Toxic Tilt-a-Whirl

Sometimes it is essential to spend time alone, apart, to process, to pare down.

Sometimes it is crucial to get out of oneself, one’s head, one’s ruminations.

Thoughts can become toxic, especially ones fraught with worry that get bigger each time they come around the bend. And they circle around and around like a never-ending Ferris wheel run by an insane clown bent on making you a bitter old hermit after you’ve alienated all those close to you by verbalizing said toxic thoughts.

Maybe not verbalizing. Maybe posting them on social media or in an email or letter. Because toxic thoughts don’t play well in the real world. They don’t like bright light. They like to bubble and fester just below the surface.

Voicing them would make them sound ridiculous. Saying them aloud would take away their irrational magic.

Or simply talking to other people might make you laugh. It might make you forget all those sweet nothings the insane clown whispered in your ear. You remember what it’s like in the land of the living. You realize your worries were just that. And that many of your toxic thoughts are what make you the same as other people. You just need to press the release valve once in a while before you blow up yourself and everyone that you care about.

The best way to do this would be to turn toxic thoughts into meaningful dialogue. To stop cowering in the corner from the insane clown and say what you mean and how it makes you feel instead of allowing your thoughts to run amok and turn toxic.

Now who knows how to overpower an insane clown without pulling all her own hair out?

This is the least scariest picture I could find of an insane clown. No wonder clowns give kids nightmares!

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How simple

Speaks for itself . . .

Dr Bill Wooten

“How simple it is to see
that all the worry in the world
cannot control the future.
How simple it is to see
that we can only be happy now.
And that there will never be a time
when it is not now.”

~ Gerald Jampolsky, M.D.

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Legacy, Living

Things That Need to Be Said

I have a relative who says things she shouldn’t.

She says the things you don’t want to hear.

The things that make you uncomfortable, that turn the mirror back on yourself in a most unappealing manner.

In a discussion of summer vacations and friends’ doings, I mentioned that some friends had taken their families to Disney. We lamented the hot weather in Florida this time of year and how trying it must be. I said it would be trying at any time of year with my youngest being only three. If I experienced sensory overload and exhaustion at the dawn to dusk days of Disney, I would have to wait until my children were older before I subjected them to its amusing assaults. I jokingly shared my observation I’d shared with my husband and kids: that I was fourteen years old before I had my first visit to Disney so I was in no rush to get my own much younger kids there anytime soon. If I had to wait, they could wait.

And that’s when my grandmother dropped her bomb.

There are children in the world who don’t have enough to eat and here we are worrying about what’s the right age to take our children to Disney.

Nothing like the perspective of an eighty-four year old woman to smack you back in your place.

I hadn’t been lamenting my fate. I hadn’t been saying my children desperately deserved a trip to Disney, but the poor dears weren’t old enough. Hell, if anything, I was glad they weren’t the ‘right’ age so I didn’t have to go through the whole ordeal. I don’t see Disney as an obligatory childhood right of passage. In America, it’s just something a lot of people do and it’s part of our societal subconscious (again, thank you to the ever-pervasive Disney marketing).

But my grandmother was right.

I’d like to think her comment was not directed solely at me. That it was just an astute observation of the irony of what many call ‘first world problems’.

But it cut to the quick.

In one concise sentence, she cut the wheat from the chaff and crystallized what should be our priorities. In a world where families can spend thousands of dollars for over-the-top entertainment, others’ can’t afford food for one day. In a world where I worry about the stress of an over packed summer schedule, there are mothers who worry if they’ll make it through the week.

I didn’t like what she had to say because it made me feel guilty. But guilt is usually born of some seed of truth deep within our gut.

My grandmother wasn’t trying to nurture that seed. She was simply speaking her mind in the privileged way that a long life has earned for her. In her eight decades, spanning two centuries, she’s seen a multitude of changes, not all of them good. In her evening ruminations, she discovers a perspective the rest of us can’t necessarily see – or don’t because of the frenetic pace of our lives.

I have a relative who says the things that need to be said, things she’s been waiting her whole life to say.

