(ring)
Hey, how are you?
Eh, we’re all sick, mom. Maya had it, then I got it Friday, and it’s almost gone. Now it’s Gavin’s turn.
So, I’ve got an off-the-wall-question for you. How old was I when I started taking ballet?
Oh, I think you were about four. It was after we moved to Corpus Christi.

I don’t WANT to go to ballet!
You can’t just quit whenever you decide you don’t like something.
But I don’t LIIIIIKE it!
Life is full of things you won’t like.

How long did I take lessons?
Oh, a year at least.
And whose idea was it for me to take lessons?
It was my idea.

Please, don’t make me go. I don’t like the game running around playing like squirrels hiding their nuts in the Fall. It’s stupid.
Sigh. You really shouldn’t just be a quitter like that, but okay.

And when we took piano lessons, whose idea was that?
I think that was my idea too — at least for the first year. After that, it was up to you guys.
Okay, thanks — I’m at Maya’s school now; gotta run.

The answer was as simple as a phone call.

Ballet, piano lessons (which I took for several years before leaving), numerous activities that I *didn’t* pursue because of the attitude of, “oh, you’d just quit them anyway.” Other things I dabbled in and quit later (despite my insistence that I’d continue): skydiving, choral music after college. Things that I continued out of sheer love of it: music, extracurricular reading for personality and psychology. Devotion toward my kids and dedication to helping them grow up emotionally healthy.

After that first experience with accepting the label of “someone who quits things,” everything I’ve done has been colored by the idea that I simply can’t — or even worse, can but *won’t* — follow through. I strained against this identity in my first two major relationships, which lasted long past their consume-by date, despite the stench (I’m looking at you, JD). In reaction, most of my relationships since then have seen me as the one who’s never been willing to commit. Even as a married gal, have my emotions really ever been “all in?” To my shame, probably not.

My brother, by contrast, finished *everything.* In a household full of Judger-types, this was a virtue. I freely admit that I enjoy the initiation of a project more than the completion of it (although hitting “submit” on an assignment does feel really damned good). If you take a look at the piles of research and outline notes I have for each and every late assignment that is stressing me out, that becomes blindingly obvious. There is a place for completion drive.

But what if when I was a child it was actually *I* who did the right thing? What if my brother played soccer, not because he liked it, but because he was expected to not QUIT? What if it was okay for me to move on from activities I disliked after giving them a fair trial?

I’ll never know what the reality was. Memories are notoriously inaccurate, and mine is no exception. But, even the idea that maybe — just maybe — things weren’t exactly as I thought gives me a freedom. I have the freedom to do what makes sense to me, without regard (fear, even) of a label.

Perspective is good. Now pardon me while I complete some work. You see, despite what I was told at the age of 5, I’m not a quitter.

****Edited to add:****

I should mention — this does *not* mean that I am staying in at Walden after this quarter. What it does do is give me some psychological space in which to burn through the assignments for which I’ve had massive mental blocks (even when I HAVE had time free from baby-love). It also means that I know I’ll return. And I can do so without feeling haunted by this idea that I’m destined to fail or otherwise fall flat on my face.

The other day, I was talking to my hiking partner about dating — she’s been married nine years and never really did the dating-as-an-adult thing. She lives vicariously through my experience and frequently comments how glad she is to NOT HAVE TO DO THIS. Can’t say I blame her.

Anyway, we were talking about the process by which a couple normally falls in love. There’s the early, fluttery passion — when each can’t get the other out of their mind. That, in theory, lasts long enough to develop the bonds of friendship and compassion — the parts that actually sustain a relationship over the long haul. This all makes perfect sense to me, and I said as much. Then, I added that I couldn’t remember the last time I was in that fluttery phase with someone. Read the rest of this entry »

A friend who knows me IRL blogged a happy birthday post for me, along with some (yikes!) photos of what I looked like at 18.

If only I hadn’t been trying so hard, I could have been really cute. In these three photos combined, I have on more makeup than I’d wear in a typical year now. (Most days I skip it altogether.) God love the South in the late 1980s.

Photo goodness (badness?) below the fold. Read the rest of this entry »

(no, not in the head)

When I first shared the news of my pregnancy with my parents, they were (as I’m sure you’d understand) pretty shocked. After a few weeks, the news had sunk in and became more real to them. They also (finally) started to believe me when I told them that I had absolutely no intentions whatsoever to marry. At one point, about six weeks after I broke the news, my father gave me a speech about how I owed it to the baby to give it up for adoption, because doesn’t a child deserve to have a mother AND a father?

