are sitting here thinking, "That'll change. Eventually, you'll have kids and you'll wonder why you didn't have them sooner. You'll love their grubby little hands and their stories and all that." I probably will--to a point. My kids will hopefully have no idea of children's programming other than Sesame Street. (Except Elmo--that little monster is obnoxious). And they won't be learning about the Wheels on the Bus until they're in school.
However, for the last year or so, I've been telling people I don't want kids at all. Mainly because people are so damn hard-nosed about convincing me to have them. And I resent the implication that my life will be less-than-fulfilling because I didn't procreate.
I have about six friends that have had babies in the last few months. Some of them were chill through their pregnancies and have been laid back since they've had the kids. And others have posted 4-5 pictures a day of their baby on Facebook, all the way down to diaper explosions and a series of 50 pictures showing a baby on a couch. Doing nothing. These women (like so many pregnant women) have a hard time realizing that no one finds their baby as life changing and amazing as they do.
I read an article recently on pregnant women that discussed this myopic vision of life. They are living with this pregnancy and the anticipation of their unborn child all day, every day. And they have a hard time understanding that no one else is living with that and grow resentful of people who don't squeal over every sonogram picture and baby kick. Friends, colleagues, even family members get run over by the Baby Express Train because they didn't react "appropriately."
[I won't even start on the Judgy Moms. You know who I'm talking about. Those moms who use social media to rant about breastfeeding, or co-sleeping, or circumcision, or potty training. These women get deleted from my friends list so quickly, it would make your head spin.]
Eventually, I'm sure the Pill will fail, or we'll get to the point that we actually want to have a kid. And, when that happens, I can only hope I'm as cool about it as people like my friend Laura. She had her daughter a few months ago, and has been amazingly laid-back about it, as if people do this every day.
You know, because they do.
This went absolutely nowhere, and yet, it could have gone on for hours. After a few drinks not too long ago, I actually did go on for a few hours about it to Clay. It ended with me deciding that, when we do have kids, it will be for two reasons:
1. Because I want something I can name, and
2. Because I want to prove that, like Laura, you don't have to be a douche about it.
I'll leave you with a video that best describes my feelings on having kids right now. When I get pregnant, please make me watch this video weekly.
http://youtu.be/tJRzBpFjJS8
So, if you are pregnant, a mother, or hope to be one in the foreseeable future,
please click the little 'x' in the corner if you don't want to hear someone
less-than-thrilled about babies.
Now, since absolutely none of you closed out of this (either because you're going to agree with me,or you have a morbid desire to get insulted), here's the deal... I don't mind someone disagreeing with me. But, if you're going to get all huffy and angry and act like I'm some soulless baby-hating monster, you can keep it to yourself. Deal?
Good. Let's get started.
When I was in high school, I had my future all planned out. Graduate, go to college, meet Future Husband, and get married at 21 (because I wanted to be able to drink at my own wedding, dammit, and because I didn't want to look like I was having my own personal prom). We'd have our first kid at 23, second at 25, and I'd be a young, hip mom.
So much for that.
I turned 27 last month, and I am blissfully child-free. Husband and I got married when we were both 23, which is crazy young for anyone who didn't grow up where I did. Half of my friends got married before they were 20, and I'm going to keep my fat mouth shut on the state of 70% of those marriages.
When we got married, I figured we'd have our first kid two years later. Clay planned on five years, and we settled right around three. In a funny (or not) reversal, I became more and more baby-averse the longer we were married.
[This is not a reflection on my husband by any means. He will be an incredible father, and I love him more than words can express. He will be the reason we eventually become parents, not the reason we don't.]
Simply put, I like my life. I like that we can come and go as we please, and only consult each other. I like that we can stay up late (or, more commonly, go to bed early) and sleep as long as we'd like. I like cracking open a bottle of wine on a Friday night and playing video games until 2am. Also, I like my boobs and don't relish the thought of having a kid deflating them until they look like tennis balls in socks.
Also, I can't stand a majority of kids. Toddlers snatching your iPhone out of your hands with their grubby little fingers so they can play Angry Birds? Oh, hell no. Screaming babies in restaurants? Pass. "Dora the Explorer"? Never never never never never never never.
