An Open Letter to the Kids Who Tried to Steal Our Car

I know that you’re young and new to stealing vehicles, or my husband would have walked out to an empty spot in the driveway rather than a vehicle with thousands of dollars worth of damage to the ignition and steering column. I suspect that you think it’s a relatively victimless crime, and that you don’t really want to hurt anyone. I also believe that you didn’t think about what you were doing for too long.

When your inexperience in car theft left our vehicle unable to start, you moved on to a neighbor’s car. You succeeded there, and drove off with her car. You drove it a few miles and totaled it. That car was actually her college-aged daughter’s car. Her daughter goes to school and works. She only had liability coverage on that vehicle, and may not be able to afford a new one. They currently have to try to do everything with one car. It’s rough, and it may not be possible. Your joyride was not victimless.

As for us, we are out an insurance deductible that we can ill afford, and our rates will likely go up since we had to make a claim, which is another expense for which we did not budget. It took over a week for our car to be repaired. While we were figuring out transportation for two adults with long commutes, we each had to miss work while trading days with our other vehicle. That situation resulted in lost PTO and lost wages. You also don’t know us and how this incident has caused more hurt and hardship at a time in our lives when we’ve had plenty of both.

No one in our neighborhood feels quite as safe as we did before you crept around our homes and driveways in the middle of the night. Your thoughtless actions harmed us and our neighbors in many ways, tangible and intangible.

I am not mad, though. I am sad and exhausted. I really didn’t want to call the police, but we had to do so because we couldn’t afford to not make an insurance claim. If they find you, what sort of justice will be served? You’ll end up with a record for a night of stupidity. Depending on your age, you’ll enter either the juvenile or the adult court, jail, and prison systems. You’ll learn to be harder. You will probably become more skilled at stealing vehicles. You’ll learn to shut down. None of that does anyone any good. It’s not justice in any sense. Our justice system is flawed, and I want to reform it before I see anyone caught in it.

I wanted to find you, and ask for restitution. I strongly suspect that you don’t have the money to pay us back, but what I would love would be for you to come by once a week or once every two weeks and cut grass for us and our neighbor, shovel our walks, etc. until you’ve worked off the money and time we lost. I want you to get to know us and our neighborhood. It’s harder to make bad decisions when you understand how much they can hurt people, especially people that you know. I want to bring you lemonade and invite you in for lunch. I want you to stay in school and have time for healthy extracurricular activities or a weekend job. I want this to be the worst and the stupidest thing you ever do.  

Since our system is not set up to allow any of us to see each other as humans and work toward restorative justice, I hope you have someone in your life who can help you make better choices before you’re caught stealing another vehicle or making another rash decision. Your fingerprints haven’t matched in the system. Please keep it that way for your sake and the sake of your community.

Love,

A Person Who Wants Good Things For You

PLEASE Stop Calling This A "Brilliant Comeback"

Many of you have likely seen this little exchange: http://themetapicture.com/brilliant-comeback/

Let me start by saying, if you are going to rant, and curse in your rant, you’d better have your motherfucking facts correct. Brave is NOT set in Ireland. It’s set in motherfucking Scotland, you arsehole.  

Germany has had Afro-Germans in the population for centuries. It also has parts of the country where they don’t dare to go due to the fact that they will likely end up dead or maimed. Congratulations to the self-styled knowledge dropper on living someplace in Germany where one rarely sees people of color. I could change my zip code and say that the vast majority of people in my metro area were white, too.  It’s interesting that someone choosing to talk about how things aren’t whitewashed lives in a country that attempted to whitewash itself. That legacy continues to bear itself out in many, many ways, which the author of the little “comeback” above apparently doesn’t recognize.

Regardless, Disney’s faithfulness to its source material has never been strong.  Frozen is so loosely based on the Hans Christian Andersen story, The Snow Queen, that it is nearly unrecognizable as such. By this logic, The Lion King should not be set in Africa, given that it is based on Hamlet (and actually is much closer to Hamlet than Frozen is to The Snow Queen). Do you know where Hamlet takes place? Hint: Not Africa. Bigger Hint: Prince Hamlet and Hans Christian Andersen have their country of origin in common. I won’t even get into the fact that it’s just sort of generically Africa as if Africa isn’t a huge continent, and that in order to set something in Africa, Disney chose to use anthropomorphic animals instead of people.

Using Pocahontas as an “ethnic Disney lady” (note- that terrible terminology reveals both bias and privilege) is not a good choice. Her original design was not based on any American Indian woman, much less Pocahontas herself. They admittedly melded the features of European, Asian, African, and Native American women to get her look. It’s worse since the redesign. I suppose they were no more faithful to Pocahontas’s appearance than they were to the actual history. Again, Disney seems to have a problem with the source material.