Poetry

A Night in India

Basmati rice, saffron

Persimmon, metallic gold

Lotus flowers, tumeric

Paprika, paprikash, lentil soup.

Mango lassi for dinner on an open air veranda

Honey, ginger, Come closer, Naan

Fiery balanced by the sublime

Living

Rapid Acceleration

The Music Express.

My favorite ride at Rocky Point, a sprawling amusement park in my hometown that got its start in the nineteenth century as a seaside retreat for the overworked and overheated city folk.

Colorful piano keys rippling over the metal supports that tethered the cars to the central motor like spokes on a wheel. The cars themselves with shimmering metallic paint jobs. The track, an undulating up and down dropping and rising like the craziest country road.

As the music started and the cars wound up, you had no choice but to hold on tight. No matter how hard you gripped the cool metal bar on the far end of the car, however, you would inevitably slide down to the outer corner of the car, crushing whichever friend got that lucky seat. You’d laugh and try to scootch yourself up in between the dips and rolls, but then give up to the inevitable and sing along at the top of your lungs with the music blaring through the loudspeakers.

Giving yourself over to the centrifugal force was easy. It was stronger than you. It was outside of you, pushing you out and down. It strained every muscle in your skinny little arms to grasp that metal bar and float a few inches off the seat.

But what about those first few minutes when the ride hadn’t reached full speed, or the last few as it wound down? Were you in control then? Was it as enjoyable to hear the music on that part of the ride? Or was it a letdown because it wasn’t full throttle?

I think when life moves as fast as The Music Express it’s easy for everything to crush together, all aspects of life compressed, no one able to be picked out individually and examined. Sure, there’s good music, but everything’s moving at such a frenetic pace, it sometimes becomes just background noise. And your friends are there, but you’re all just mashed up next to each other, trying to survive the same thing in close proximity.

I need to get off the ride from time to time. Even though it’s my favorite. Even though I love the song.

I need quiet. Time to sit. Stare. Think. And then to stop thinking so that my subconscious, the universe, God can speak to me.

Now if only I could get the attention of that guy flicking the switches. Oh wait, that’s me.

Living, motherhood, parenting

Pieces of Me

Walking across the quad of the campus of my alma mater yesterday, where I’m taking a weeklong institute on writing, my feet felt tipped. No, not tipsy, but tipped, as in leaning outward. Now as someone who is a diagnosed overpronator, this is not a sensation I am used to. Must just be because I haven’t worn these sandals in awhile, I thought.

When I reached the classroom, I felt my foot roll and thought I’d stepped on something. I bent my leg a la checking for dog poo and saw that the rubber sole of my sandal had started to disintegrate. What I’d stepped on was a small wedge of the one that had made up the bottom of my shoe. As the day wore on, a pile of rolled-up rubber collected under my chair and a Hansel and Gretel crumb trail of what had worked itself off in the hallway led me to class this morning.

I was pissed. I had paid good money for these brand-name sensible shoes. My husband did point out that I most likely bought them when expecting my first child about nine years ago, but still. My father still has shoes he wore when I was a babe. What the heck!

Shoe travesty aside, it was disorienting to find pieces of me scattered all around the various paths I’d taken yesterday – and left behind unbeknownst to me.

But then, looking back over this entire week, that seems de rigueur.

The first time I sat down to write this, I shut the door. My now-six year old opened it and asked if she could rest while I wrote. Fine. But the door stayed open and I could hear the television, computer, and talk radio playing simultaneously downstairs. Then she started explaining, in great, glorious detail, some drawings she’d done. Beautiful. But I can’t form words and listen to them at the same time. Then my three year-old started a full-on high-pitched fit about the television being shut off for dinner. Downstairs. Behind the couch. Far removed from me and yet still ear shattering. Then my husband called up the stairs that dinner was ready.

And now this, my second time trying to write it, two daughters camped out in the room until I complained of noise and one went into her room, closing the door behind her in a huff.