They just bug me. I mean, I get it--they're kids. They cry, they demand attention, they're fussy. But I'm not into it. I don't want to hear your story about your Star Wars figurine, kiddo. Why don't we watch the movie and you can keep your story to yourself? I don't need you interrupting my conversation to take you to the potty. And I absolutely LOATHE the word "potty."
Most of you are sitting here thinking, "That'll change. Eventually, you'll have kids and you'll wonder why you didn't have them sooner. You'll love their grubby little hands and their stories and all that." I probably will--to a point. My kids will hopefully have no idea of children's programming other than Sesame Street. (Except Elmo--that little monster is obnoxious). And they won't be learning about the Wheels on the Bus until they're in school.
However, for the last year or so, I've been telling people I don't want kids at all. Mainly because people are so damn hard-nosed about convincing me to have them. And I resent the implication that my life will be less-than-fulfilling because I didn't procreate.
I have about six friends that have had babies in the last few months. Some of them were chill through their pregnancies and have been laid back since they've had the kids. And others have posted 4-5 pictures a day of their baby on Facebook, all the way down to diaper explosions and a series of 50 pictures showing a baby on a couch. Doing nothing. These women (like so many pregnant women) have a hard time realizing that no one finds their baby as life changing and amazing as they do.
I read an article recently on pregnant women that discussed this myopic vision of life. They are living with this pregnancy and the anticipation of their unborn child all day, every day. And they have a hard time understanding that no one else is living with that and grow resentful of people who don't squeal over every sonogram picture and baby kick. Friends, colleagues, even family members get run over by the Baby Express Train because they didn't react "appropriately."
[I won't even start on the Judgy Moms. You know who I'm talking about. Those moms who use social media to rant about breastfeeding, or co-sleeping, or circumcision, or potty training. These women get deleted from my friends list so quickly, it would make your head spin.]
Eventually, I'm sure the Pill will fail, or we'll get to the point that we actually want to have a kid. And, when that happens, I can only hope I'm as cool about it as people like my friend Laura. She had her daughter a few months ago, and has been amazingly laid-back about it, as if people do this every day.
You know, because they do.
This went absolutely nowhere, and yet, it could have gone on for hours. After a few drinks not too long ago, I actually did go on for a few hours about it to Clay. It ended with me deciding that, when we do have kids, it will be for two reasons:
1. Because I want something I can name, and
2. Because I want to prove that, like Laura, you don't have to be a douche about it.
I'll leave you with a video that best describes my feelings on having kids right now. When I get pregnant, please make me watch this video weekly.
http://youtu.be/tJRzBpFjJS8
Sunday, March 4, 2012
What a Drag it is Getting Old...
My dad used to sing this line whenever the topic of aging came up when I was younger.
[It's from a Rolling Stones song called "Mother's Little Helper," and I'm pretty sure he never sang the rest of the lyrics to us. Abuse of prescription pills by stay-at-home moms wasn't really his musical topic of choice.]
I've been thinking of this line quite a bit lately. My grandma and grandpa are 81 and 83, respectively, and their health has deteriorated pretty drastically this last year. When I was a baby and my mom went back to work, my grandparents watched me. My grandpa was a retired Longshoreman, and my grandma was a stay-at-home mom all her adult life, since she had nine kids. I was always close to them, especially my grandma. She let Natalie and I watch "Cops" and "America's Most Wanted" when we were over, made the world's best pancakes, and has a terrific sense of humor.
(She's also the one who peer-pressured me into my first alcoholic drink--a margarita after Mass when I was 18. [Yes, 18. I was a pretty good kid.] I'll never let her live that one down.)
When we moved to the desert, my grandparents bought a property just down the road from us, so they could be around while we grew up. My sister and I used to walk over there all the time, and just hang out with them. They have been impossibly generous, encouraging, and two loving constants in our lives.
In my mind, they'll always remain about 65--the age they were when I was in junior high, and old enough to have clear, solid memories of them. Memories of my grandma yelling "SALAS!" (their last name, and her nickname for my grandpa) across the property when dinner was ready. Memories of dancing with my grandpa as a kid, Twist-and-Shouting into the evening. And, most vividly, memories of them taking us to Disneyland regularly, my grandpa SCREAMING in mock-terror every time we saw the Abominable Snowman on the Matterhorn, and Grandma buying us churros.
Unfortunately, they're not 65 anymore, or even 75. There are no more trips to Disneyland with them, and the dancing with my grandpa stopped years ago. Dozens of surgeries on my grandpa, a minor stroke with my grandma, and numerous health issues have rendered them unable to care for themselves on a day-to-day basis.
