In the course of writing well over a hundred blog posts, I have always been honest, but have also striven to preserve a certain level of privacy for myself and my own experience. Today was a departure for me, one that I don't expect to make very often, but which was, at the bottom, my effort to take something painful for me and use it to help others who find themselves in the same situation.
I don't easily share my personal pain. But if, in the course of googling for answers, solace, or meaning, someone stumbles across this blog post, and I can give them hope, or I can let them know they are not alone in their pain, then it is worth the unwanted exposure.
You are not alone.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Faith....
Faith is an interesting word, and means so many different things, depending on the context in which it is used. But in all cases, it means believing in something (or someone) even when there is absolutely no tangible basis to do so. Sometimes, you can see all the evidence to the contrary, and your faith will override everything - your doubts, your common sense, even the evidence you see with your own eyes and ears and mind. The heart is a willful ruler, and most people, no matter how cold and analytical they may seem on the outside, have a soft place deep inside their heart for the people they love.
I belong to a sorority of sisters, rich and poor, famous and totally unknown, to which no one would ever want to belong ~ the spectacularly spurned wife, the discarded woman of a serial philanderer. (Odd as it may sound, I think it may have been easier to find out about a long term love affair, where at least you could feel that it was a serious matter, and not just another fling, which cheapens both you and the relationship.) Thus, as I have watched the debacle of the Tiger Woods saga these past weeks, while the world seems to focus on him and his peccadilloes, I can only think of his wife, and what she is now going through.
The world at large seems to believe she should have been aware of what was going on. I can almost promise you that the truth is more like she harbored some suspicions in her heart, but couldn't quite bring herself to believe that what she thought was what she knew; much less that she was right. When you feel it, deep down inside you, but there are denials and you are made to be the one in the wrong, it is easy to overlook the evidence in favor of the faith.
I have been disturbed by the criticism, masquerading as false sympathy, for Elin Nordegren this week. I have seen speculation on her character and her behavior, and even her motives for marrying Tiger Woods in the first place, and it is wrong.
Whatever her husband did or didn't do, she is not, in any way, responsible or at fault, and she deserves every ounce of sympathy the public can muster. However much money you have, it cannot buy peace of mind, and the crushing dismantling of her carefully constructed house of cards in such a spectacularly public way is a hurt that she will never overcome, no matter how many promises Tiger makes, no matter how much money she has at her disposal.
It has been brutally, painfully self-evident to me that Elin had no idea of the level of infidelity that her husband had engaged in, and speaking from experience, I know exactly how she feels. It is like being suddenly dropped into the center of a minefield, and knowing, understanding, but not quite believing, that the only way to peace is walking out again, step by dangerous step, until you are free. If you have never faced that, I can tell you it takes a rare courage to make the journey under any circumstances. With all the public exposure, it must be almost unbearable.
I have walked that minefield, and it is a frightening experience filled with anguish and grief. You are assured, from the very first step, that you will bring your foot down upon a mine here and there, and it will blow up on you, wounding you with devastating accuracy. And yet, you have no other choice but to keep on going, because you can't stay where you are, either, however tempting it may be. Your life becomes an excruciating series of revelations of things you didn't know, may not have even suspected, and you continue to absorb those blows until you are transformed into someone new and different.
Because I have taken that demoralizing path in my own life, my sympathies are all for Elin, that intensely private wife who has been scorned so publicly, so humiliatingly, by someone who painted a public picture of a person who was clearly fatally flawed. I will say frankly, I don't know how Elin can bring herself to get up in the morning and get out of bed to face another day of increasingly painful revelations, because it was hard enough when I could choose who I told and who knew what was happening in my life, and it wasn't spread across the headlines of the world's news.
The media have barely scratched the surface of the real pain of the situation, however. We, the disassociated public, with our voracious appetite for the flaws of others, seem to believe that real people do not reside underneath the glamour and the false glitter of celebrity. For my part, I suspect that they are simply better at covering up their feelings than most of us, because if you are human, you have a heart, and it can be broken.
But more than for themselves, for most people, the most vulnerable place in their heart is reserved for their children. The children of Tiger Woods will always know how he treated their mother, their family, their life. There will always be a breach, and it is one that he will never heal.
Whatever the agony I may have felt during my marriage and the five years since, I would have borne it all and much more, if only to save my children from knowing the full hurtful truth. I can only imagine that Elin Nordegren, who I feel certain loves her children much the same as I love mine, feels the same way about the wanton public speculation on the demise of the perfect family she thought she had. Every careless word that is published is another spike in her heart, as she thinks about the future, and how to shield her little ones from the consequences of their father's behavior.
The part that is most frustrating, I think, is that although one person had control of the whole situation, it is everyone else that suffers by the actions that cannot be undone. While the person who caused it all may be in pain, it is, at least, self-inflicted, the result of their own choices. But the collateral damage was not only unexpected, it was unearned and undeserved. It is that pain which causes me to have the greatest empathy for Elin and her children.
I am not so foolish as to think that more than a few people read these words, or that it will make a difference to her to know that she has joined a sisterhood that is out here supporting her and feeling her pain along with her. But there are many other women out there, (men as well,) who belong to the club, and if my words help anyone, then it will be worth the price of revealing my own personal pain.
If one positive thing could come from this media nightmare for Elin and her children, it would be for all of us to understand that public words can cause a lifetime of hurt, and Tiger's first statement, that his family deserves some privacy, is the right one. When you hear about Tiger's fall from grace, and the additional revelations that I feel certain are still to come, think not about the prurient details of his misbehavior, but about the wife and children who will bear the brunt of the shame and the injury of his freewill choice.
If you know someone going through the painful journey of serial infidelity, don't look for the flaw in the spouse who was wronged. They do not need to hear how they should have known, they must have seen, or they should have done something.
It is not their fault that the person they married was a fatally flawed individual, (yes, it is most definitely fatal, as their marriage and their family have been dealt a terminal blow, whether she realizes it now or not.) He is most probably a narcissist, if not a full blown sociopath, and there is no cure.