Esmerelda never even shows up in any of their marketing crap anymore, and she was drawn as Demi Moore with a tan, rather than a woman of Romani descent. Speaking of the official Princess marketing, Pocahontas, as awfully redesigned as she is (one would hope a redesign would have improved on the mistakes of the past, but nope, even her skin tone is worse) very rarely makes an appearance, Mulan (again with a very poorly done makeover, which IS whitewashing, even by the meager standards set forth in the above graphic) is also mostly left out. You have Jasmine and Tiana left, and it’s usually one or the other, not both, on the package with all the white girls.

The idea that Disney should be faithful to the race intended/implied by the author of the source material while otherwise completely disregarding said source material is ridiculous. Also, let’s not forget all the anthropomorphism. Cinderella, you can have talking mice that make your clothes, but you and every other person in your movie need to be white or it’s just wrong.  I’m not saying that I necessarily want Ariel to turn to sea foam or Cinderella’s stepsisters to mutilate their feet, but I’m also not claiming that Disney doesn’t whitewash because they’re just being true to the story, and hey, can they help it if they keep picking white European stories? I mean, it’s not like there’s a whole world of fairy tales, fables, myths, and legends from places that aren’t Europe. Wait a minute… (Yes, I know Aladdin and Mulan. Two ever. Within six years of each other. Two decades ago. Bravo, Disney. The diversity is truly... stunning.)*

In conclusion, that’s not a brilliant comeback, takedown, or anything else. It’s a factually deficient screed rooted in privilege. The privilege to have your stories told in a pleasant manner with people who look like you onscreen and call it universal. Taken individually, the movies, Brave and Frozen in particular, are not necessarily bad, and recently they have definitely tried to move away from the “needing a man to save you” nonsense, but Disney has a history of whitewashing. When you unnecessarily see only whiteness and forest creatures onscreen, you are stripping the world of part of its beauty, Our world is diverse. Our stories are diverse. I’d like to see more of them onscreen. 

* I refuse to count the bastardization of history that is Pocahontas. It is one thing to take liberties with a work of fiction, but you don't get to make history more palatable to your audience. It's definitely told from the European/American POV, complete with the Noble Savage and the Heroic White Man. 

The Holes in My Fabric

It happened again this morning. I woke up and thought, “I need to call Grandma PJ and Papa Perk today!” Then it hit me like a combination of a punch to the stomach and a rending of my heart that I needed to call Papa Perk today, and he would need the phone call more than ever. The stab of grief was as fresh as ever, the delicate scar tissue of a few months was easily shredded. Today would have been her 85^th birthday, and their 67^th anniversary.

My dear father-in-law, known simply as Papa to his children, many of his children-in-law, and his grandchildren passed away suddenly a little over a month after we lost my grandmother. The loss of Papa (not to be confused with Papa Perk, my grandfather and husband to my late grandmother) has also been difficult for my family and me. There have been so many things which he should have been able to attend over the past few months, events which he was greatly anticipating. Everything from a blockbuster First Communion of three of his grandchildren at once, including my oldest, to big birthdays, to gracing the stage in another play (we were supposed to be in it together; it was a difficult decision for me, but I stayed in the show; he was the reason I have been back onstage these past few years), to all the events surrounding the birth of his newest grandchild, and many other things which I am forgetting at the moment.

The loss of both of these remarkable people has left holes in the fabric of our daily lives, and I have to say that I sometimes grow weary of the feeling that something is missing. When the whole family gathers, no matter how joyous the occasion, the absence of Papa whispers around the corners of everything. I will turn to tell him a joke I heard that I know he will love, and he isn’t there. I’ll wait for the familiar tug on my ponytail, and the compliment on my hair, his son’s taste, and how happy he is to have me in the family, but it never comes. I’ll turn to see the twinkle in his eyes as his grandchildren are being charmingly precocious, and listen to him expound upon the wonderfulness of the children present, but it isn’t there. What is there? The people who mourn him, many of whom simply would not exist had he not. Sometimes, the whispers of his absence turn into conversation. The elephant in the room is acknowledged and someone speaks of him, or of how the children are reacting to missing their Papa. No adult speaks of his or her own grief unless directly asked. Speaking of our children’s sorrow seems to be the safest way to say, “I know. I miss him, too.” Of course, we are also noting how important he was to even the smallest in our family community. I can tell you my children ask about him all the time. My oldest son sobbed uncontrollably at the cemetery the day of the funeral. He now speaks of death as, “You know, the thing that happened to Papa.” You can’t name it without upsetting him, especially after he has uttered that phrase. Death has become the Lord Voldemort of our house. My middle child will suddenly become very sad b/c he misses Papa. My youngest asks questions at the most random times to try to wrap her mind around the fact that she will never see or hug Papa again. She was quite angry at the funeral when she didn’t get to say good-bye to Papa. Saying good-bye means giving and receiving a hug and kiss in her world, not simply saying the words to the body that housed the person you love. Occasionally, the whispers of his absence erupt into screams, tears will fill someone’s eyes, often those of my mother-in-law, and the Papa shaped holes in the room are brought into sharp relief. 