Last year, my sister moved in with them in San Pedro, to be my grandma's primary caregiver, and to help out with my grandpa. I will be eternally grateful for her selflessness, because this has not been an easy task. We get our stubbornness from my grandma, who insists on being as self-sufficient as she can, even when it's dangerous (like taking her walker up the stairs to do laundry). And my grandpa's ailments have taken the use of his legs, and now his hands. Their illnesses have progressed to a point where they need round-the-clock care.
My grandpa is currently in the hospital with pneumonia and a blood infection. I went down to see him yesterday, and my heart broke for him. To see him in that hospital bed, trying to move from side-to-side, unable to find a comfortable position, was almost too much.
After about fifteen minutes, I felt a panic attack coming on, and had to find an abandoned corner of the wing to cry and breathe. I felt so annoyed with myself. My mom was there, and seeing your dad like that has to be devastating. Although this was a particularly bad day, my sister lives with this new reality daily. I haven't been around nearly as much as I should, and I can't make it fifteen minutes? Awful. I composed myself and went back in for about four hours, just holding his hand, making jokes, and visiting with a number of cousins, aunts, and uncles who came down to see him.
It's a day later now, and the disappointment in myself hasn't left. My sister asked me to come back out today, and so I'm leaving here in a couple of hours to spend the night with them and do whatever I can to just be there for my family.
Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a brat, and felt a wave of disappointment that my Sunday with Clay (and the day off I requested for tomorrow) are going to be spent in a hospital, watching my grandparents suffer. I know--I'm awful and selfish and incredibly self-centered. It's almost impossible to say this out loud without asking to be slapped, but it's much easier to put down into words.
I know my mom and sister would be understanding and say, "Hey, we get it. Nobody wants to be here and have to see this. Of course you'd rather be having a glass of wine on the patio and listening to music. That's not a horrible thing."
But, really, it is.
My mother is watching her parents suffer, and my sister has moved in to help them during this heartbreaking, difficult time. I need to be there. It is truly the absolute least I can do. I don't know what I can contribute. I know I'm good in an emergency, but this isn't an emergency. This is a slow, sad march toward things I don't want to think about.
Natalie told me that she, my mom and my grandma would appreciate the moral support. I know she didn't mean anything by it, but I couldn't help but think "Moral support? That can't be all I'm good for. I can do more!" Unfortunately, I can't do anything revolutionary. The only thing I want is for my grandparents to become miraculously healthy and outlive us all. The only thing I can do is hold my family's hands and try to lighten the mood with jokes, music, or inane YouTube videos. It's better than nothing, but not by much.
So, I'll drive out there. I'll hold their hands, tell some jokes, and give out dozens of hugs. I'll make sure my family eats, and bring a Disney movie and maybe have a manicure party with the girls, if we can. And I will be a better daughter, sister, and granddaugher than I have been. I will be there, as much as I reasonably can. I haven't been around as much as I should, but it's not too late to change that now. While they're here, I want to see them and make sure they know how utterly loved and appreciated they are.
I'll call my mom more often, and text my dad. Clay and I are taking Natalie to Disneyland in a week, and I'm beginning to see how something as selfish (for me) as wanting a big Happiest Place on Earth hurrah with my sister before she moves, is going to be a much-needed outing for her.
I will be better. They all need me to be better.
And, maybe, in five or ten years, I'll be able to look back on this time and realize that being around for my grandparents in the end will have been almost as transformative as having them around since the beginning.
[It's from a Rolling Stones song called "Mother's Little Helper," and I'm pretty sure he never sang the rest of the lyrics to us. Abuse of prescription pills by stay-at-home moms wasn't really his musical topic of choice.]
I've been thinking of this line quite a bit lately. My grandma and grandpa are 81 and 83, respectively, and their health has deteriorated pretty drastically this last year. When I was a baby and my mom went back to work, my grandparents watched me. My grandpa was a retired Longshoreman, and my grandma was a stay-at-home mom all her adult life, since she had nine kids. I was always close to them, especially my grandma. She let Natalie and I watch "Cops" and "America's Most Wanted" when we were over, made the world's best pancakes, and has a terrific sense of humor.