Instead of finding fault with the victim, uplift them with encouraging words about what a great person they are (they won't believe you, but they will love you for saying it, anyway.) Tell them that the world is a better place because they are in it (see above comment.) And especially, tell them what a fantastic parent you think they are, and how their children are so lucky to have them, because they are good enough to bring them through this time. (They will be forever grateful that someone noticed how hard they are trying, and appreciated that effort, no matter how much trouble they have believing it.)
We, the people, do not have a right to know everything about our celebrities, especially when the celebrity being sold is based on a skill or a talent, and they have not sought out the attention for their lifestyle. I wish, for a change, the media would display a little discretion, and allow the personal pain to remain where it belongs - in the privacy of their rapidly disintegrating life. It would elevate all of us to know less about what we should never have known in the first place.
To anyone who may have stumbled upon this looking for hope, I can truly tell you that you will eventually emerge from the minefield - changed, but in one piece, none-the-less. Your life will look different than you thought it would, but you will have stability and peace instead of the quicksand of the unknown. Your spouse was, without a doubt, an edgy thrill seeker, because that is the personality of the serial philanderer, and you will find that while things are not as exciting, they are more predictable, and you will be able to wake up each day knowing pretty much what to expect.
Most importantly, have faith in yourself. It is enough.
I belong to a sorority of sisters, rich and poor, famous and totally unknown, to which no one would ever want to belong ~ the spectacularly spurned wife, the discarded woman of a serial philanderer. (Odd as it may sound, I think it may have been easier to find out about a long term love affair, where at least you could feel that it was a serious matter, and not just another fling, which cheapens both you and the relationship.) Thus, as I have watched the debacle of the Tiger Woods saga these past weeks, while the world seems to focus on him and his peccadilloes, I can only think of his wife, and what she is now going through.
The world at large seems to believe she should have been aware of what was going on. I can almost promise you that the truth is more like she harbored some suspicions in her heart, but couldn't quite bring herself to believe that what she thought was what she knew; much less that she was right. When you feel it, deep down inside you, but there are denials and you are made to be the one in the wrong, it is easy to overlook the evidence in favor of the faith.
I have been disturbed by the criticism, masquerading as false sympathy, for Elin Nordegren this week. I have seen speculation on her character and her behavior, and even her motives for marrying Tiger Woods in the first place, and it is wrong.
Whatever her husband did or didn't do, she is not, in any way, responsible or at fault, and she deserves every ounce of sympathy the public can muster. However much money you have, it cannot buy peace of mind, and the crushing dismantling of her carefully constructed house of cards in such a spectacularly public way is a hurt that she will never overcome, no matter how many promises Tiger makes, no matter how much money she has at her disposal.
It has been brutally, painfully self-evident to me that Elin had no idea of the level of infidelity that her husband had engaged in, and speaking from experience, I know exactly how she feels. It is like being suddenly dropped into the center of a minefield, and knowing, understanding, but not quite believing, that the only way to peace is walking out again, step by dangerous step, until you are free. If you have never faced that, I can tell you it takes a rare courage to make the journey under any circumstances. With all the public exposure, it must be almost unbearable.
I have walked that minefield, and it is a frightening experience filled with anguish and grief. You are assured, from the very first step, that you will bring your foot down upon a mine here and there, and it will blow up on you, wounding you with devastating accuracy. And yet, you have no other choice but to keep on going, because you can't stay where you are, either, however tempting it may be. Your life becomes an excruciating series of revelations of things you didn't know, may not have even suspected, and you continue to absorb those blows until you are transformed into someone new and different.
Because I have taken that demoralizing path in my own life, my sympathies are all for Elin, that intensely private wife who has been scorned so publicly, so humiliatingly, by someone who painted a public picture of a person who was clearly fatally flawed. I will say frankly, I don't know how Elin can bring herself to get up in the morning and get out of bed to face another day of increasingly painful revelations, because it was hard enough when I could choose who I told and who knew what was happening in my life, and it wasn't spread across the headlines of the world's news.
The media have barely scratched the surface of the real pain of the situation, however. We, the disassociated public, with our voracious appetite for the flaws of others, seem to believe that real people do not reside underneath the glamour and the false glitter of celebrity. For my part, I suspect that they are simply better at covering up their feelings than most of us, because if you are human, you have a heart, and it can be broken.
But more than for themselves, for most people, the most vulnerable place in their heart is reserved for their children. The children of Tiger Woods will always know how he treated their mother, their family, their life. There will always be a breach, and it is one that he will never heal.
Whatever the agony I may have felt during my marriage and the five years since, I would have borne it all and much more, if only to save my children from knowing the full hurtful truth. I can only imagine that Elin Nordegren, who I feel certain loves her children much the same as I love mine, feels the same way about the wanton public speculation on the demise of the perfect family she thought she had. Every careless word that is published is another spike in her heart, as she thinks about the future, and how to shield her little ones from the consequences of their father's behavior.
The part that is most frustrating, I think, is that although one person had control of the whole situation, it is everyone else that suffers by the actions that cannot be undone. While the person who caused it all may be in pain, it is, at least, self-inflicted, the result of their own choices. But the collateral damage was not only unexpected, it was unearned and undeserved. It is that pain which causes me to have the greatest empathy for Elin and her children.
I am not so foolish as to think that more than a few people read these words, or that it will make a difference to her to know that she has joined a sisterhood that is out here supporting her and feeling her pain along with her. But there are many other women out there, (men as well,) who belong to the club, and if my words help anyone, then it will be worth the price of revealing my own personal pain.
If one positive thing could come from this media nightmare for Elin and her children, it would be for all of us to understand that public words can cause a lifetime of hurt, and Tiger's first statement, that his family deserves some privacy, is the right one. When you hear about Tiger's fall from grace, and the additional revelations that I feel certain are still to come, think not about the prurient details of his misbehavior, but about the wife and children who will bear the brunt of the shame and the injury of his freewill choice.
If you know someone going through the painful journey of serial infidelity, don't look for the flaw in the spouse who was wronged. They do not need to hear how they should have known, they must have seen, or they should have done something.
It is not their fault that the person they married was a fatally flawed individual, (yes, it is most definitely fatal, as their marriage and their family have been dealt a terminal blow, whether she realizes it now or not.) He is most probably a narcissist, if not a full blown sociopath, and there is no cure.