My grandmother’s absence hits when I become involved in something creative, when I am going down the list of people I need to call, when I am making other plans, when I see or hear something neat that I know she would love, when my daughter says something and sounds just.like.her., when things are hard and I just want someone who is always on my side but is not a purveyor of BS to help me sort through them, and at other random times. I so miss just catching up on everything going on with the family and family friends. Every day, I come up with something that I should tell her next time I call, and I remember that I can’t call her. Perversely, sometimes I want to call her and try to sort through how much I miss her and how much she means to me and my family.

This sort of grief, the grief of a few months’ time, is uncomfortable for others. They have offered condolences and been there through the initial shock, but, now, aren’t you over it? They have moved on, not because they are unfeeling, but because the person was not a part of their daily lives. The loss is a general one, and we need to get on with things. It used to be that you mourned those close to you publicly for six months, and went into “half-mourning” for another six. You may still need to get up and about some things, but the fact that a loss had occurred was accepted. Now, we must get up and at ‘em, ASAP. Many companies have bereavement policies of a few days for “close family members,” and plenty have no bereavement leave at all in place. Grief is hard to understand b/c no two people experience it the exact same way. Grief is difficult b/c it colors everything, and can ebb and flow, like the tides. Grief is uncomfortable b/c there is not much to be done to help the grieving beyond listening when they need it, and, if you are close enough, maybe filling a few of the practical gaps left in the absence of the mourned.

Others’ grief makes people do and say stupid, although often well-meaning, things. Most days, a simple, “I’m sorry,” and “How are you/your husband/your kids/your mother-in-law/your grandfather/etc. holding up?” will do. Then, you just listen and respond appropriately. I have had people ask me if it’s easier to deal with my grandmother’s death or my father-in-law’s death, one coming with a bit of warning, the other very suddenly. Let me tell you a little secret: It all sucks. There are ways to rationalize which might have been easier, or why one might be better than the other, but in the end, the result is the same. We are left with holes. Some days those holes are filled with the light they brought into our lives, and other days the darkness of their absence seems to go on infinitely. Many days it is a struggle between the two, a sort of greyness that, like an overcast day can show glimpses of the sun, or bring in the storm clouds that are as black as night and carry the fear of a deluge and possible destruction.   

I will say that I am tired of attending events and going through my days feeling what is in many ways so tangibly missing, but I am so very grateful that I had these two people in my life. If missing them now is the price for loving them before, I will take the holes, and look for the light to shine through a little more often as time passes, knowing that it won’t be a linear progression. I will shine that light to the others who loved and mourn them and to the world because all of us need a little more light in our lives.

My Valentine To All The Parents Out There

        Valentine’s Day is almost upon us. For many American parents, that means that we now need to think about what to do for the parties at our children’s schools, daycares, etc. It also means that we are about to enter a snark-filled parenting, but mostly mommy, skirmish. On the one side, you’ll see the people who create cute, lovely, homemade valentines, some with the help of their children, others without. Many come with small gifts or treats attached. They are pretty awesome. At the other end of the spectrum, you will find the parent who grabs a pack of cards at the store while buying groceries or shampoo. I have been both of those parents for different Valentine’s Day parties. Let me let you in a little secret: Neither one is superior to the other.

          We worry so much about whether we are doing the right things, or even if we’re on the right track, are we doing enough? It is easy to let insecurity take hold, and I see it in copious amounts this time of the year. The crafty parents make or assist with fabulously adorable creations for their children to give to their classmates. They probably even made something extra-special for the teacher, classroom assistant and maybe even other staff members. They post their creations on social media and receive kudos in various forms. Then, there is the inevitable backlash.

          The parents who do not enjoy that sort of thing become defensive. Must be nice to have that sort of time they grumble (because prioritizing time differently is a sin worthy of Dante’s Hell in this world). They then start talking about how their kids will NEVER have something like cutesy, homemade valentines because they love their kids too much to waste time on something so frivolous that nobody, besides the other parents, even notices.  They often make their point while pretending to be self-deprecating and humorous. It’s okay to be rude if you’re funny, dammit!

          The crafters become defensive in return and volley snark about how it isn’t that hard to take the time to make something, including and especially, memories w/ your children, but the boxed-card buyers are too busy to make that special time for their children. Isn’t it worth a slightly, or very, late bedtime to do something for the children? While some of them do this in a similar self-deprecating manner to the non-crafter, many are dripping so heavily with sincerity that they could bottle it and sell it as the newest fragrance.

          Here’s the thing: We all have our strengths and weaknesses as parents. I made cute, crafty valentines, complete w/ treats with my oldest. Then, my middle son started school, and I also had an infant. That Valentine’s Day, as I wrangled dutiful craftiness, a cluster-feeding three-month-old, a nearly five-year-old, and a two-and-a-half-year-old, I realized that this had stopped being a positive and fun experience for me and my children. Why? It was because it now felt like something I had to do, and the boys really didn’t care as long as they had something to take to school.