(She's also the one who peer-pressured me into my first alcoholic drink--a margarita after Mass when I was 18. [Yes, 18. I was a pretty good kid.] I'll never let her live that one down.)
When we moved to the desert, my grandparents bought a property just down the road from us, so they could be around while we grew up. My sister and I used to walk over there all the time, and just hang out with them. They have been impossibly generous, encouraging, and two loving constants in our lives.
In my mind, they'll always remain about 65--the age they were when I was in junior high, and old enough to have clear, solid memories of them. Memories of my grandma yelling "SALAS!" (their last name, and her nickname for my grandpa) across the property when dinner was ready. Memories of dancing with my grandpa as a kid, Twist-and-Shouting into the evening. And, most vividly, memories of them taking us to Disneyland regularly, my grandpa SCREAMING in mock-terror every time we saw the Abominable Snowman on the Matterhorn, and Grandma buying us churros.
Unfortunately, they're not 65 anymore, or even 75. There are no more trips to Disneyland with them, and the dancing with my grandpa stopped years ago. Dozens of surgeries on my grandpa, a minor stroke with my grandma, and numerous health issues have rendered them unable to care for themselves on a day-to-day basis.
Last year, my sister moved in with them in San Pedro, to be my grandma's primary caregiver, and to help out with my grandpa. I will be eternally grateful for her selflessness, because this has not been an easy task. We get our stubbornness from my grandma, who insists on being as self-sufficient as she can, even when it's dangerous (like taking her walker up the stairs to do laundry). And my grandpa's ailments have taken the use of his legs, and now his hands. Their illnesses have progressed to a point where they need round-the-clock care.
My grandpa is currently in the hospital with pneumonia and a blood infection. I went down to see him yesterday, and my heart broke for him. To see him in that hospital bed, trying to move from side-to-side, unable to find a comfortable position, was almost too much.
After about fifteen minutes, I felt a panic attack coming on, and had to find an abandoned corner of the wing to cry and breathe. I felt so annoyed with myself. My mom was there, and seeing your dad like that has to be devastating. Although this was a particularly bad day, my sister lives with this new reality daily. I haven't been around nearly as much as I should, and I can't make it fifteen minutes? Awful. I composed myself and went back in for about four hours, just holding his hand, making jokes, and visiting with a number of cousins, aunts, and uncles who came down to see him.
It's a day later now, and the disappointment in myself hasn't left. My sister asked me to come back out today, and so I'm leaving here in a couple of hours to spend the night with them and do whatever I can to just be there for my family.
Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a brat, and felt a wave of disappointment that my Sunday with Clay (and the day off I requested for tomorrow) are going to be spent in a hospital, watching my grandparents suffer. I know--I'm awful and selfish and incredibly self-centered. It's almost impossible to say this out loud without asking to be slapped, but it's much easier to put down into words.
I know my mom and sister would be understanding and say, "Hey, we get it. Nobody wants to be here and have to see this. Of course you'd rather be having a glass of wine on the patio and listening to music. That's not a horrible thing."
But, really, it is.
My mother is watching her parents suffer, and my sister has moved in to help them during this heartbreaking, difficult time. I need to be there. It is truly the absolute least I can do. I don't know what I can contribute. I know I'm good in an emergency, but this isn't an emergency. This is a slow, sad march toward things I don't want to think about.
Natalie told me that she, my mom and my grandma would appreciate the moral support. I know she didn't mean anything by it, but I couldn't help but think "Moral support? That can't be all I'm good for. I can do more!" Unfortunately, I can't do anything revolutionary. The only thing I want is for my grandparents to become miraculously healthy and outlive us all. The only thing I can do is hold my family's hands and try to lighten the mood with jokes, music, or inane YouTube videos. It's better than nothing, but not by much.
So, I'll drive out there. I'll hold their hands, tell some jokes, and give out dozens of hugs. I'll make sure my family eats, and bring a Disney movie and maybe have a manicure party with the girls, if we can. And I will be a better daughter, sister, and granddaugher than I have been. I will be there, as much as I reasonably can. I haven't been around as much as I should, but it's not too late to change that now. While they're here, I want to see them and make sure they know how utterly loved and appreciated they are.
I'll call my mom more often, and text my dad. Clay and I are taking Natalie to Disneyland in a week, and I'm beginning to see how something as selfish (for me) as wanting a big Happiest Place on Earth hurrah with my sister before she moves, is going to be a much-needed outing for her.