Instead of finding fault with the victim, uplift them with encouraging words about what a great person they are (they won't believe you, but they will love you for saying it, anyway.) Tell them that the world is a better place because they are in it (see above comment.) And especially, tell them what a fantastic parent you think they are, and how their children are so lucky to have them, because they are good enough to bring them through this time. (They will be forever grateful that someone noticed how hard they are trying, and appreciated that effort, no matter how much trouble they have believing it.)
We, the people, do not have a right to know everything about our celebrities, especially when the celebrity being sold is based on a skill or a talent, and they have not sought out the attention for their lifestyle. I wish, for a change, the media would display a little discretion, and allow the personal pain to remain where it belongs - in the privacy of their rapidly disintegrating life. It would elevate all of us to know less about what we should never have known in the first place.
To anyone who may have stumbled upon this looking for hope, I can truly tell you that you will eventually emerge from the minefield - changed, but in one piece, none-the-less. Your life will look different than you thought it would, but you will have stability and peace instead of the quicksand of the unknown. Your spouse was, without a doubt, an edgy thrill seeker, because that is the personality of the serial philanderer, and you will find that while things are not as exciting, they are more predictable, and you will be able to wake up each day knowing pretty much what to expect.
Most importantly, have faith in yourself. It is enough.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Bleak Friday? Not this year....
Along with millions of Americans, I was out among the crowds at the mall yesterday, celebrating the nation's obsession with shopping on what is one of the biggest spending days of the year, the so called Black Friday. This is not in commemoration of the Black Widow Spider, who mates then kills off the evidence before he can kiss and tell. Black Friday refers to the legend that most retailers finally become solvent for the year on that day.
Although, come to think of it, the voracious appetite of consumers may have some similarities.... Thankfully, there were no reported deaths this year. I guess that's something, anyway.
While it may not be true that this is the first time they are solvent, there is no doubt that most retailers depend on the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas to pump their profits. They certainly depend on the sales from the holiday season to provide them with enough working capital to make it through the early months of the next year when shoppers, having gorged themselves on mostly superfluous merchandise, refuse to buy much more of it.
If you, like me, have no money, it makes the whole day a lot easier, since you do not have to rush out at 3 a.m. to get to the store to stand in line for the two items that you are looking for which are only available in the moments between 5:42 and 6:01 a.m. For which, it should be noted, you will then have to stand in line for an hour to pay.
I pretty much walked from store to store, looking at everything I not only cannot afford, but actually do not need, either, which is sort of an interesting realization. Being poor is, among other things, very clarifying, as you are forced to recognize the difference between needs and wants. That divide is crystal clear when the bank account is approaching zero.
I did notice this year that more shoppers were carrying bags and boxes, which should put a smile on the faces of stockholders receiving their dividend checks from the retailers who have survived this past year of belt tightening. Of course, the discounts were already deep, and the sales in full swing. Makes me wonder what will be left for the Saturday before Christmas, which is, in fact, the actual biggest shopping day of the year.
I have noticed the sales techniques have gotten a lot more innovative [mercenary] this year, as retailers work hard to induce customers to part with a little more of their precious cash. I saw a lot of sales tied to making a bigger purchase than originally intended; for example, buy one, get one for half price. It encourages you to buy two to get the sale price, the promise of savings working your subconscious like the massage therapists suddenly lining the mall hallways.
[Is it just me, or is it a little weird to be sitting in the mall getting your back rubbed and your teeth whitened in full view of the whole world? If I wanted people to see my gums, I would smile more.]
This is very creative marketing. The retailer has just gotten 150% on the sale, instead of simply marking each item down to 75% of the usual cost, which would land you in the same place if you bought two, but no one ever does.
Survival of the fittest, indeed. It is a jungle out there, and I am watching out for the teeth hidden behind the smiles of the cute little sales "associates" who are hawking the wares of their employers for $7.50 an hour. [Have you noticed how no one employs clerks any more? They are associates, partners, cast members - anything but sales clerks. Do they really think that, whatever you are calling them, sales people don't know a minimum wage job does not earn your name on the left side of the letterhead?]
One retailer I visited took that tactic a step further, requiring a purchase of two same priced items to get two free. I thought about it, because I really wanted one, but realized, ultimately, that I didn't need four, and didn't have the money to pay for two, either. [Actually, as it is a fairly spendy item to begin with, I didn't even really need one, so two was pretty much out of the question.]
Call it my little strike for the consumer, as I refused to play by the increasingly hardball rules of mega-corporations who want to part me from my money for baubles and trinkets no one, especially me, really needs. If only I had my own flag, we could start a facebook group and you could all be my fans. Of course, that assumes that you agree with me that it is a slippery slope, this whole buy one/get one trend.
Ultimately, I did come home with a few things that I really needed, including new shoes for work. (Buy one, get one 50% off, so naturally I bought two pair. Hey, they were on sale, so it was a real bargain, second pair almost free.) You have to look professional for these meetings, and I realized when dressing for the last one, that I am sorely in need. Seriously.
I bought a Christmas gift for my mom, which was at reduced price [once I renewed my discount card for the annual fee.]
I bought stamps for my Christmas cards. No sales there at all. On the contrary, I am surprised they didn't raise some extra funds by charging more for them. I guess they haven't thought of that yet. Rats. I should keep my mouth shut and not give them any ideas.
I bought a very expensive bag of dog food at the pet store, along with yet another cheap $2 toy that my Jack Russel Terrier will have fun destroying, just as soon as he gets his teeth on it. Call me Mommy Warbucks.
The best part of the day, for me, was spending the time with my lovely daughter, without whom life would be bleak indeed. Any day that includes spending time with her is a day that my life account is in the black with the only kind of capital that really matters.
I think spending time with your female relatives is the most compelling reason for Black Friday, and a lot of other people must agree, if the matching faces I saw walking the mall were any indication. It is always entertaining to see the same faces, youthful and maturing, and to know that the generations continue to find ways to connect, even if it's hunting for just the right pair of shoes, instead of hunting for food or shelter.
By the victorious smiles on many of the faces, and the bags swinging from arms on all sides, I think Black Friday was, indeed, a success this year. Whether you are shopping for presents, or groceries, or just spending time with your family doing traditional activities, I wish you the remaining holiday weekend hours to be spent in the joy of your family, doing whatever your own traditions lead you to do.
Happy holidays to each one of my faithful readers. I am thankful for each one who encourages me in my pursuit of perfect prose - it is very important to me, and has often propelled me to write my weekly post when I otherwise would not have done so. For each one who has asked me to publish my better offerings in a book, I thank you for the delicious compliment. However, unless my blog goes viral, there is a pretty limited audience for my collected wisdom, such as it is, so don't be looking for it on a store shelf near you any time soon! [Dollar Tree, anyone?!]
Happy Black Weekend, and here's hoping that whatever bleak things you are holding in your heart will be washed away with the joy of the holiday season now underway. I will leave you with one of my favorite verses from the Word of the Lord and Saviour I celebrate in the Holy Season of Christmas: " The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace." Numbers 6:24-26. NIV
Although, come to think of it, the voracious appetite of consumers may have some similarities.... Thankfully, there were no reported deaths this year. I guess that's something, anyway.
While it may not be true that this is the first time they are solvent, there is no doubt that most retailers depend on the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas to pump their profits. They certainly depend on the sales from the holiday season to provide them with enough working capital to make it through the early months of the next year when shoppers, having gorged themselves on mostly superfluous merchandise, refuse to buy much more of it.
If you, like me, have no money, it makes the whole day a lot easier, since you do not have to rush out at 3 a.m. to get to the store to stand in line for the two items that you are looking for which are only available in the moments between 5:42 and 6:01 a.m. For which, it should be noted, you will then have to stand in line for an hour to pay.
I pretty much walked from store to store, looking at everything I not only cannot afford, but actually do not need, either, which is sort of an interesting realization. Being poor is, among other things, very clarifying, as you are forced to recognize the difference between needs and wants. That divide is crystal clear when the bank account is approaching zero.
I did notice this year that more shoppers were carrying bags and boxes, which should put a smile on the faces of stockholders receiving their dividend checks from the retailers who have survived this past year of belt tightening. Of course, the discounts were already deep, and the sales in full swing. Makes me wonder what will be left for the Saturday before Christmas, which is, in fact, the actual biggest shopping day of the year.
I have noticed the sales techniques have gotten a lot more innovative [mercenary] this year, as retailers work hard to induce customers to part with a little more of their precious cash. I saw a lot of sales tied to making a bigger purchase than originally intended; for example, buy one, get one for half price. It encourages you to buy two to get the sale price, the promise of savings working your subconscious like the massage therapists suddenly lining the mall hallways.
[Is it just me, or is it a little weird to be sitting in the mall getting your back rubbed and your teeth whitened in full view of the whole world? If I wanted people to see my gums, I would smile more.]
This is very creative marketing. The retailer has just gotten 150% on the sale, instead of simply marking each item down to 75% of the usual cost, which would land you in the same place if you bought two, but no one ever does.
Survival of the fittest, indeed. It is a jungle out there, and I am watching out for the teeth hidden behind the smiles of the cute little sales "associates" who are hawking the wares of their employers for $7.50 an hour. [Have you noticed how no one employs clerks any more? They are associates, partners, cast members - anything but sales clerks. Do they really think that, whatever you are calling them, sales people don't know a minimum wage job does not earn your name on the left side of the letterhead?]
One retailer I visited took that tactic a step further, requiring a purchase of two same priced items to get two free. I thought about it, because I really wanted one, but realized, ultimately, that I didn't need four, and didn't have the money to pay for two, either. [Actually, as it is a fairly spendy item to begin with, I didn't even really need one, so two was pretty much out of the question.]
Call it my little strike for the consumer, as I refused to play by the increasingly hardball rules of mega-corporations who want to part me from my money for baubles and trinkets no one, especially me, really needs. If only I had my own flag, we could start a facebook group and you could all be my fans. Of course, that assumes that you agree with me that it is a slippery slope, this whole buy one/get one trend.
Ultimately, I did come home with a few things that I really needed, including new shoes for work. (Buy one, get one 50% off, so naturally I bought two pair. Hey, they were on sale, so it was a real bargain, second pair almost free.) You have to look professional for these meetings, and I realized when dressing for the last one, that I am sorely in need. Seriously.
I bought a Christmas gift for my mom, which was at reduced price [once I renewed my discount card for the annual fee.]
I bought stamps for my Christmas cards. No sales there at all. On the contrary, I am surprised they didn't raise some extra funds by charging more for them. I guess they haven't thought of that yet. Rats. I should keep my mouth shut and not give them any ideas.
I bought a very expensive bag of dog food at the pet store, along with yet another cheap $2 toy that my Jack Russel Terrier will have fun destroying, just as soon as he gets his teeth on it. Call me Mommy Warbucks.
The best part of the day, for me, was spending the time with my lovely daughter, without whom life would be bleak indeed. Any day that includes spending time with her is a day that my life account is in the black with the only kind of capital that really matters.
I think spending time with your female relatives is the most compelling reason for Black Friday, and a lot of other people must agree, if the matching faces I saw walking the mall were any indication. It is always entertaining to see the same faces, youthful and maturing, and to know that the generations continue to find ways to connect, even if it's hunting for just the right pair of shoes, instead of hunting for food or shelter.
By the victorious smiles on many of the faces, and the bags swinging from arms on all sides, I think Black Friday was, indeed, a success this year. Whether you are shopping for presents, or groceries, or just spending time with your family doing traditional activities, I wish you the remaining holiday weekend hours to be spent in the joy of your family, doing whatever your own traditions lead you to do.
Happy holidays to each one of my faithful readers. I am thankful for each one who encourages me in my pursuit of perfect prose - it is very important to me, and has often propelled me to write my weekly post when I otherwise would not have done so. For each one who has asked me to publish my better offerings in a book, I thank you for the delicious compliment. However, unless my blog goes viral, there is a pretty limited audience for my collected wisdom, such as it is, so don't be looking for it on a store shelf near you any time soon! [Dollar Tree, anyone?!]
Happy Black Weekend, and here's hoping that whatever bleak things you are holding in your heart will be washed away with the joy of the holiday season now underway. I will leave you with one of my favorite verses from the Word of the Lord and Saviour I celebrate in the Holy Season of Christmas: " The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace." Numbers 6:24-26. NIV
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Happy birthday, Mother of all Mothers....