I kept my shit together through the “conversation” — quotes, because anything I had to contribute to the discussion was, well, ignored — then bawled all of the way home. Why in the world was I staying in Colorado (before learning of pregnancy I was considering moving to Austin for grad school)? My family was supposed to be “the reason,” but if this is what I was facing, I’d be much better off living somewhere else, far away, where they weren’t ever-present to make an already-difficult situation that much tougher. I didn’t speak to my father for about a month, at which point, he apologized, and said that some friends from their former church in Louisiana had set him straight about what exactly it might be that I’d need as a single pregnant woman. Um…love, people.

Received yesterday in a newsletter:

It Only Takes a Spark

“Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts.
Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.
The tongue also is a fire…” James 3:5-6

Scripture warns us that the tongue is often a chief cause of conflict…Reckless words, spoken hastily and without thinking, inflame many conflicts. “Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing” (Prov. 12:18; cf. Prov 13:3; 17:28; 21:23; 29:20). Although we may seldom set out deliberately to hurt others with our words, sometimes we do not make much of an effort not to hurt others. We simply say whatever comes to mind without thinking about the consequences. In the process, we may hurt and offend others, which only aggravates conflict.

Taken from The Peacemaker: A Biblical Guide to Resolving Personal Conflict
by Ken Sande, Updated Edition (Grand Rapids, Baker Books, 2003) p. 121.

Food for Thought

Do your words heal or pierce? Not sure? Look at the people around you.

But first, let’s take a little stroll down memory lane for a moment. In the 70’s, many Christians were singing, “It only takes a spark, to get a fire going.” Remember that? And while that song was referring to the fire of God’s love, that phrase always brought to mind James’ warnings concerning the tongue. How about this one? “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Smokey the Bear’s deep-throated plea emphasized the incendiary potential of our personal irresponsibility.

Now, how about looking back at last month or last week? Was there any time when just one of your words could have been described as reckless? Or was there even one moment when you just said what you felt with an attitude of “I’m not responsible for how she interprets this, I’m just going to say it.” Does anything like that feel familiar? If so, if you look beyond the “memory lane” you’re strolling down, you may see a scorched landscape.

The culture in which we live seems to worship the reckless word; the popular people just call it being “snarky.” For some reason, we’ve equated reckless with being wide-eyed and grown-up. The reality is that reckless should be equated with near-sighted and immature. Our marriages, families, schools, churches and country are ablaze. Oh, of course, we really didn’t mean to set them on fire, but we really didn’t make the effort to not set them on fire, either. Memory without responsibility leaves us nostalgic and blind, with smoke in our eyes because our hearts are on fire. Remember, through the power of the Holy Spirit, only you can prevent those fires set by reckless words.

Received today, in an email from my father (along with this same newsletter):

This article really pierced my heart. Please hear me when I say how sorry I am for the things I said to you when you first told us you were pregnant. I only hope this is a lesson that I don’t have to learn again….God is good; but not easy. Love…..Dad

Even though I forgave dad long ago for this trauma, it still helps me to read this. My parents (dad especially) drive me batty from time to time, but never think that they’re not some of the best people around. I’m blessed to have them.

“I’m glad I didn’t have a girl. She wouldn’t get to leave the house until she’s 30!”

The Happy Feminist posted about this kind of comment, and she boils it down (mostly, anyway) to a father’s perception of a daughter as a sexual being — in this case, one that should be preserved and protected from *gasp* anything physical. (My words, not hers…read the full post for her perspective.)

The comments on this are fascinating, and I’m impressed with the caliber of folks having a discussion without getting nasty toward each other. Buried down in the comments, the conversation turns to date rape, and how gender roles/attitudes may give boys the wrong idea about pushing for sex. One commenter suggests being direct about it:

How about just talking with your sons about rape. “Son, real sex is when two people want to be physical with each other. If one of the people doesn’t *want* to, then it’s not real sex and it’s probably rape. If she consents, but she doesn’t *want* it, she’s just okay with letting it happen it to her, that’s not what sex is supposed to be about either. It’s supposed to be about mutual desire.”

(emphasis added)

You know, I’ve come to terms with what happened nearly 2-1/2 years ago…yet I haven’t. Long ago, my counselor explained to me (after a lengthy discussion) that while what I experienced wasn’t *technically* rape, it emotionally could take the same toll. I’ve struggled with wanting to believe that, but then often still feeling like it was All. My. Fault.

Without a doubt, I could have made better choices that night. Does that mean that the guy is vindicated? No, it doesn’t. I know this intellectually, but there’s still a big part of me that heaved a sigh of relief to see someone else write those words in bold above.

Just thinking…

Added:
Another comment paints a pretty clear picture of how grey this subject can be. This sounds so familiar to me…SO familiar.

