Category: Battling Expectations

I Like Big Butts

My friend Kelly posted this Nike ad as her Facebook photo this week. I immediately loved it. I love the photo. I love the text. I love the idea behind it. The entire campaign takes women’s scorned, maligned body parts and shines a positive spotlight on them. There is an ad for big butts, thunder thighs, man shoulders, tomboy knees, and stick legs. I so wanted to find an ad like Kelly had that I could relate to and that could be my inspiration. Sadly, none of them worked with my body issues. While my butt is what I call “fluffy” (as opposed to flat), it would be unfair to characterize it as big. I do have muscular thighs, but they are not actually thunderous. I am not broad shouldered from swimming because my idea of swimming is sitting poolside with a Coke Zero and my iPod. And, while I do occasionally have tomboy knees acquired from falling while inline skating or not clipping out of my bike pedals fast enough, that one doesn’t truly resonate with me either. My legs, belonging to a woman of approximately 5’4″, are not even remotely long or stick-like. Wait a minute. None of these fit because I have no body flaws? Impossible! My hyper self-critical mind simply wasn’t looking hard enough.

My Popeye calves
My Popeye Calves

So, I took a good, long look at my entire body today, reviewing its perceived imperfections from head to foot. I thought it might be fun to create my own inspirational ad since Nike didn’t bother to make one that suits me. I’d lose the message of the campaign if I attempted to put a positive spin on my “too many Hot Tamales” muffin top or my arms that have that aging woman, chicken-fat thing going on where my triceps used to be, so I scratched those off the list of possibilities. I kept thinking. The only thing that might be campaign appropriate are my large calves. The ad could read like this: “I have bulky calves. They get bruised from my ski boots, make it difficult to pull off my skinny jeans, and remind me all too much of Popeye. But, they get me places. They crank up stairs at Red Rocks and whip through miles on my bike. They’re not dainty, but they could kick your butt.” Okay. Okay. I’m not exactly Don Draper in the advertising business, but you get the idea.

I noticed that an odd thing occurred as I reflected on my body and its imperfections today: they seemed to disappear. Yes. My calves are bulky and not traditionally effeminate, but any day I’d take my muscular legs over another woman’s long, straight, piano legs. There’s also nothing wrong with my butt, which has that C-curve from doing chair pose and crescent lunge in power yoga, but at least it fills out the pockets of my jeans. That extra skin that comprises my muffin top? I earned that by carrying two small beings around on my inside for nine months…each! Think about how amazing that is. Every scar, bruise, and imperfection is part of my story, part of the whole of me. My body isn’t perfect, but neither is anyone else’s…no matter how enviable they seem.

Do I think Nike’s ad campaign was successful? Well, it didn’t make me want to run out and buy any Nike gear, but it did make me think. Mary Engelbreit said, “If you don’t like something — change it. If you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.” I’m going to work to change the way I think about my body. It might not be worthy of a photo shoot in a Victoria’s Secret catalog, but it’s strong, healthy, and capable. That in itself is pretty awesome.

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Infamous Last Words

This was so not worth the wait.

“Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, meet the expectation.”               ~ Charlotte Bronte

Tonight, after a conversation Steve and I were having about junior high, I ran down to our storage room in the basement and found my 9th grade yearbook from Castle Rock Junior High School (Go Blue Knights). I was giddily flipping through it, showing him photos of people he knows now from my reunions and from various friendships from that time that still exist today. The clothes and hairstyles (more Izod and feathered hair than were ever necessary) were a riot. As I shuffled through the pages, though, one memory in particular jumped out at me.

From fourth grade through ninth grade, I had a big old crush on a boy who lived in my neighborhood. We were never in the same class, but I adored him from afar. He had the perfect amount of freckles, lovely eyes, and a stellar smile. I remember riding my ten-speed by his house on what could only be described as a perpetual loop. And, although he never really acknowledged me, I remained undeterred and unwavering in my devotion.