Do you remember a few years ago, when the phrase, "Mother of all [fill in the blank with your own grandiose phrase,]" was so popular? We had the Mother of all wars. We had the Mother of all battles. We had the Mother of all bombs. Personally, speaking on behalf of mothers everywhere, I resent the association of motherhood with violence and destruction, since most of us spend our lives trying to achieve the opposite, at least within our own homes. However, today I find I must resurrect the phrase on behalf of my own mother, who is the Mother of all Mothers.
Today is her birthday, and I am celebrating with her, albeit from 425 miles away, the anniversary of the day that she graced the world with her presence. I don't know how you feel about your mom, but I love mine more than I can express, and I celebrate this day with great joy, because my mom is the best mom on earth.
Of course, as the offspring of child number five in her family of six, I have also had the opportunity to hear a few humorous stories that knock her right off that pedestal my brother has her on. [He always was her favorite, the suck up.]
My mother's family lived a relatively poor farming life, as most of the population did back in the days of The Great Depression, and they learned to make do or do without. They didn't starve, but they didn't have much spare change, either, so they were not awash in useless gewgaws like children today.
My mother learned to share from her earliest days, because she and her younger sister, child number six, were only 18 months apart. They shared a bed, they shared their toys, they shared their clothes, and they shared their friends. They even shared the family looks, as people have often mixed them up over the years.
My particular favorite sharing story is that they each had one "good" dress, which they would trade off wearing, so they would both feel like they had two. Given the closet full of clothes that most teenagers have now, it is hard to imagine only having two good dresses to wear. But I suspect they were happier to have their one apiece than most girls today are to have all their finery.
Another shared item that has given me some amusement over the years are the shared roller skates. They had one pair of skates between them, so they would either have to go one at a time, or, as I have heard it told, they would each wear one, hold hands, and skate together. I have a feeling that is why my aunt can always finish my mother's thoughts, even when Mom hasn't said a word.
My mom and my aunt also shared that most precious of toys in a little girl's world, a baby doll. When I was growing up, I got a doll almost every Christmas, which must have seemed like an embarrassment of riches to someone who only had half a doll to her name for a whole childhood.
Although money was tight, she made me a whole wardrobe of clothes for my dolls; little knitted Barbie dresses and ski outfits and long gowns with hand stitching, and baby doll capes and blouses and little skirts with adorable suspenders. The poverty of her youth inspired the creativity of her adulthood, and I was the fortunate recipient of her largess.
I didn't fully appreciate any of it at the time, of course, but I now cherish and hold every piece dear to my heart. Every stitch was filled with the love of giving her daughter something she never had, and I feel her love for me just holding the pieces in my hand. They are heirlooms to me, something that I will look forward to passing down to my grandchildren someday. I hope they will be a tangible reminder of the wealth of love that is to be found within their family circle, even if the woman who made them is no longer here to enjoy their delight.
My mom is perhaps the quietest of her siblings, some of whom are pretty chatty. Even now, in their 80's and 90's, I will occasionally see frustration written on her face as she tries to get a word in edgewise, usually without much success. I have been told by several aunts and uncles that my mom was daddy's girl, her father's favorite, and that she used to sit in his lap after supper almost every evening. I suspect that her talkative father appreciated the child who never had anything to say, and she was rewarded for always letting him have the last word with his special favor.
My mother was, and still is, a beautiful woman. It is sort of disconcerting to see pictures of her when she was young, and realize just how striking she was. Her black hair and red lipstick always remind me of a hard scrabble Snow White, a farm house for her castle, and a farmer her Prince Charming. She didn't have the money to dress to the height of fashion, but she always made whatever she wore look stylish and fashionable, just by putting it on.
My mother put the capital T in thrifty, and she worked hard to instill that same quality in her children. Apparently my brother was a better student, which might have something to do with that whole favorite thing, although my recent crash course may make her proud of me, yet.
She saves pretty much everything worth saving, and a whole lot of stuff that most people wouldn't, just in case. After all, you never know what you are going to need until you need it. I am sure this proclivity is partly from growing up on a farm in rural America, where you did for yourself or you did without, and partly from being a child of The Great Depression, where everyone did without, and they never want to do so again.
I have giggled more than once over the years about walking into her kitchen and seeing plastic bread bags hanging over the faucet to dry. She has the world's largest collection of twist ties, and more paper clips than she will use in a lifetime. She has every single pen that has ever come into her possession, whether they work or not. Some of those pens are probably collector's items by now, come to think of it, so perhaps she was not so silly after all!
My mother was born many years before John F. Kennedy was assassinated, but for most people, this day, November 22, will forever be the day that the world stopped and mourned the death of an American president. But for me, this is one of the happiest days of the year, because it is the day to celebrate a woman without whom my life would not be.
Her lasting legacy to me will not be riches or fame or material goods. [Although there is a certain rocking chair that has my name on it, whenever she is ready to give it up.] Instead, she will leave me with the extravagant love of a mother who has walked hand in hand with me when I wanted to quit, knows my mistakes and loves me anyway, and who unfailingly supports me, encourages me, and believes in me, even when I have given up on myself. She has given me the road map to be the best mother I can be, a gift I hope I have passed on to my children, as well.
Happy birthday, Mom of moms. You are, and will always be, the Mother of all mothers. I am thankful to call you my own, and I wish you many more to come. <3
Today is her birthday, and I am celebrating with her, albeit from 425 miles away, the anniversary of the day that she graced the world with her presence. I don't know how you feel about your mom, but I love mine more than I can express, and I celebrate this day with great joy, because my mom is the best mom on earth.
Of course, as the offspring of child number five in her family of six, I have also had the opportunity to hear a few humorous stories that knock her right off that pedestal my brother has her on. [He always was her favorite, the suck up.]
My mother's family lived a relatively poor farming life, as most of the population did back in the days of The Great Depression, and they learned to make do or do without. They didn't starve, but they didn't have much spare change, either, so they were not awash in useless gewgaws like children today.
My mother learned to share from her earliest days, because she and her younger sister, child number six, were only 18 months apart. They shared a bed, they shared their toys, they shared their clothes, and they shared their friends. They even shared the family looks, as people have often mixed them up over the years.