I’ve attended class all day each day since Monday, leaving campus each day rife with ideas and inspiration, which I need to shove on the backburner of collecting my kids at various family members’ houses throughout the state, trekking home, figuring out dinner with food I didn’t have time to shop for, hugging and kissing for lost time, trying to relax and catch up on my sleep deficit and finish my homework at the same time. All three of the kids contracted a stomach bug, which not only made me worry about them, but the various family members who still lovingly offered to take them.

There are pieces of me scattered all over the place. My house, my car, our other car I had to take when I transported all three children at the same time, my purse, in the mosquito that bit me as I cleaned the puke off the bottom of the car and then flew into the woods by the side of the road, the carpeted hallway of Adams’ Library, the windowless classroom, the roads I’ve rushed down, the hearts of my children, the imagination of my husband, the dreams of my soul.

I’m not a crumbly mess, but it’s hard not to feel worn thin.

Living

Have To

Do you have to go away to realize where home is?
Do you have to go where it’s loud to discover quiet?
Do you have to ask questions to realize there are no answers?

Do you have to mentally and verbally vomit to free your mind and start fresh, to get any sort of meaning, clarity, peace?

Do you have to hear the tiny squeak of baby birds or the squall of a newborn to remember that life is fragile and once was new and precious?

You don’t have to do anything.

There’s that thing described so simply as free will, but which so complexly screws up life.

But if you want to –

If you realize you need to –

Life is infinitely better.

Children, Identity, parenting

Pierced by a Princess

I was so excited when I saw the commercial. It drew me in. I was enthralled. It turned the idea of a princess on its head. Girls were galloping on horses – in britches, not flowing gowns. They were shooting arrows. Swimming laps. They were real.

They weren’t prissy. They weren’t waiting for a handsome male to save them. They weren’t sitting in repose filing their nails or coifing their hair. They weren’t doing the stereotypical things that mainstream media deems as femininely appropriate.

In other words, they weren’t filling the mold cast by Disney and its multi-million dollar princess industry. The commercial flew in the face of all that Disney defines as princess. And I was tickled pink. Finally, another voice in the conversation of young female identity. I was psyched that my daughters were being bombarded with this media message, albeit a small bullet amidst the other bombs.

Then I realized the smooth transitions between live shots of the young female archer and clips of Merida plucking her bow; a snippet of the young woman’s dialogue stitched up with the princess’ Scottish brogue. A sharp arrow pierced my heart.

There was no way Disney would loan their highly lucrative Brave empire to a media campaign designed to encourage girls to courageous authenticity. To eschew animated perfection. To forgo licensed merchandise for practical attire and tools.

Wherever there’s a princess, Disney isn’t far behind.

They know there are people like me – women, mothers, fathers, grandfathers – who abhor the exploitation of young girls into this gateway of unrealistic expectations of beauty, behavior, being. They exploited that need in me for another option for girls.

And while this commercial is, in many ways, the antithesis of the whole royal empire they’ve created, if such a message comes from them, they’ll seem sympathetic. They understand. They aren’t the evil mongerers of petticoats and pink. They want girls to achieve their full potential even if that means they’ll muddy their knees on the soccer field and go to university for engineering. Oh, they support the young females of the world in whatever they may do. And if they happen to find inspiration in the snippets of computer-generated heroines seamlessly interspersed with real girls, there’s merchandise for that. There are DVDs these young ladies can watch for further inspiration. Movie premieres and theme parks they can visit dressed in appropriate thematic garb for research and encouragement.

Well done, Disney. You almost had me. Which means you most likely hooked every girl in America and beyond that you hadn’t yet.

It’s a brave new world indeed.

* Related article: Great read on Brave’s creator’s misgivings on Disney’s treatment

motherhood, parenting

The Mother of All Father’s Days

Is it wrong that I enjoyed Father’s Day more than I enjoyed Mother’s Day this year?

My parents and father-in-law came over for a casual brunch, which gave me the impetus to clean the house, but not so much pressure that I obsessed over the tasks for which I did not have time. Said brunch gave me an excuse to make one of my favorite casserole recipes. We enjoyed a nice, relaxed visit together. My husband devoted the rest of the day to smoking some ribs on the deck. Slow cooking gave us the chance to sit on the deck together while the kids played and we relaxed. As an accompaniment to the ribs, I tried a new recipe of zucchini fried in beer batter, which allowed me to sink myself into savory, lemony fried goodness. I read al fresco, tickled my babies, and even had a last-ditch burst of energy to dust, mop, and change the linens of my bedroom.