Then, in ninth grade, after years of crushing on him, my dear, sweet, well-meaning friend Andrea (who was far better acquainted with him than I was) took my yearbook to him to get it signed. I could hardly stand the anticipation. I remember her bringing the book back to me after he had signed it. I wouldn’t let her see what he had written. I wouldn’t even look at what he had written. I packed the book in my bag and got on the school bus to head home. I found an acceptable seat toward the back, lowered the window to catch the spring breeze, and curled up with my knees on the back of the seat in front of me, at last prepared to spend the 45 minute bus ride reading and rereading his words. I began shuffling through the pages in search of his handwriting and name. I was dying.

At long last I found what I had been waiting five years for. There, on page 124 at the back of the book, was his signature and his comment. Short but sweet. No wait. It was simply short. It said, “Justine, Have a good summer. Darren.” Ugh. Seriously? That’s IT? I waited five years for that? At that point, it became incredibly apparent that this kid, despite his darling freckles and flawless smile, was not the guy for me. Even in 9th grade I knew that words mattered to me and that a guy who could barely come up with “have a good summer” was not my type. And, that was the end of my crush. I never rode my bike by his house again.

Now, in all fairness to Darren, he didn’t know me well (or really at all). We didn’t even have one class together. He had no idea that I had passed him in the hallways and had heart palpitations. Add to that the fact that he was a mere teenage boy and my expectation that he would write something brilliant, heart-warming, and truly, deeply meaningful in my 9th grade yearbook was borderline insanity on my part. What did I expect? Too much, I guess.

I think about it all now with a smile. At our 20th reunion (after several vodka tonics), I told poor, unsuspecting Darren that I used to ride my bike by his house. He looked at me as if I was a lunatic (probably while considering obtaining a restraining order), and I deserved it. Still, I felt good about it all the same. I’m sure on some level he appreciated hearing that I had once had a serious enough crush on him that it was worth it to me to tell him about it 24 years later. I know I would be flattered if someone from my past told me something similar. Besides, my confession was my way of writing (unsolicited, I know) in his yearbook. And, at least “I used to ride my bike by your house” is a more eloquent and memorable statement than “Have a good summer,” right? 😉

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You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I love this kid.

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.”   ~The Rolling Stones

It was another evening of endless homework and confusion at our house tonight. These nights are exhausting and occurring with far too great a frequency lately. It’s a wonder I have a hair left in my head with all the pulling I’ve been doing lately. Where’s Calgon when you need it?

I love my beautiful, green-eyed son, Joe. He is bright, articulate, and gentle. He has not one aggressive or intentionally mean bone in his body. He struggles mightily with school, but every day he goes back and tries again. He has to work twice as hard as many of his classmates for just half the results but he soldiers on. He loves babies and small children and is a natural caretaker. He hates to cuddle but will send me text messages and Facetime me from his iPad when we’re just one floor apart because he misses me. He is a serious, deep-thinker who laughs hardest with his brother, whom he adores. He loves geography and will spend hours staring at Google Earth and studying the planet. Go ahead. Ask him. He’ll happily tell you that Timbuktu is in Mali and that Nuuk is the capital of Greenland. (Did you even know Greenland had a capital? I didn’t until Joe told me.) He’s smart, insightful, and intuitive. His intense sensitivity breaks my heart.

When he was born, like all new parents, I had expectations of what parenting him would be like. I envisioned early foreign language lessons, sports camps, and piano recitals. What I didn’t envision is that he would have trouble speaking his native tongue, have difficulty coordinating his movements between right and left, and have a complete inability to clap his hands in tune to music. His struggles with the most basic things, including tying his shoes, have vexed me until I thought I would go crazy trying to figure out how to help him. Through it all, though, he has carried on to the best of his abilities, perpetually hoping to please and knowing someday he will get it right.