My particular favorite sharing story is that they each had one "good" dress, which they would trade off wearing, so they would both feel like they had two. Given the closet full of clothes that most teenagers have now, it is hard to imagine only having two good dresses to wear. But I suspect they were happier to have their one apiece than most girls today are to have all their finery.
Another shared item that has given me some amusement over the years are the shared roller skates. They had one pair of skates between them, so they would either have to go one at a time, or, as I have heard it told, they would each wear one, hold hands, and skate together. I have a feeling that is why my aunt can always finish my mother's thoughts, even when Mom hasn't said a word.
My mom and my aunt also shared that most precious of toys in a little girl's world, a baby doll. When I was growing up, I got a doll almost every Christmas, which must have seemed like an embarrassment of riches to someone who only had half a doll to her name for a whole childhood.
Although money was tight, she made me a whole wardrobe of clothes for my dolls; little knitted Barbie dresses and ski outfits and long gowns with hand stitching, and baby doll capes and blouses and little skirts with adorable suspenders. The poverty of her youth inspired the creativity of her adulthood, and I was the fortunate recipient of her largess.
I didn't fully appreciate any of it at the time, of course, but I now cherish and hold every piece dear to my heart. Every stitch was filled with the love of giving her daughter something she never had, and I feel her love for me just holding the pieces in my hand. They are heirlooms to me, something that I will look forward to passing down to my grandchildren someday. I hope they will be a tangible reminder of the wealth of love that is to be found within their family circle, even if the woman who made them is no longer here to enjoy their delight.
My mom is perhaps the quietest of her siblings, some of whom are pretty chatty. Even now, in their 80's and 90's, I will occasionally see frustration written on her face as she tries to get a word in edgewise, usually without much success. I have been told by several aunts and uncles that my mom was daddy's girl, her father's favorite, and that she used to sit in his lap after supper almost every evening. I suspect that her talkative father appreciated the child who never had anything to say, and she was rewarded for always letting him have the last word with his special favor.
My mother was, and still is, a beautiful woman. It is sort of disconcerting to see pictures of her when she was young, and realize just how striking she was. Her black hair and red lipstick always remind me of a hard scrabble Snow White, a farm house for her castle, and a farmer her Prince Charming. She didn't have the money to dress to the height of fashion, but she always made whatever she wore look stylish and fashionable, just by putting it on.
My mother put the capital T in thrifty, and she worked hard to instill that same quality in her children. Apparently my brother was a better student, which might have something to do with that whole favorite thing, although my recent crash course may make her proud of me, yet.
She saves pretty much everything worth saving, and a whole lot of stuff that most people wouldn't, just in case. After all, you never know what you are going to need until you need it. I am sure this proclivity is partly from growing up on a farm in rural America, where you did for yourself or you did without, and partly from being a child of The Great Depression, where everyone did without, and they never want to do so again.
I have giggled more than once over the years about walking into her kitchen and seeing plastic bread bags hanging over the faucet to dry. She has the world's largest collection of twist ties, and more paper clips than she will use in a lifetime. She has every single pen that has ever come into her possession, whether they work or not. Some of those pens are probably collector's items by now, come to think of it, so perhaps she was not so silly after all!
My mother was born many years before John F. Kennedy was assassinated, but for most people, this day, November 22, will forever be the day that the world stopped and mourned the death of an American president. But for me, this is one of the happiest days of the year, because it is the day to celebrate a woman without whom my life would not be.
Her lasting legacy to me will not be riches or fame or material goods. [Although there is a certain rocking chair that has my name on it, whenever she is ready to give it up.] Instead, she will leave me with the extravagant love of a mother who has walked hand in hand with me when I wanted to quit, knows my mistakes and loves me anyway, and who unfailingly supports me, encourages me, and believes in me, even when I have given up on myself. She has given me the road map to be the best mother I can be, a gift I hope I have passed on to my children, as well.
Happy birthday, Mom of moms. You are, and will always be, the Mother of all mothers. I am thankful to call you my own, and I wish you many more to come. <3
Saturday, November 21, 2009
If cleanliness is next to Godliness, I'm in big trouble....
I have come to believe, as I grow to maturity, that house cleaning is something that is less important to each generation. I find that rather ironic, since people with dirt floors presumably had a harder time keeping up with the cleaning than those of us with hardwoods and carpeting. But I can't lie - I wouldn't bet against the dirt floor being cleaner than my living room wall to wall.
It amuses me to hear my mother sigh occasionally, and lament that her mother was so much better of a housekeeper than she is. Naturally, my mother, a paragon of virtues if ever there was one, is a far more diligent housekeeper than I ever have been or could be. My recollection, from growing up with her, is that she spent her entire life cleaning and cooking, and had no fun whatsoever.
I suspect she would disagree with that characterization, since she occasionally remarks that she cannot keep up with the housework now, and she lives alone. Surely the house was messier than I remember it, back when I was young.
I know one thing for sure, I haven't got a chance of keeping up with two kids, a multitude of friends, two dogs, a cat and the messiest pets of all, a rabbit and a bird. You have to wonder if making a mess is their way of getting back at us for confining them to a lifetime of living in a cage.
In all fairness, I should probably mention that my own mother had to cope with two kids, a multitude of friends, two dogs in the house, a cat, and a bird. Um, ya, moving on....
Every so often, I get inspired to clean up the house, and I will go into a frenzy of efficiency, washing and vacuuming and dusting and sweeping, until we scarcely recognize the place. This is soon replaced by an exhausted me, laid out on the sofa, complaining bitterly about the futility of it all, and snacking on chocolate.
I have identified one major source of my problem to be my beloved, but rather neatness challenged, daughter. She has no real love of a clean house, and mess does not seem to disturb her, as long as it isn't in her own room, which she keeps immaculate. This miracle is primarily achieved by moving everything that would clutter up her room into some other room in the house, thereby foisting her disarray onto everyone else.
I can't argue with the success of her strategy - her room is, in fact, the neatest spot in the house by a long ways. On the other hand, it does create quite the challenge for the rest of us keeping things neat and put away when they are located everywhere other than where they belong.