Holy schnikes – we had a good day.

As the cool breeze riffled the pages of my novel, a slight wave of guilt sloshed at my conscience. I was not supposed to having a nice, relaxing day. I was not supposed to be enjoying myself. I was supposed to be making the day of the father of my children.

Being as I can rationalize anything, I petulantly argued to myself that, since Mother’s Day usually sucks, why shouldn’t I have fun now? Why should I martyr myself more than I do any other day since no one does it for me?

Now, before you get your dander up, my love, (yes, I’m addressing you dear husband) – I am not begrudging you your special day. You are a fabulous husband and father and always deserve a day to put your feet up after all the hard work you do.

I just thought it was pretty ironic that I had more fun this Sunday than that sacred Sunday in May. Besides my selfish rationalizations, I think it also had a lot to do with expectations. I had none yesterday – except helping the kids make his day special. There was no high bar for me so I surpassed it easily. Having a beer and reading my novel in the middle of the day was a pleasant and most welcome surprise.

Damn Hallmark and the jewelers and florists make anything less than a champagne brunch with a string quartet fall flat. I don’t need diamonds, but the social expectations make me feel like I need something different, something to make me feel appreciated, valued. And I deserve that – all mothers do. But whatever nebulous idea I have in my head of what a special Mother’s Day looks like never materializes.

So Sunday we (I hope my husband did, too) had a good day. I’ve been toying for a while with the idea of an anti-Mother’s Day. (I’ll get around to writing the manifesto at some point) But maybe I just had the inaugural one. And it could really be any one of the 365 days in the year. Any day that a mother takes time for herself, eats good food, enjoys her children, and has a good time with the joint caregiver of those children.

Happy Day, people. Now go eat some fried zucchini – and enjoy it for gosh sakes!

nom nom nom

Children, motherhood, parenting

Put the Sexy Back

Décolletage. Cleavage. Bare belly. Unbuttoned jeans.

These are the images that welcomed our band of second graders as we traipsed through the mall to escape the rain on a field trip. There were sights to see. We were headed to the upper level and the wall of windows overlooking the river and city skyline. The foul weather turned what should have been an outdoor river walk into an educational excursion of another kind.

Beyoncé flaunting her barely there bikini on a banner was the first thing my daughter and her friend noticed. Somehow, the larger than life photos in the Victoria’s Secret storefront seemed to escape everyone’s notice except one of the male chaperones. The mannequins in various states of undress in another window didn’t, however.

Women have breasts. We all have abdomens, some even with six-packs. There is a certain allure and attraction to the human body. It is beautiful. But should a shopping center be an inappropriate place to take our children? Should we be bombarded with images that remove the natural beauty of the human form and replace it with sexually loaded suggestions?

I realize my eight year-old is not the target audience for these shops. I realize there is a demographic who wants to look sexy and physically inviting. But if my child is receiving the same subliminal messages as these others are, how can she differentiate the expected outcome?

How will she learn that there is a time and place and stage of life when these things are appropriate? That her body is to be respected and guarded, shared with a select few who will care for her someday. That modesty is to be valued. That the beauty of the human form should not be determined by the amount bared or shape of one’s skin.

I know. That’s my job. But it becomes a whole heck of a lot harder when walking through the mall becomes a minefield. And their marketing budget is a lot bigger than my measly mom one. They’re everywhere. Posters, posing, pitching. Their message will come on the bodies of friends as she ages, in movies, television shows, magazines, in the affection of suitors. How can my quiet, safe message compete?

I can only try by building up her inner reserves. By giving her the self-esteem that beauty is not skin-deep. By teaching her the attitude that her mind, her soul, her sense of humor are something else, something stronger and sexier than the dip of her décolletage.

It’s a tall order.

It seems like a small drip in the swell of the siren’s song, but I will sing. I will sing for my daughter and all others like her.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile