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.

You Can Save A Life

My oldest son is turning seven in a few hours. He almost didn’t make it to seven hours, let alone seven years. He needed assistance breathing when he was born, but, just as importantly, he needed a blood transfusion. He was so severely anemic that had he remained in utero and/or not received a blood transfusion, he would have died. My son is alive because a stranger went to a blood drive or walked into a donation center and donated a little bit of blood and a little bit of time. They were likely thanked by the volunteers and staff. The person who has allowed my son to become the compassionate, brilliant, funny little person he is probably had a cookie and some juice and went about their day. I don’t know if this person gave any real thought to the fact that what they just did could actually be the difference between life and death for someone, the difference between joy and sorrow for a family.

You see, my big boy’s blood type is compatible with mine, but not my husband’s. I am not allowed to donate blood for many reasons, and having just had a c-section, would not have been allowed to give blood to my son, and my husband could not. The kindness of that stranger saved our family in a situation where we were helpless.

I have always been a huge advocate of donating blood. I am not allowed to donate due to my medical history, although I have volunteered at blood drives, and I try to make it as easy as possible for those who can donate to do so. My son’s life is not the only life for which I am personally grateful to blood donors, though. Not two years before my baby needed blood, one of my sisters-in-law was also saved by a transfusion. It is her history, and I shall not divulge too much of it, but I will say two of the people who I love most in the world were saved by people who took the time and ignored any fear of needles they might have and gave blood. It is so simple, but so few do it. The supply of blood is frequently running short. If you can donate, please go out and give. It is simple. It doesn’t take long, and while you may never meet the people you help, you are giving an absolutely priceless gift.

To those of you who take the time, thank you. Thank you from me, from my son, from my family. Thank you for allowing all of us to get to know him; thank you for allowing his welcome to the world to be dramatic, but not a welcome and a farewell all in one day. He’s a wonderful child. He loves to help and care for others. Maybe some of his empathy came from you. Thank you for keeping my sister-in-law with us. We all need her. Thank you from all of the receivers of blood and those who love them. It is so simple, so easy, and so very important. 

And His Mama Cried

Much is being made of the Steubenville rape case, and the media’s reaction to it. I am heartened to hear how vocally disgusted most people seem to be with the rape apologists in the main stream media (and, holy lord, they are everywhere) and with all the sympathy given to the young rapists. Even the Yahoo! News comments section, where decency goes to die (it should really be their trademarked tagline), seems to be trending towards those wondering where in the world the sympathy and worry for the victim’s forever changed life is. *I am editing this to add that I have also seen plenty of victim-blaming, slut-shaming, and drunk-shaming happening, but this is not the majority of what I am seeing, and certainly none of that nonsense is on my Facebook feed or other places where I encounter people I like and respect.

   

The fact of the matter is, these young men’s lives are forever tarnished and ruined, but it is not because they received a well-deserved conviction for raping an intoxicated young woman who was slipping in and out of consciousness.  Not only did they violate her, they recorded it, photographed it, and sent it around as text messages. Some of their friends who did not participate in the actual sexual assault helped with continuing to degrade and devalue this young woman by laughing about it, recording it, and passing it along. She was not a person deserving of respect to them. She was an object to use however they pleased. All of the young men involved are guilty of that, and so help me, I wish they all had to spend a little time in juvenile detention and run around as registered sex offenders.

Yes, the two rapists will forever have to register as sex offenders. Some people seem to think that this is an injustice. I think the one year sentences are an injustice. In one year, are they going to learn to see other people as human beings worthy of kindness and gentleness, regardless of how female and/or drunk they may be? In one year, are we going to be able to undo the years of damage that a culture that cries at the INJUSTICE of their conviction for spending hours treating another human being as a prop has caused? Many people, particularly in the MSM, shake their heads and talk about what a shame it is that their lives are ruined, and that this will be with them for the rest of their days. Yet, where is the head shaking over the fact that they did it? These are not innocent youths wrongly convicted. These are boys who were taught that they were special and above the laws of the state and common human decency because they are athletically gifted. It is reported that they are good students as well. First of all, so what? Secondly, forgive me if I sound a little jaded here, but these kids had adults who were trying to cover up a GANG RAPE for them. Is it really so far-fetched that their grades could be padded? I’m sure they didn’t have to be model students to receive model student grades and perks. They may actually have been, and they may not have been, but it doesn’t change the fact that they REPEATEDLY VIOLATED A YOUNG WOMAN.

This fact is the real shame. They have ruined their own lives, and, more importantly, what they did to this girl will be with her for the rest of her life. Through no fault of her own, she was sexually assaulted, humiliated, and has to live with the fact that not only did all that happen to her, but that many people saw pictures and videos of her degradation. She will need counseling, she may very well end up with trust issues and issues around her own sexuality and sexual maturity, she is now at a much higher risk for suicide, depression, anxiety, and eating disorders, amongst other issues. Let me repeat that first part for the slow people in the audience, THROUGH NO FAULT OF HER OWN. Being drunk, being high, wearing something alluring, wearing red lipstick, walking home in the dark, going anywhere alone, hanging out with guys, etc. etc. are actually not versions of consent.

Men do not rape women for these reasons. They are the red herrings of a culture of rape apologists, and every lawyer who has ever defended a guilty rapist thanks society for creating them. Rapists may use these things as excuses, but rape is about control and seeing someone as less than you. When someone violates another human being, it is not because they were so irresistibly drawn to that person that they couldn’t help themselves, or they were confused about whether someone who had vomited all over herself and was no longer conscious wanted to have sex. No. They do it because what they want is more important than what is right. They do it because they do not see any value in that person beyond what they want from him or her (yes, men get raped, too), and this, this is where we fail every time we talk about any rape, but specifically the Steubenville case.

We do not recognize that no one who sees past his own pleasure, no one who recognizes the value and dignity of other people beyond what those people can do for them, can harm another person the way they abused that girl, and, to make it more disgusting, they did it for fun. It was just a night of partying, and they expected to get away with it. Where I cry for these boys is at a more fundamental level. I cry that they were convinced that it is true that they cannot and should not have to control themselves around others. If they want it, they should take it, especially if it involves sex. After all, who doesn’t secretly want the golden boys, and how can they be asked to control themselves in the face of drunken availability? What a load of crap to sell those boys.  They can control themselves. They can treat a drunk girl the same way that they would likely treat their drunk buddies, which is get them to a safe place, put a bucket next to the bed, and tease them the next day by eating in front of them and making really loud noises.

 I read that one of the boys’ mothers became hysterical during sentencing. I hope she was crying not because of her son’s not remotely harsh enough punishment for his brutal actions, but because at some point he failed to grasp that you don’t hurt other people. People aren’t there for you to use however you please. If someone is at a disadvantage, self-inflicted or otherwise, you take care of them. I hope she wept because her son’s life was ruined long before he raped that girl. I hope she raged because he had become a person who thought it was fun to assault another human being. I hope his mama sobbed because she is ashamed and disappointed, not because he has to face the music for forever changing the life of a young woman. Mostly, I hope she cried for that girl, and all the others like her, who are raped by young men who have not been taught the value of another person.