It will be most interesting to see what happens next fall, when my lovely little girl will leave home and I will have the house all to myself. [And the aforementioned two dogs, cat, bird, and rabbit, of course.] I wonder, will I find myself with a neat space all the time? Will it be much easier to keep up with the cleaning, and the vacuuming, and the other housework that I currently find so abhorrent?
An amusing anecdote from my own past says perhaps it will be, just a little. When I went away to college, my own mother, a single mom since my father's death a few years earlier, lived alone for the first time in her life. She was sad, and missed me greatly [she did, she told me so,] especially during the first few months of adjustment.
Evidently, she even started to miss my mess. I know this, because she informed me, in one of the sweeter letters I've ever received, that she actually went to my room to get some of my things, then laid them around the house to remind her of me. That, my friends, is when you know you are truly loved.
I have a hard time imagining myself doing that - I have complained about the mess for approximately 17 years now. But perhaps, in another goofy twist of fate, I too, will find myself laying about little reminders of the life I once led and didn't adequately appreciate until it was over. You never know. Quite often the impossible becomes possible, with the right incentive. And loneliness is powerful incentive.
My grandmother, mother of six, farm wife, and obviously a hard worker, [and, I'm told, one of the sweetest people who ever walked the earth, although I never met her, since she died long before I was born,] kept her house and children in excellent order most of the time. But once a year, in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, she exceeded even her usual high standards. The harbinger of change was when she took down every curtain in the house right after Thanksgiving, a signal that it was time for the annual fall housecleaning.
Now, when I say cleaning, I mean just that - she Cleaned. She washed floors. She flipped mattresses. She washed the mop boards, washed the curtains, washed all the bedding and the tablecloths and everything else in the house that didn't move, along with quite a bit of it that did. By Christmas Eve, the house was spotless, spic and span down to the last doorknob and floor plank, and then she would reconstruct the house again in time for the festivities.
My mother has a particularly fond memory of her mother pulling a brand new tablecloth from the package, the final touch in refreshing their home for the sacred celebration. She remembers helping her mother with the cleaning and preparations, and also the fun of seeing everything put back into place, everything old and yet once again new, their home in readiness for the new year to come.
My mom made a valiant effort for many years to follow the same tradition, but somewhere along the line, she learned some short cuts. I do recollect, quite clearly, her stretcher frame set up in the dining room, with the freshly washed curtains stretched out on it to dry, so they wouldn't shrink. But I don't recall them being off the windows for a month, so I'm pretty sure they got replaced well before Christmas Eve.
Come to think of it, I haven't seen that stretcher frame in years.
My own Thanksgiving traditions have little to do with cleaning, although they do involve a massive effort on my part. After I get the turkey into the oven, I get my Christmas cards in the mail. [I set a rule for myself many years ago which has served me well - I will not allow myself to put up a single Christmas decoration until the cards have been mailed.] Once the cards are in the mail, and driving to the post office to throw them into the box on Thanksgiving Day is a cherished tradition in my family, I can heave a sigh of relief, and go home to decorate for the holiday season looming over me.
There is no time for cleaning, it is a race to the finish line as we all frantically throw our decorations in their traditional place, and then spend the rest of the month tearing around to open houses and office parties. We go on a spree of gift buying that determines whether most retail stores will end the year in the black or the red, and if they will survive for another year. Not to mention our own financial status, but we are not supposed to worry now about how we can pay for it all later, because shopping is the American Way to prosperity, even if it causes us to go bankrupt. I suspect my grandmother would have been most confused at our interpretation of what the Christmas holiday has become, with the hustle and bustle of materialism all but eclipsing the Savior whose birth we are ostensibly celebrating.
Instead of hysterical shopping on Black Friday, my grandmother engaged in her frenzy of cleaning. I have developed my own post-Thanksgiving cleaning traditions, which complement those of my mother and grandmother. [This is what I tell myself, to justify my own lack of preparedness for the holiday that comes around every 365 days like calendar work, but which still manages to take me by surprise every single time.]
I wait for my mother, who lives in Minnesota, to arrive for her annual two week visit, and then assign her the task of trying to get my filthy house clean enough to pass for holiday ready. I would posit that she needs to keep busy, or she gets bored, but of course, I don't think it would shock her to learn I simply don't have time to get it done in my hectic life.
I think it's safe to say, now that I am almost middle aged, that I do not keep the kind of house that my own mother did, to say nothing of my grandmother. I have other priorities, like working. [Of course, the nagging voice in my head reminds me that my mother also worked, and still managed to keep the house cleaner than I do. But I don't listen to little voices in my head, because that would make me crazy, right?]
I would love to have the time to tear my entire house apart and do a thorough cleaning, from floor to rafters. Instead, I shove my Swiffer WetJet around the kitchen floor in a frantic effort to pretend I really care, in between baking cookies and buying gifts, hoping that the memories we are making will count for more than a clean floor or washed walls. I wonder what Grandma would have thought of a Swiffer? I have a feeling she would have felt the same way I feel about spell check - it's nice to have, but it makes us lazy, and I don't think she would have approved.
I find myself pondering with interest what kind of housekeeper my daughter will be. Since the standards seem to fall with each generation, I fear my grandchildren will recognize hand sanitizer, but not know what a mop is. But then again, that would mean they would think my standards were impossibly high. It's all about perspective, and that is one I can live with.
Happy Thanksgiving!
It amuses me to hear my mother sigh occasionally, and lament that her mother was so much better of a housekeeper than she is. Naturally, my mother, a paragon of virtues if ever there was one, is a far more diligent housekeeper than I ever have been or could be. My recollection, from growing up with her, is that she spent her entire life cleaning and cooking, and had no fun whatsoever.
I suspect she would disagree with that characterization, since she occasionally remarks that she cannot keep up with the housework now, and she lives alone. Surely the house was messier than I remember it, back when I was young.
I know one thing for sure, I haven't got a chance of keeping up with two kids, a multitude of friends, two dogs, a cat and the messiest pets of all, a rabbit and a bird. You have to wonder if making a mess is their way of getting back at us for confining them to a lifetime of living in a cage.
In all fairness, I should probably mention that my own mother had to cope with two kids, a multitude of friends, two dogs in the house, a cat, and a bird. Um, ya, moving on....