I will be better. They all need me to be better.
And, maybe, in five or ten years, I'll be able to look back on this time and realize that being around for my grandparents in the end will have been almost as transformative as having them around since the beginning.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Why I am a Christian Independent
The answer?
Because I don't have the balls to tell my parents I'm a Democrat.
However, for a clearer view on my politics, a blogger for Relevant Magazine put it best. Click here for the article: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/current-events/op-ed-blog/28298-why-i-am-a-christian-democrat
Because I don't have the balls to tell my parents I'm a Democrat.
However, for a clearer view on my politics, a blogger for Relevant Magazine put it best. Click here for the article: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/current-events/op-ed-blog/28298-why-i-am-a-christian-democrat
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Academy Awards Live Blog!
Welcome to the 2012 Academy Awards! My hysterically witty friend Kallie will be joining me for a live blog.
Be forewarned--as the wine starts flowing, the language may get a little adult. I apologize in advance.
Be forewarned--as the wine starts flowing, the language may get a little adult. I apologize in advance.
This Explains So Much
I sat here for ten minutes trying to figure out how to start this post. (Gosh, that sounds so much more dramatic than it really is. Get ready for a let down...this isn't going to be nearly as dark or exciting as you might be thinking. No secret heroin addiction or anything.) It's just that I can't figure out if I should just put it out there, or if you need the back story first.
Oh, fine. I'll start with the back story.
All my life, I've been blessed. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents are loving, funny, and incredibly supportive. My sister is my best friend, and the greatest little partner-in-crime you can imagine. Never went to daycare or had a random baby-sitter. We lived close to my grandparents growing up, so I was lucky enough to be in their care while my parents were working. I've been blessed enough to be naturally smart, so everything came pretty easily to me. (Sorry, I'm not bothering with fake modesty here. I'm not Stephen Hawking or anything, but I do pretty well.) Really, I've had a pretty charmed life.
[No, this isn't going to be a braggy post. I just need to set this up for you so you aren't trying to find some hidden trauma in my past.]
So, while I had a great upbringing, I was always more keyed-up than others. I'm a classic Type A, with a heaping dose of perfectionist impulses. I would get what my mom called "a nervous stomach" almost weekly. Whether it was stress about homework I left until the last minute or a disagreement with a friend, I could get myself from zero to stomachache in about 2.7 seconds. I'd get shaky sometimes, feel really hot, and predictably throw up.
Fast-forward to high school. Other than the typical teenage angst (major crushes on boys that liked my friends, managing the drama that comes with 15-year-olds and friendships), I developed an eating disorder. It sucked, I got over it, and moved on. I'm probably always one cheeseburger away from going back to that, but I've been lucky enough to avoid any real relapses into it.
I've been married for nearly four years now. My husband is incredible. He's funny, incredibly patient, and kind. Never raises his voice at me, and very rarely gets upset. (This is amazing. As I mentioned, I've got a type-A personality and like things done a certain way. He takes it all in stride.)
Around our second year of marriage, the economy went to hell. I got laid off, and then found a new job. His job went to commission only, and then his company folded. I'm in recruiting now, so I helped him find a new job. And then he had a stroke. At 25. He recovered amazingly well and has no residual effects. That second year of our marriage was tough. With all the work issues, things got tight financially. Nothing dramatic really happened. We never fell behind on rent, or car payments, or anything like that. But I fell apart. I was obsessing about money constantly. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, and I felt like I could barely function.
Things are great now. We're happy (and gloriously child-free), love our jobs, and are quite comfortable where we live. Orange County has one of the highest costs of living in the state, but it's so worth it to live here.
Unfortunately, the anxiety has never really left me. It's been about three years of constant anxiousness. On a level of 1-10, I've been at about a five all day, every day. I've had issues off and on with insomnia, but recently it started getting rough again.
A few weeks ago, I went and saw my doctor, and was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Basically, Wikipedia describes it as being "characterized by excessive, uncontrollable and often irrational worry about everyday things that is disproportionate to the actual source of worry. This excessive worry often interferes with daily functioning, as individuals suffering GAD typically anticipate disaster, and are overly concerned about everyday matters..."
That's pretty much been my life for the last few years. I've recently started a new prescription that's supposed to help with this. I've been sleeping normally again, and the anxiety is starting to go away. I feel like I'm waking up from a bad sleep, and it's an amazing relief.