This year, with all three children in school, we will have to provide nearly ninety valentines. I picked some up yesterday at Aldi while I was grocery shopping for the week. Last year, the boys wanted to cut out construction paper hearts, use doilies, stamps, stickers, etc. so we did, and it was fun. This year, they are super-excited about their boxed cards. The only thing that matters is that they are happy with what they are taking to school. If one or all of them had requested a craft, and they sometimes do, we would have made time for that. Since none of them did, this week is insane so if crafting were going to happen it needed to start a while ago, and, oh yeah, that number ninety keeps popping up, we skipped lovely and hand-made, and went for convenient and cheap.

          I was not a better mother for creating super-cute valentines with dried fruit, crackers, or popcorn. I am not somehow ironically superior for grabbing cheap cards at Aldi this year. I don’t have more or less time now than I did then. I am just their mom doing what needs to be done in the manner that works best for my family at that point in time, and you know what? They love me for it. They love me because I do my best for that day for them every day. Some days that means crafts, other days it may mean a fabulous meal, sometimes we have baking days, others we dance or run or go to the park, sometimes I throw chicken nuggets and French fries in the oven while letting them watch an extra program, and most days are a combination of things. Regardless, every night they tell me they love me and want hugs and kisses. Every day they pay me lovely compliments because they know that no matter what we are doing, it is being done with love. Things aren’t ever perfect, but we always have love.

          My valentine to all the other parents out there is this: You are awesome no matter what your kids are taking to school on Friday because you are providing what works for your family, and they love you for it. I promise. Happy Valentine’s Day.

To My Paternal Grandma

I had a dream about you last night. You were home. You had made it out of hospice, and you looked great. You were genuinely happy and at peace. You were wearing a wig. For some reason, you had lost your hair in hospice. You were confident it would grow back w/ no grey as it had after your chemo all those years ago. As a matter of fact, you looked much as you had thirty years ago, but as slim as you are now. We talked and laughed. It was like nearly every other visit I have had with you my whole life. I know my subconscious is conflating your cancer and your current condition because you weren’t supposed to survive your cancer, and you are now in hospice, so your odds of long term survival are pretty low. I know what my heart wants, but, after seeing you in hospice, I know what you need. You enjoyed many moments on our Thanksgiving visit, but you were also sad. You have lost so many people you love in the last few years, and have had more than your share of health crises. The blow of losing your baby brother in August seemed to have really taken the stuffing out of you, though. He was a good man.

You have always been one of the strongest people in my life. You lost your own mother too young, and had to deal w/ a succession of stepmothers, some okay and some who seemed to take their cues on stepmothering from the brothers Grimm. You moved to MI to live w/ family in your late teens. You met Papa while you were on a double date w/ other people. He accidentally slammed your hand in the car door, and you were married a short while later on your birthday. I am certain your marriage has had its ups and downs as any marriage will, but you have been married for over 66 years, and I can see how much you still love each other in everything you do for each other. You had three wonderful sons together. You helped your own siblings. You more than survived cancer; you beat it into submission and told it where it could go. You were never afraid of new technology. You were the first person I knew who had a microwave. You had a VHS player very early, and your camcorder never left your shoulder for a while. You were online when other people your age shuddered at the thought of a computer. You have always been ready to tackle anything. You have always been active and helping others. Despite your schedule, you always, always made time for anyone who needed you. I used to think that your church wouldn’t get by w/out you (you ran the Sunday school, were active in the bell choir, and the chimes, and the ladies’ committee, etc. etc.) and the solid spiritual foundation you and Papa provided for us helped me to find my own calling as an adult. You are a thoroughly amazing woman.

As the oldest grandchild, I have had the great privilege of having you in my life longer than any of the others. You were still working as a real estate agent when I was young. I loved going to houses w/ you, and going into your office at your house was always fun. I still have a couple of your business pens.

You used to zip around in your burgundy Grand Prix with your CB on, which is how you received your Grandma name. Again, as the oldest grandchild, I was the one who christened you Grandma PJ, despite that having absolutely nothing to do with your given name. The truckers on the CB called you Puddle Jumper, or PJ, for short. I picked up on that, and the rest is history. All of your grandchildren know you as Grandma PJ.

My sister and I were the first two grandchildren on both sides of the family, but we were the only two on your side for several years. A weekend just wasn’t a weekend without an overnight w/ you and Papa. You cooked with and for us, baked with us, let us run around in your huge yard w/ all the wonderful space and the things Papa had made for us to play in and on, we did crafts, colored, read stories, watched programs (Murder She Wrote for you and Golden Girls for Papa loom large in my memory), and were just little girls at your house. We used to sit on the corner of your counter top and “supervise” while you worked. We learned how to supervise from Papa.  Eventually, I moved up from supervising to sometimes cooking for you and Papa. I made turkey lasagna and garlic bread for you that first time I took over your kitchen.