Every so often, I get inspired to clean up the house, and I will go into a frenzy of efficiency, washing and vacuuming and dusting and sweeping, until we scarcely recognize the place. This is soon replaced by an exhausted me, laid out on the sofa, complaining bitterly about the futility of it all, and snacking on chocolate.
I have identified one major source of my problem to be my beloved, but rather neatness challenged, daughter. She has no real love of a clean house, and mess does not seem to disturb her, as long as it isn't in her own room, which she keeps immaculate. This miracle is primarily achieved by moving everything that would clutter up her room into some other room in the house, thereby foisting her disarray onto everyone else.
I can't argue with the success of her strategy - her room is, in fact, the neatest spot in the house by a long ways. On the other hand, it does create quite the challenge for the rest of us keeping things neat and put away when they are located everywhere other than where they belong.
It will be most interesting to see what happens next fall, when my lovely little girl will leave home and I will have the house all to myself. [And the aforementioned two dogs, cat, bird, and rabbit, of course.] I wonder, will I find myself with a neat space all the time? Will it be much easier to keep up with the cleaning, and the vacuuming, and the other housework that I currently find so abhorrent?
An amusing anecdote from my own past says perhaps it will be, just a little. When I went away to college, my own mother, a single mom since my father's death a few years earlier, lived alone for the first time in her life. She was sad, and missed me greatly [she did, she told me so,] especially during the first few months of adjustment.
Evidently, she even started to miss my mess. I know this, because she informed me, in one of the sweeter letters I've ever received, that she actually went to my room to get some of my things, then laid them around the house to remind her of me. That, my friends, is when you know you are truly loved.
I have a hard time imagining myself doing that - I have complained about the mess for approximately 17 years now. But perhaps, in another goofy twist of fate, I too, will find myself laying about little reminders of the life I once led and didn't adequately appreciate until it was over. You never know. Quite often the impossible becomes possible, with the right incentive. And loneliness is powerful incentive.
My grandmother, mother of six, farm wife, and obviously a hard worker, [and, I'm told, one of the sweetest people who ever walked the earth, although I never met her, since she died long before I was born,] kept her house and children in excellent order most of the time. But once a year, in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, she exceeded even her usual high standards. The harbinger of change was when she took down every curtain in the house right after Thanksgiving, a signal that it was time for the annual fall housecleaning.
Now, when I say cleaning, I mean just that - she Cleaned. She washed floors. She flipped mattresses. She washed the mop boards, washed the curtains, washed all the bedding and the tablecloths and everything else in the house that didn't move, along with quite a bit of it that did. By Christmas Eve, the house was spotless, spic and span down to the last doorknob and floor plank, and then she would reconstruct the house again in time for the festivities.
My mother has a particularly fond memory of her mother pulling a brand new tablecloth from the package, the final touch in refreshing their home for the sacred celebration. She remembers helping her mother with the cleaning and preparations, and also the fun of seeing everything put back into place, everything old and yet once again new, their home in readiness for the new year to come.
My mom made a valiant effort for many years to follow the same tradition, but somewhere along the line, she learned some short cuts. I do recollect, quite clearly, her stretcher frame set up in the dining room, with the freshly washed curtains stretched out on it to dry, so they wouldn't shrink. But I don't recall them being off the windows for a month, so I'm pretty sure they got replaced well before Christmas Eve.
Come to think of it, I haven't seen that stretcher frame in years.
My own Thanksgiving traditions have little to do with cleaning, although they do involve a massive effort on my part. After I get the turkey into the oven, I get my Christmas cards in the mail. [I set a rule for myself many years ago which has served me well - I will not allow myself to put up a single Christmas decoration until the cards have been mailed.] Once the cards are in the mail, and driving to the post office to throw them into the box on Thanksgiving Day is a cherished tradition in my family, I can heave a sigh of relief, and go home to decorate for the holiday season looming over me.
There is no time for cleaning, it is a race to the finish line as we all frantically throw our decorations in their traditional place, and then spend the rest of the month tearing around to open houses and office parties. We go on a spree of gift buying that determines whether most retail stores will end the year in the black or the red, and if they will survive for another year. Not to mention our own financial status, but we are not supposed to worry now about how we can pay for it all later, because shopping is the American Way to prosperity, even if it causes us to go bankrupt. I suspect my grandmother would have been most confused at our interpretation of what the Christmas holiday has become, with the hustle and bustle of materialism all but eclipsing the Savior whose birth we are ostensibly celebrating.
Instead of hysterical shopping on Black Friday, my grandmother engaged in her frenzy of cleaning. I have developed my own post-Thanksgiving cleaning traditions, which complement those of my mother and grandmother. [This is what I tell myself, to justify my own lack of preparedness for the holiday that comes around every 365 days like calendar work, but which still manages to take me by surprise every single time.]
I wait for my mother, who lives in Minnesota, to arrive for her annual two week visit, and then assign her the task of trying to get my filthy house clean enough to pass for holiday ready. I would posit that she needs to keep busy, or she gets bored, but of course, I don't think it would shock her to learn I simply don't have time to get it done in my hectic life.
I think it's safe to say, now that I am almost middle aged, that I do not keep the kind of house that my own mother did, to say nothing of my grandmother. I have other priorities, like working. [Of course, the nagging voice in my head reminds me that my mother also worked, and still managed to keep the house cleaner than I do. But I don't listen to little voices in my head, because that would make me crazy, right?]
I would love to have the time to tear my entire house apart and do a thorough cleaning, from floor to rafters. Instead, I shove my Swiffer WetJet around the kitchen floor in a frantic effort to pretend I really care, in between baking cookies and buying gifts, hoping that the memories we are making will count for more than a clean floor or washed walls. I wonder what Grandma would have thought of a Swiffer? I have a feeling she would have felt the same way I feel about spell check - it's nice to have, but it makes us lazy, and I don't think she would have approved.
I find myself pondering with interest what kind of housekeeper my daughter will be. Since the standards seem to fall with each generation, I fear my grandchildren will recognize hand sanitizer, but not know what a mop is. But then again, that would mean they would think my standards were impossibly high. It's all about perspective, and that is one I can live with.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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