A very personal comment on “pressuring”: I was dating a guy in college who came to visit me over the summer at my parents. He *really* wanted to have sex after having made the drive to visit. (My parents are very anti-premarital sex and were adamant that such things not happen in their house.) We were watching a movie after everyone else had gone to bed and he suggested sex. I said no because I wasn’t really interested, I was extremely aware of how opposed my parents were, and the room where we were watching TV isn’t exactly private. He persisted. I said no again. He’d leave the topic alone for fifteen minutes, then start rubbing and kissing my neck. I gave up trying to pull away and this went on. After TWO HOURS of this “please, I really want to,” “no, I’m not comfortable” rountine, I’d had enough and gave in because I was sick of fighting about it, it would last five minutes, and then I’d get left alone for the weekend.

Did I say yes? Yep. Did I really want to have sex? No. I wouldn’t call it criminal or sexual assault, but I’m typing this and still angry. Angry because I didn’t stand up for myself and angry at him for thinking this was an acceptable way to behave. That’s what’s wrong with pressuring. I don’t need a legalistic definition to tell you how wrong that night was.

And I guarantee you, there are thousands of women like me, who’ve said yes because they were sick of talking about why not.

(raising my hand) I didn’t even ever say yes…but I did finally stop saying no.

The comments thread continues in this vein — about whose responsibility it is to stop rape, and whether it’s okay or not for a guy (sometimes a girl, but usually a guy) to pressure a girl into sex. One commenter made the argument that it’s up to the female to say no, and that it’s inate for the male to push for sex. I mean really, heaven forbid that a guy should tame his base urges, right? BLECH.

The blog owner made an argument that there’s a difference between pressure and seduction. I especially appreciated this line:

Young men should be brought up not to think in terms of “what works” but to think in terms of sex as something that should be always be a totally consensual and mutually rewarding act.”

Amen, sister.

Today I learned something. If you enter an email address along with your comments for a blog that uses Haloscan, your email address is displayed. Most comment systems I’ve seen ask you to enter your email, but it’s only visible to the site owner. I’d neglected to notice that Haloscan differs.

I learned this because I got quite the interesting email — directly to my account — today from someone who visited here from another site where I’d commented. Considering that this email’s remarks directly addressed a specific post, who knows why this person didn’t just leave a comment…

Stripping out any identifying info, here it is:

From: (woman’s name)
Date: Jul 17, 2005 6:43 PM
Subject: Curious
To: (me)

I found your blog from the (site) comments. I wonder if there were reasons besides his small penis that you decided not to try to establish a relationship with your daughter’s father. Do you reckon the penis size was a deal breaker? What will you tell your daughter about her father? (God, please! don’t tell her the real reason.)

I wonder because I was a bit shocked the first time I saw my husband’s penis which is kind of small–at least by what I’d seen before and magazine pictures. But it turned out he was a great lover, the best sex I ever had is with my husband despite his size.

I wonder too what difficulty your daughter might have with only you as a parent. Girls especially need men around for establishing good relationship with other men.

Maybe when she grows up she will try to find her biological father like some adopted children do. Would you help her do that if she showed interest and desire to do so?

Maybe this guy was a creep and it was not just his penis size. I was just wondering.

Best Wishes
(first name)

Note that of the LONG post about my daughter’s bio dad, the comment about his, um…size…was one sentence. And written with humor. Running with the assumption that this woman really is who she says, I’m pleased for her that she enjoys her husband. Really, I am. But…

A few possibilities:

1. This really is a woman who really is married to a talented, but underendowed man. She really is genuinely concerned about my daughter’s well-being.
2. This really is a woman who’s married to the underendowed man, but she subconsciously hates it, so is hyper-sensitive to any penis-size comment.
3. This is a troll. Then again, if it were, I’d almost expect a troll to WANT to post a comment here, just to stir up some excitement. To this thought, the yahoo profile shows as “updated 7/16/2005, but contains no information whatsoever — it’s clearly a newly created email address.
4. This is an underendowed man, and he’s standing up for his brothers.

I could go on. Maybe I will later, but for now, I’m too busy snickering at the mental image of my sitting with a six-year-old daughter on my knee, gently explaining to her any of the following:

“Darling, you must understand. I was so relieved when the ultrasound showed that you were a girl, so you wouldn’t inherit your father’s…affliction.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry that you don’t know your father, but he has a small penis, so is an evil person. I couldn’t expose you to that.”

My reply to her question:

Not that it’s really any of your concern — but my issue with the biological donor to my daughter’s DNA had more to do with his inability/unwillingness to listen to the word “no.” By the time I learned I was pregnant, I had no way to contact him; he was someone I *met* on NYE, not a date. Surely, in that context, you can understand why I was upset about the not-listening-to-no part.

For the record? He was a great kisser. I mean, it got as far as it did for a reason. Even though I didn’t want/plan to sleep with the guy, I didn’t shut him down as harshly or clearly as I should have because…well…I wanted to keep *kissing* him.

Rereading her letter and my response, I realize that I neglected to answer one question. Of course, I’d help my daughter to find her biological father. Over the past several months, I’ve entertained the idea of doing some detective work myself, simply so I’ll have something for her to start with when/if that day arrives.