As happy as I was for you when you remodeled your kitchen I was a little sad to see the supervising corner go. We were far too old to sit there, but it was our corner.  Of course, the only kitchen my children and the youngest grandchildren have known is your current kitchen, which also holds many special memories. My husband, sister, and I have all made full Thanksgiving dinners in there together while you hovered anxiously around and drove us all crazy. Then, everything would turn out perfectly, and we’d have a great meal w/ everyone, all of your sons, their wives, their children, and their children’s children. It was our holiday celebration on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I also have photos of you teaching my oldest to make monkey bread. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of you making cookies w/ my children and my youngest cousins this past Thanksgiving. Had I known it would likely be your last, I would have loaded up on the pictures. I will always have the memory, though.

Sunday dinners at your house were always a highlight of the week. There would almost always be some sort of dessert, and often, my youngest uncle and his best friend would be there. You used to laugh when I would tell you we couldn’t eat b/c Jim (the best friend) wasn’t there yet. My favorite dessert was Yum. I think it might actually have been your own version of pistachio pudding, but I loved that stuff. I never wanted the recipe, though. It just seemed like something that only you could make. I’m not sure if I regret never learning the secrets of Yum or not. I remember your battle of wills w/ my sister over onions. You would chop them so finely and she would work to pick out every little sliver. You eventually conceded and started just chopping them so she could pick them out easily. I am pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of times that you weren’t the more stubborn one, though.

The major source of discord between my sister and me when we would visit was a spoon w/ stars on the handle. We both always wanted it, and felt that the other one always got it. We argued over that silly spoon so many times. I remember you tossing it down the stairs and telling us no one could have it. We still try to beat each other to it when we are both visiting. My sister wasn’t able to make it this Thanksgiving, and I took pictures of the spoon to send to her.

As we got older, our brother arrived, and then two cousins. Of course, our cousins lived out-of-state, so we didn’t see them all the time, but it was always great when everyone was around, and you and Papa loved it. I also fell ill around that time. Of all the people outside of our household, you and Papa were the two best about just letting my life go on. You were a source of quiet and peace when I needed it. You taught me to crochet, which gave me something to do when I ran out of books and became tired of television in the hospital. It is also a lifelong skill, and I crocheted all of my children’s homecoming outfits; the last was finished up in the hospital. When my sister started going on vacation w/ family friends, who were afraid to take me, you and Papa loaded me up in the Blazer and took me on a trip to WI. I still remember the sandwiches we ate at the rest stop on the way there. The most important thing you did was really listen to me when I talked. We would stay up late chatting about all kinds of things while we crocheted. You let me pour out my heart. That didn’t change as I got older. You, as much as anyone, saw me through my parents’ divorce. You and Papa paid to have a 1-800 number when I went away to college so I could call whenever I needed to do so. My youngest uncle also used it as he was away at school as well.

There are so many wonderful memories. I always looked forward to my new crocheted slippers in my Christmas stocking at your house. Your slippers are a bit famous, you know. The day before you went into the hospital this last time one of my best friends from high school told me that she wore the slippers you made for her until they fell apart. You were good to my friends. You and Papa hosted my thirteenth birthday party. It was a great time, and I hope you stopped being upset about the over-cooked spaghetti noodles at some point. We all loved the party. It felt so grown-up to be in the finished part of the basement, talking, laughing, and having a dance party. We couldn’t have done it at my house. You also made it to every choir concert and play. You loved listening to me sing, so much so that you asked me to sing “If Tomorrow Never Comes” at your and Papa’s golden anniversary celebration. I didn’t think I did that well, but you were so happy with it. You had all of your children and grandchildren performing that day. Your pride in us has always been simultaneously encouraging and humbling.

You and Papa also drove me to college that first time. My parents were each unable to do so for different reasons. We stopped and saw my aunt, uncle (your oldest), and cousins on the way. We had to leave a bit earlier than I would’ve liked b/c of it. I was seeing a boy and my teenaged heart was breaking. That boy and I broke up not long after (distance, etc.), but the great memories of being able to celebrate my cousins’ birthdays with them live on. Good choice, Grandma. I remember you and Papa joking that you didn’t know Epcot was so close to my college town b/c of the weather ball that we saw on the way in. You stayed as long and as late as you could, and then you headed back to MI, and left me in MO. You would later say that you and Papa had to talk each other out of coming back to get me, but leaving me there was the best thing you ever did for me. You were right. I probably would’ve hopped back into your minivan and gone home if you’d come back, and while I would have gone to school in MI, I never would have grown the way I did and met the people I did. Some of my best friends and my husband would have never come into my life if you had not had the strength to let me go. The above-mentioned 1-800 number helped me make it through the terrible homesickness that first semester.