A while back, something occurred to me. There is a reason that I was sent this incredible boy. I’m not here for him. He’s here for me. Joe came to me because I need to let go of expectations and find beauty in what is and not what I want to be or what I hoped would be. Life with Joe is never according to plan. Because of Joe, I’ve learned to have a Plan B, Plan C, and Plan D and to prepare to have to actually use Plan H. Parenting him is the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted to do. However, I have learned more from him in the past ten years than I learned in the thirty-three years prior to his arrival. Not a day with Joe goes by without a lesson for me. What a gift that is to a woman whose life purpose from day one has been a quest to gain knowledge.

Parenting this green-eyed boy has been not at all what I expected, but it’s been exactly what I needed.

 

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The Fine Art of Accepting the Unacceptable

My nightmares often include my son Luke sitting in a dental chair

“Some people confuse acceptance with apathy, but there’s all the difference in the world. Apathy fails to distinguish between what can and what cannot be helped. Acceptance makes that distinction. Apathy paralyzes the will-to-action; acceptance frees it by releasing it of impossible burdens.”          ~ Arthur Gordon

In each and every calendar year, there are two days that I dread with every fiber of my being. They happen at roughly six month intervals. And, while I appreciate having some distance between them, all that really means for me is that by the time I’ve mostly healed from the scar of the last time I get to do it again. What are these heinous days of which I speak? Why, they’re D-Days…the days my sons get to go for their bi-yearly dental visits.

Before I go any further, please understand that I love my sons’ pediatric dentist and the entire staff at Southwest Pediatric Dentistry and Orthodontics as much as any person (other than a sadist) could love a dentist. They are the most helpful, professional, gentle adults, and their patience with my boys certainly qualifies them for sainthood, or at least knighthood. It’s hard to get any young boy to sit still in a dental chair for work. It’s nearly impossible to get a boy with ADHD to stay still and pay attention long enough for a proper dental cleaning. When Dr. Jim had to get braces on Joe’s teeth two years ago, I thought I would never recover from the trauma. And, Joe is my good dental patient.

Luke is a veritable nightmare at the dentist. He has an unbelievable gag reflex. In fact, as both Dr. Scott and the Mother Theresa-esque hygienist Kristy told me today, Luke is by far THE worst gag reflex patient either of them has ever seen. Ever. How’s that for a claim to fame for your child? Luke’s gag reflex is attributable to several things, a perfect storm of issues: 1) an actual oral defensiveness to textures and touch , 2) an oversensitivity to smells that makes so many things nauseating for him, 3) an active imagination (he can see something that grosses him out and puke as if on command…like the time he saw the preview for the film How To Eat Fried Worms and promptly vomited in the theater), and 4) a now-ingrained mental condition that makes him gag the minute the dentist or hygienist ask him to open his mouth. Luke has puked on poor Kristy before. And on me. And on Dr. Scott. I never leave these visits without a headache. I often find myself in the car afterwards in tears, full of frustration, dentist bill in my hand, beating my head against my steering wheel while my son watches with still uncleaned teeth.

Luke has done occupational therapy to combat his oral defensiveness. I’ve researched herbal remedies and acupuncture to see if those might be able to help. I’ve actually considered hypnotherapy for him. Can you do that with an 8 year old? Today, Dr. Scott suggested that next time we sedate Luke with nitrous oxide to see if that will help. Of course, insurance won’t cover that but if it works it would be worth it. I considered asking Dr. Scott if he could hook me up next visit too. Even if it’s not covered, at least with the nitrous I could relax a little in that office for once. Then, Dr. Scott casually mentioned that it is his job to prepare Luke for the approximately three years of orthodontics he expects Luke will need. Looking on the bright side, Dr. Scott told me that he’s fairly certain that by the time Luke is finished with braces his gag reflex will mostly likely be under control. What he failed to quip about is that by the time Luke is finished with braces I won’t care about his gag reflex anymore because I’ll be heavily sedated wearing a white coat with sleeves that attach in the back.