I fully realize that by posting personal details on a blog, that I open myself up to others’ opinions. Can’t they just form opinions based on what’s written, though, instead of on their own assumptions? I honestly don’t mind being judged — if that judgement is based on fact. All too often, though, it’s not.

The author’s comments about my daughter’s emotional well-being are a whole other topic for some other day.

As I state in my 100 Things list, my daughter’s biological father isn’t involved in our lives in any way, shape, or form. Here’s part of that story:

December 31, 2003: New Years Eve 2004

I join my cousin and her bf at a local restaurant/live music venue. Lord knows, we’ve spent years going to this place, and it’s one I enjoy for a few reasons:

1. Never a cover charge.
2. Great food.
3. Decent live music that’s usually “danceable.”

This night, the offering was a five-course meal plus champagne at midnight — all for $50. Not too shabby for NYE!

I arrived a little earlier than my party, so I did what I do well…met people. At the bar, I met a pair of men (who, as it turned out, didn’t even know each other) who were great company. One, in particular, interested me. There was something about him that looked smart (sometimes, looks are *just* looks). Black turtleneck cableknit sweater…Lucky jeans…dark hair, gorgeous smile, glasses…he even smelled good. Even after my party arrived, we chatted off and on through the rest of the evening. I was definitely interested. Let’s call this guy “LD” (for reasons to be explained later).

Close to midnight, my friends and I left the restaurant to head outside to watch the fireworks viewable from the block party downtown. LD joined us. At some point, we kissed. Yum. Very nice. Too quickly, midnight arrived, and it was time to head back to my cousin’s house for a small after-party — very small, just she, her bf, and me. I invited LD to join us if he wanted, so we could talk more. And, I have to admit, more kissing sounded good too.

That’s all I had in mind. Really, I swear.

At my cousin’s house, the four of us goofed off for a while and enjoyed another drink. I can honestly say that I never crossed beyond “buzzed” into “drunk” (trust me, I’ve been there before…this wasn’t one of those times).

My cousin and her bf headed to bed. LD and I sat in front of the fireplace, talking and kissing. Within a few minutes, he started to get fairly grabby, enough so that as he tried to slip a hand up to my breasts, I shoved back (hard enough that my elbow met the glass of the fireplace, and I had a burn to show for it). “No,” I said. After a few more minutes, he pushed again.

That set the pattern for the rest of the night. I wanted the kissing, but not more. My “no” was consistently met with a push for more. Honestly, I should have cut things cold off…but I didn’t. I enjoyed the kissing…and that would have meant stopping THAT. Things progressed, and I allowed my own boundaries to be pushed…and pushed again…and pushed again. “No” ceased to have meaning, and eventually, I just stopped saying it.

It was over before I even realized it had started. Seriously, this was a “you did WHAT?!?” kind of moment. As the joke goes:

Woman: Are you in yet?
Man: Unnnnngh.
Woman: What do you MEAN you’re done?

Suffice it to say, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a smaller penis in my life, hence, the name LD (little dick, as a friend of mine christened him).

I was astonished. Things weren’t supposed to go THIS far. For crying out loud (for the love of god, even – LOL), I wasn’t on the PILL. I don’t remember now what I said to him, but I was pissed. I cleaned up as I could, and went to sleep rolled away from him.

I’ve had “oops” moments before — in a relationship, thanks — but never before have I felt this immediate panic of “oh. my. god. I MUST get the morning after pill. NOW.” as I did on New Years Day 2004. Let’s not even talk about the worries of STDs and AIDS — which, thank god were not a problem. Since pharmacies were closed on January 1, on January 2, I purchased three packages of birth control pills, and with knowledge gained from the Internet, I took enough pills (10, then 10 more 12 hours later) to act as the morning after pill…same hormone content.

LD called me over the next couple days wanting to go out. HUH? I was astonished that he clearly had no idea what he’d done. (And obviously, I wasn’t clear in telling him.) I told him that I just didn’t see anything working with him, and that no…I didn’t want to do “dinner and a movie.” He said something about my being a bad judge of character to make up my mind so fast about him (uh, ya think?), but to his credit, he didn’t hound me.

From then on, I downplayed what happened on NYE, even to myself. If I’d “handled” it, it didn’t happen, right? No one knew what had happened. I’d made a joke to my friend who named him about fooling around “but nothing more than that.” If I didn’t admit what happened, it didn’t happen. As the next weeks followed, I believed my own stories.

Then there was the wakeup call…January 21, I learned I was pregnant.

Again, I say…my daughter wanted to be here. She fought against the odds to make it, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Someday, though, I’ll have to decide what to tell her about her father.

That’s the simple version of a story that was actually a lot more complicated (aren’t they always?). As time goes on, I may choose to share more.