Now, now it is time for me to find the strength to let you go, and I am not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever contemplated. See, you and Papa are supposed to live forever. When we come to MI, we land safely at your house. We stay up and chat. You show me what you’ve been working on in your sewing room. You make quilts, bags, and clothes now. The arthritis made crocheting too difficult years and years ago. All of my children, and my husband and I, along w/ many others, have blankets and other soft goods made by you. The idea that the last time that happened in November was the last time it will happen is devastating.

I meant to call you the day before you went to the hospital. One thing after another got in the way, and I vowed I would do it the next day. As a matter of fact, I was literally picking up the phone to call you when I received the news that you were being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. I wish I had forced the time out the day before when you were apparently doing pretty well. I had a bad feeling about this hospital visit.  Your fight had seemed greatly diminished if not altogether gone when I had last visited. I was hoping I could find a way to help you get some of your spark back, but it was not to be.

We received the news that you were not going home, but were instead headed to hospice, a couple of days before Christmas. My sister and I rushed up to see you that weekend. We stayed w/ our Dad and Stepmom. We arrived at their place, and Dad drove us up to see you. Papa was gone for the day as it was past dark, but you roused yourself when we came in. You smiled. You tried to have a bit of conversation, but it was hard for you to form the words and make yourself heard over the oxygen. We still had a bit of a chat here and there, and you liked hearing us talk to each other and Dad. After a bit, your pain became unbearable, so you were given some meds, and we left as you were finally comfortable and had fallen asleep. Visiting hours were also nearly over.

The next day, my sister was too sick to come to the hospice to see you as she had been stricken w/ a stomach bug during the night. Dad and I went to see you. Papa was there. He had me sit next to you. You were in and out of consciousness as you had recently been given pain meds. We all chatted, and whenever you came around we would talk to you. The aide brought your lunch in, and wheeled it right up to you. Papa informed her that you couldn’t feed yourself, and you won’t eat for him. She seemed a bit dismayed, so I said I would see if you would eat for me. You are on a soft diet, and for some reason, a heart-friendly diet. It seemed to me that once one is in hospice only being given palliative measures that a low-fat diet was probably not necessary, but such are the vagaries of institutions. You seemed to like the stuffing and the soup. You only took one bite of the potatoes, and I did not even try to give you the green glop. Dad and Papa agreed that it looked most unappetizing. You had 10-15 bites of food, and a few sips of milk along w/ some water. I wiped your mouth for you, and gave you a kiss on the forehead. I told you that I loved you. You patted my hand and said, “Thank you. That was sweet.” You seemed to be sleeping when Dad and I had to leave. I leaned over and gave you one last kiss and said good-bye and I love you for the last time. You breathed, “Love you,” and I walked out the door.

Knowing you are saying good-bye to someone for the last time is a shocking thing. I am still processing it. I am so glad I was able to do it, but I can’t really make my heart understand that the next time I go up to MI, I won’t see you. As much as life goes on, you and Papa, and your house, have been my constant source of stability and love. It is time, though. After seeing you in hospice, despite the fact that you are being well-cared for, I knew. You are still alive, but you aren’t living. You are dying. It is time to say good-bye and let you go. Uncle Mel and all your other loved ones are waiting for you. Your beloved mother, whose loss you felt keenly most of your life, is also there. I will miss you terribly, but it is time for you to stop hurting. Every day I dread getting the phone call that I know is coming, but I know it needs to come because you should be free. You can be the woman I saw in my dream last night, although I think you’ll have your own hair. I love you so much, and I’ll sing for you whenever you give me a sign.

Imperfectly, wonderfully visible

This post should dovetail fairly nicely with my last post in which I talk about the fact that we need to quit using the word fat as an insult. Today, I am posting pictures. I am not posting just any pictures. These are pictures of my abs. In some they are covered, and in others they aren’t. They were all taken today, and will be posted for comparison purposes. I have not edited any of them. You’ll even get to see a doorknob because I am such a rocking photographer.

Why am I posting pictures of my midsection? Well, it is far from perfect by current standards. As a matter of fact, I could model for before pictures in a Photoshop class or in a plastic surgeon’s notebook. I am going to lay bare a few facts and feelings before I get to the pictures. I am at a healthy weight and body fat percentage. I workout very regularly, and before anyone thinks they have any useful tips, I don’t need them. I lift and I do cardio. I enjoy both. I have had three children who were all born via c-section. I did not put on more weight than my OB recommended during my pregnancies, but because I am short, the babies had nowhere to go but out while I was growing them, and because of genetics, amongst other things, my skin chose not to bounce back once it was stretched to capacity three times in the space of four-and-a-half years. After the birth of my first child, the weight peeled off and I looked pretty good. I was the poster girl for breastfeeding for weight loss. After number two, most, but not all, of it came off, and after number three, I had the dickens of a time getting the last ten off, plus the five to ten I hadn’t dropped between numbers two and three. I sat there on the high side of a healthy weight, nudging over into overweight, unhappy with myself for about a year-and-a-half. Then, my youngest weaned, and my body was truly my own for the first time in nearly seven years! Between pregnancy and breastfeeding, someone else had always needed something from my body. I could really take it back, so I set to work.