I'll write a post later on the stigma of mental health issues in the Christian church. Depression, anxiety, and other issues tend to get swept under the rug with a general "pray about it," and it can be incredibly difficult. But that's another rant for another day.
ANYWAYS, this got a lot longer than I meant for it to be. But I felt like getting it off my (ample) chest, and figured this was easier than calling everyone and saying, "You were right...there WAS something wrong with me."
Next post will be much more frivolous, I promise. The Oscars are tomorrow, so I'm breaking out the wine in preparation. Hopefully this year will be better. Last February, I was waving around a glass of Merlot and hollering, "Where are the damn GOWNS?"
Oh, fine. I'll start with the back story.
All my life, I've been blessed. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents are loving, funny, and incredibly supportive. My sister is my best friend, and the greatest little partner-in-crime you can imagine. Never went to daycare or had a random baby-sitter. We lived close to my grandparents growing up, so I was lucky enough to be in their care while my parents were working. I've been blessed enough to be naturally smart, so everything came pretty easily to me. (Sorry, I'm not bothering with fake modesty here. I'm not Stephen Hawking or anything, but I do pretty well.) Really, I've had a pretty charmed life.
[No, this isn't going to be a braggy post. I just need to set this up for you so you aren't trying to find some hidden trauma in my past.]
So, while I had a great upbringing, I was always more keyed-up than others. I'm a classic Type A, with a heaping dose of perfectionist impulses. I would get what my mom called "a nervous stomach" almost weekly. Whether it was stress about homework I left until the last minute or a disagreement with a friend, I could get myself from zero to stomachache in about 2.7 seconds. I'd get shaky sometimes, feel really hot, and predictably throw up.
Fast-forward to high school. Other than the typical teenage angst (major crushes on boys that liked my friends, managing the drama that comes with 15-year-olds and friendships), I developed an eating disorder. It sucked, I got over it, and moved on. I'm probably always one cheeseburger away from going back to that, but I've been lucky enough to avoid any real relapses into it.
I've been married for nearly four years now. My husband is incredible. He's funny, incredibly patient, and kind. Never raises his voice at me, and very rarely gets upset. (This is amazing. As I mentioned, I've got a type-A personality and like things done a certain way. He takes it all in stride.)
Around our second year of marriage, the economy went to hell. I got laid off, and then found a new job. His job went to commission only, and then his company folded. I'm in recruiting now, so I helped him find a new job. And then he had a stroke. At 25. He recovered amazingly well and has no residual effects. That second year of our marriage was tough. With all the work issues, things got tight financially. Nothing dramatic really happened. We never fell behind on rent, or car payments, or anything like that. But I fell apart. I was obsessing about money constantly. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, and I felt like I could barely function.
Things are great now. We're happy (and gloriously child-free), love our jobs, and are quite comfortable where we live. Orange County has one of the highest costs of living in the state, but it's so worth it to live here.
Unfortunately, the anxiety has never really left me. It's been about three years of constant anxiousness. On a level of 1-10, I've been at about a five all day, every day. I've had issues off and on with insomnia, but recently it started getting rough again.
A few weeks ago, I went and saw my doctor, and was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Basically, Wikipedia describes it as being "characterized by excessive, uncontrollable and often irrational worry about everyday things that is disproportionate to the actual source of worry. This excessive worry often interferes with daily functioning, as individuals suffering GAD typically anticipate disaster, and are overly concerned about everyday matters..."
That's pretty much been my life for the last few years. I've recently started a new prescription that's supposed to help with this. I've been sleeping normally again, and the anxiety is starting to go away. I feel like I'm waking up from a bad sleep, and it's an amazing relief.
I'll write a post later on the stigma of mental health issues in the Christian church. Depression, anxiety, and other issues tend to get swept under the rug with a general "pray about it," and it can be incredibly difficult. But that's another rant for another day.
ANYWAYS, this got a lot longer than I meant for it to be. But I felt like getting it off my (ample) chest, and figured this was easier than calling everyone and saying, "You were right...there WAS something wrong with me."
Next post will be much more frivolous, I promise. The Oscars are tomorrow, so I'm breaking out the wine in preparation. Hopefully this year will be better. Last February, I was waving around a glass of Merlot and hollering, "Where are the damn GOWNS?"
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