A while back I mentioned that I had seven mantras I was working on this year. One of them is “Practice Acceptance.” Practicing acceptance means letting go of the desire to be in control. That is what I have to do on Dentist Days. I practice accepting Joe’s ADHD tics and Luke’s crazy gag reflex. I practice accepting that this is who they are. It’s nothing they’re doing intentionally. They can’t help it. They’re not bad kids. These are simply their crosses to bear. They’re mine too, at least until they turn 18. I’ve been going through this with them since they were infants. Back then, it was frustrating. I didn’t understand. I got annoyed by it easily. As they got older, I got better at recognizing it for what it was, but it still embarrassed and aggravated me. It’s taken me nearly 11 years, but I am now able to accept these issues for what they are. Issues. We all have them. I don’t like it, but I have to live with it.

In the grand scheme of things, I know it’s not the worst thing I could have to handle with my boys. They’re healthy, able-bodied, sharp-minded kids. We’re making progress, oh-so-slowly but definitely surely. We’ll get it figured out eventually. I’ve never liked the saying “It is what it is” because it seems so lazy. But, in these situations, that phrase is completely valid. So, I’m going to continue working to accept the situation not out of apathy but instead with the understanding that not accepting it places an unreasonable burden on my two great kids who are just doing the best they can with what they’ve been given.

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She’s Alive

Hubby in the midst of fixing our Sirena Espresso Machine

I went to early yoga this morning. At 8 a.m. I was on my mat, ready to face my day, lighten my heart, loosen up my hamstrings, and stretch the sleep out of my body. The boys had woken me up particularly early and rather than be grumpy about it, I decided to embrace the day. When I saw my favorite yoga instructor was subbing at an 8 a.m. class, I thought it might be the universe speaking to me. It was. The message that Venus (how’s that for a perfect yoga instructor name?) shared with us this morning was exactly what I needed to hear. The whole hour flew by, and I left the studio with an open mind, feeling ready for whatever the universe might have for me.

Good thing too because when I got home hubby had our Sirena espresso machine on the counter. I immediately cringed. There is a long story about this machine. It was a replacement hubby talked me into that ended up breaking a few months after we got it, forcing us to buy a replacement machine for our replacement machine. This broken machine sat in Steve’s office for nearly two years. Every time I walked by it, it taunted me. Steve could not find a place that could repair it.

This past week Steve was having a conversation with his boss about espresso machines, and the Sirena came up. Steve told Sonny that he hadn’t been able to find a way to get it serviced. Sonny, logical guy he is, asked Steve why he didn’t just fix it himself. Apparently, this thought had not yet occurred to Steve. So this morning while I was being enlightened at yoga, Steve was preparing for battle with this machine, this little burr that had been slowly digging its way under his flesh for over 70o days.

I tried not to be negative when Steve removed the lid of the beast with a screwdriver. I tried not to think that he might be putting the final nail in the Sirena’s coffin as he tinkered around with it. I chose to stand back and see how things developed. Steve, while quite smart and capable, is not your typical Mr. Fix It. The way I had it figured, though, the machine was already broken and apparently no one else was interested in fixing it, so what did I have to lose?

On and off in between other things, Steve spent the entire day with that troublesome espresso maker. He reviewed online manuals. He watched videos about it. He stared intently into its inner workings as if the answer would magically appear. He found a pin that he come loose from somewhere inside the machine. We knew that must be the key to the problem. I’d leave for a while, come back, and find him standing over that machine waiting for the solution to come to him. He fixed a couple other minor issues within the black beast while he waited for the universe to reveal the answer to him. Finally late this afternoon we discovered where that stupid pin belonged and put it back in place. Steve reassembled it. And tonight, two years after her breakdown, we each enjoyed a decaf latte in celebration of Steve’s grand accomplishment and Sirena’s resuscitation.

This morning’s epiphanic yoga class was about expectation and how we need to let go of it. I am especially guilty of putting expectations on things, things which the universe is under no obligation to provide for me. I spent the class thinking about how often I set my expectations too high and am disappointed. The whole Sirena incident, however, reminded me that sometimes expectations work against us in another way; sometimes, we set our expectations too low and keep ourselves from achieving things we could if we simply tried.

 

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