Now, I would love to say that my motivation was purely my health. Heart disease runs rampant in my family, and it likes to take us young. I have Lupus, which, while it is in remission, is going to prefer a healthier, fitter body to stay that way, and I have three young children for whom I am responsible, but I really did it at least as much for the fact that I wasn’t going to buy the next size up in pants, and I wanted all the baby weight gone by my 35^th birthday, which was in November of 2012. I wanted to not feel invisible, so I set about doing something for myself so that I would want to be visible. I joined My Fitness Pal, set up a good routine for myself at the Y, and then I stuck to it. I am now within a few pounds of what I weighed in high school, and I met my original goal before my birthday. I am currently working on maintaining.

All that said, what I have discovered along the way is that I was constantly finding new things about myself to dislike. I would have surges of confidence, and then I would back off of them. My current bugaboo has been my abs. I would look at myself critically, and think, “Gross!” I would joke about them with others, but I really, really hated them. My doctor had already told me that I don’t really have anything left to lose. It’s loose skin from the way my body reacted to pregnancy, and can only be repaired via surgery. I hate being cut open, so I likely won’t get plastic surgery, thus I will always have wrinkled, scarred, puckered abs. Then, just yesterday after reading (and pinning) this quotation, “I am obsessed with becoming a woman comfortable in her own skin,” I realized that I was never, ever going to be comfortable with myself if I felt my own body was gross. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have survived an illness that nearly killed me. I have borne three children. I have chosen to be healthy by building muscle and losing fat, and even when I least liked it, my body was NEVER gross. It has done everything I needed it to do, albeit with an occasional assist from the medical community. I want everyone to hear that, go look in the mirror, and understand the same is true for you. You are NOT gross, awful, horrible, or anything else you can think to say about yourself. Your body is wonderful. It isn’t perfect. No one’s body is perfect, and the “perfection” that is currently sold to us via photoshopped spreads of celebrities in magazines and models in ads, is a particular vision of beauty that no one can attain. For goodness’ sake, they even photoshop out the natural wrinkles and puckers that occur when you bend. They remove muscle definition from women with muscular arms, and they remove visible ribs from very thin models. I will one day do a whole blog about PS, and how some of the “little” stuff is the most insidious. Standards of beauty change, but the beauty that is you with whatever you hone in on when you are being critical of yourself, is amazing, and we need to see more real beauty. I want to be very clear that I am not body shaming those we hold up as beautiful or saying that they aren’t lovely to behold. They are. We just need more than that paradigm. We need to see that there is more than just different versions of flawless to be had. There is the deeply, gorgeously flawed. We are all imperfect, inside and out. If you look at yourself, and think “Gross!” as I have been, you are rejecting part of what is wonderfully human about yourself. Embrace the imperfect. It is that which ultimately makes you unique, interesting, and fully human. With all that in mind, here are photos of some of my imperfections. It's real. It's me, and I'm not ashamed of it anymore.    

Here you can see all the wrinkles and my c-section flap

This one gives a better view of the stretch marks and what I refer to as my second bellybutton  on top of the original

Front view in a flattering dress

Side view in the same dress

Bare side view- you can see a mosquito bite and  a kidney biopsy scar

The "F" word. . . No, not that one; the one that really hurts people

Can we stop using the word “fat” and its many synonyms as insults, please? Seriously, it is a description of one’s weight, not one’s character. For one thing, it is often applied inaccurately. A few weeks ago, a blogger for a newspaper wrote a column in which she referred to a cheerleader as fat. The internet exploded, the post was removed, etc, and it wasn’t even factual. The woman in question, while not ridiculously thin, actually did not appear to be overweight. It was an insult, and, while the internet exploded over the incident, it seems that it didn’t bother too many people that fat was used as an insult, rather, the debate was over whether the woman was indeed heavy or not. She isn’t, or at least didn’t seem to be in the pictures I saw. She wasn’t ridiculously airbrushed, so her skin moved, folded, etc. appropriately, but we don’t even realize that most supermodels have those folds anymore b/c we never see them due to the insidious airbrushing that is everywhere, and thus unrealistic expectations for the human body are set, and now a cheerleader for the opposing team is “fat” b/c she has skin and muscle, and yes, body fat, but everyone has a certain percentage of body fat. It is necessary for our survival as a species. Some of us have more than others, but we all have it.

What harm is there in calling someone who is not overweight fat? S/he isn’t really, and it’s apparent whether one is carrying around an extra pound or five, right? Well, there’s plenty of harm in it. First of all, young people read that drivel, then they read the comments. Anyone with eyes and a realistic expectation of the human body notes that she isn’t heavy. Others feel that the original blogger may not have been so off-base. Person A, struggling with her own body image, thinks, “I look just like her. I am fat.” Person B, also struggling, wonders “If she’s fat, what am I?”  People become defensive and speak offensively.

We have equated fat with being ugly, of low character, lazy, etc. and absolutely none of that is true. We, as a society, seem to place so much value on being thin, that we have made fat the ultimate insult, and we continue to use it indiscriminately. We have absolutely lost perspective on what a healthy body, male or female, can look like, and that there is a wide range of healthy and beautiful. We ask people to reach for the unattainable, and when they cannot reach it, we knock them down if we don’t like them.  In the process, we offer no alternative. People give up on being healthy b/c they do not feel ideal. Others hide in the shadows b/c they feel the crushing judgment of being overweight. Fat is not a character flaw. Mean-spiritedness is.

Some people are indeed fat, others are extremely skinny, and many are somewhere in between. We try to address it superficially. Dove’s “real beauty” campaign, an occasional acknowledgement by a major retailer that it’s okay to have a model who isn’t a size 2 or less come out of the back pages of the catalog, but until we decide that it’s not an insult to be called fat, we won’t make any progress. Fat is simply the state of having a higher body fat percentage than is deemed normal or healthy for your age and sex. That’s it. For many, there may be long-term health issues if the body fat percentage is not reduced, but we make it extremely difficult to have honest conversations about losing some excess body fat when merely having it around is enough to make a person a source of derision. There are many wonderful, physically beautiful, and yes, even fit, overweight people. There are many awful, less-than-attractive, and unhealthy people whose weight falls within the normal range.

I know that one reason fat is an insult is because people view being overweight as something you could control, if you really wanted to do so. To some extent, this statement is true. Putting unusual medical issues aside, most of us have some control over our weight, but it isn’t as easy as simply, “putting down the fork and moving more.” We first have to develop a healthy relationship with our bodies and our food. We have to find the time between all of our obligations to move more. We have to learn how to move in ways that won’t injure our bodies. We almost always need the support of people around us. We need to understand that health is important and looking like a movie star is not only not important, but often not possible. We need to stop judging people who are overweight as being anything other than who they are. By the way, oftentimes the worst offenders are people who have lost a lot of weight, much like former smokers are often the most obnoxious non-smokers. It becomes so easy to fall back on, “If I can do it, anyone can. If you feel bad about yourself, just do what I did!” First of all, every situation is unique. Secondly, why would you want to diminish your own accomplishment? It’s hard to lose body fat, and while our society loves a good weight-loss story, we don’t really like the often long process it takes to get there in a way that is healthy and sustainable.

How, I ask, are we to fix any of these problems if we use the word fat as an insult? If we hurl it indiscriminately with no intent other than to inflict pain, we will only continue to make things worse. It hurts the person you are trying to insult, it hurts people who aren’t overweight, but have no idea what, other than very thin, constitutes beautiful, and it hurts people who happen to carry around a little extra body fat because you can think of nothing worse to say than that someone may resemble them.

That being said, if I hear another, “Real women have curves,” schpiel, I might just projectile vomit. Body shaming is body shaming. If you don’t like it when someone does it to you, don’t do it to someone else. Trust me when I say there are plenty of very thin women who would  love some curves, and “Eat a cheeseburger!” doesn’t do any more for them than, “Put down the cheeseburger!” does for heavier gals. Real women have vaginas. The relative sizes of their breasts, bottoms, stomachs, etc. do not make them any more or less a real woman than someone w/ very different proportions. 

While I would prefer that we not hurl insults at each other, if you do feel the need to insult someone, next time try being accurate and focusing on what, exactly, the person is doing wrong. “Ugh, that dancer was so out-of-step; watching the routine made me uncomfortable. How did s/he get that job?” “That politician is proving that s/he lied on the campaign trail. S/he has a serious lack of integrity. Remember s/he promised ceiling fans for all Americans and now s/he is introducing a bill trying to make ceiling fans illegal! I guess that’s what happens when you take money from the Trading Spaces lobby.” If you really just have to call someone a name, which I really do not encourage, look to Shakespeare for your insults. There are some pretty good ones in his works. There’s also just the good, old-fashioned “Jerk!” It is simple and lets one know that you do not approve of his or her actions. Calling someone fat as an insult makes no more sense than pejoratively referring to someone as a brunette. “Her hair is just so dark. Gross.”  See, it doesn’t make sense, does it?

*Disclaimer: I use the words fat, overweight, heavy, high body fat percentage and a few others interchangeably here. I do realize that someone can be overweight by one measure (BMI, for instance) and healthy by another (body fat percentage). As I use the words here, please assume that they all refer to the issue of possessing an excess amount of body fat.