No cowboys to be found

(I might put some of you in a snit over this one.)

I was looking for a song on YouTube earlier, and had to sit through a stupid advertisement in order to get to the video I'd been seeking. The ad was for the razor/shaver/shave cream-producing company, Gillette. It seemed harmless at first, featuring a well-groomed fellow in a casual suit, chatting with beautiful models around what appeared to be a swimming pool party. He would question one lovely about what sort of fellow she preferred, and all the answers had something to do with the chickie-babe's body hair preference. "No back hair, just a bit on the chest, and there's nothing weird about a guy who's absolutely hairless..." You get the picture. The ad finished with close-up shots of a man's chest, being shaved clean of all hair, and then it flashed one last time to Mr. Groomed Interviewer—who made a smug comment that clearly implied how a hairless dude was sure to score with these gorgeous gals who shun body fuzz.

Okay, if divers and swimmers and male dancers want to shave all the hair, go for it. Your body, your choice. (Except, wow, I'll bet those parts itch when they start to re-sprout...) But honestly, isn't it bad enough that we pressure women to shave everywhere? To be smooth, thus more attractive and sexy? Now America is trying to brainwash its young men that overpowering cologne and aftershave will no longer suffice, and he must also shave his naturally occurring body hair? Really?!

It made me ill, then mad. Then I began to consider how our culture embraces unmanly men. The metrosexual, if you will. I know that term is outdated, but it doesn't really matter what we call them, does it? They're seriously short on masculinity. They might be the guys who spend too much time getting ready, who fear the outdoors, who think that manual labor ends with trimming the perfectly manicured grass or spreading bags of mulch. I saw some men's clothing ads in magazines recently, and the "men" on those pages were painfully skinny, harmless-looking guys with highlighted hair, wearing pastel shorts and un-scuffed, spotless bucks. They looked like fellows who'd prefer shiny cars and restaurant meals, who'd eschew sweating unless it's performed in the proper place (a crowded gym or club, of course). Where are the man's men? Where are the cowboys?

I know, the cowboy is a bit romanticized. There were probably times when he stunk and had dirty underwear; it's unlikely that he knew how to hold a goblet correctly, or the best way to consume oysters on the half shell. Some of them were possibly rough characters who lacked nobility and thought women were servants. But seriously, which one would you rather have in an emergency? Whom would you call if you heard a noise in the night? The gun-toting steak lover who fell asleep on the couch in his stained T-shirt, or the pretty boy sporting silk pajamas and a pedi?

I fear this is part of the downfall of America—not just the falling away from God, the epidemic of fatherlessness, the dissolving traditional family unit, but also the absence of real men in general. Men who encourage risk-taking and even a bit of foolishness. Those men started charcoal grills with gasoline, gave their children pen knives with which to forage and explore, and forced the kids to mow the yard before age 16 instead of keeping things safe and moving to a townhouse. I'm not saying I embrace the stone ages, that I'd give up my education and my freedoms and my vote in elections; those are invaluable rights that I deserve as an American, let alone a woman. But God made boys and girls different. Making girls more powerful and men more feminine won't change human nature, and it's doing a serious disservice to our country.

I see it especially with children. Kids need a balance; they need to have a parent who teaches them caution, and tidiness, and the finer points of navigating the feelings of others...yet they also need a parent who encourages them to build a bike ramp or clubhouse, collect bugs that might sting or bite them, or wrestle it out in a spacious area. We all need balance. While our youthful characters are developing, we need for both those types to be present in our lives, so we know not just how to walk away from trouble but also how to make a proper fist and not end up with a broken thumb. When all the parental figures begin to look like the fussy, safe ones? Then we're in serious trouble.

This isn't meant to be a statement on men who shave everything, nor on people living in townhomes. I'm not condoning gasoline as a safe fire starter. But I do see a connection between commercials that encourage men to shave so women will like them, and the dwindling numbers of old-fashioned men in our culture. To my way of thinking, we could use more straight-talking, straight-shooting cowboys these days.

Kisses are Y-U-K-E

Wow, last weekend turned into a sickly one. Come to think of it, this entire late winter season has been sickly. And, in turn, it's been really expensive, since our "for-the-purpose-of-staving-off-medical-emergency-related-bankruptcy" crap plan isn't covering much. Thanks, Highmark. You healthcare people make me want to start smoking and gain plenty of weight, so I can push my prediabetes over the edge and become disabled like everyone else.

Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.

So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.

But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.

Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)

Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.

That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.

I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?

My favorite quote of all

I’m prone to jotting down what my kid says because, like all kids, he comes up with some real gems that are worth remembering. The funniest statements are always off the cuff. Now that he is beginning to understand the power of humor, he tries to make me laugh with vaudevillian efforts—but honestly, while his performances are ludicrous, they’re almost never as amusing as his spontaneous silliness.

But back to the quotes: I’ve recorded some of the recent goodies here, along with what I hope is enough background information for the comment to make sense.



One day as we sat at the table, post-meal, I was singing and decided to show Marcus how you could feel your vocal cords rising gradually as your voice rose in pitch. He watched my throat, and I coerced him into placing his fingers on my neck so he could feel the progression upward, which he found fascinating. Then his dad entered the room, hence this quote: “Hey Dad, wanna feel my vocal cords?”

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We have a shoe tray by the front door, to capture wet, messy shoes and boots (I have yet to put it away for summer). Because my husband has the biggest feet, his shoes tend to take up more than his allotted share of space on the tray. More than once, I’ve commented how Daddy leaves every pair of shoes he owns stacked on that tray, crowding the other family members completely out. One day after I’d dramatically removed Daddy’s shoes from the bin into his closet, Marcus realized that at that moment, he held the majority of pairs placed on the bin. His proud, vociferous exclamation? “Guess who’s crowding the shoe tray now!”

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Marcus loves to build little towns and neighborhoods, be they zoo- or fire station-centered, or mired by road construction. Inevitably, he’ll get the whole thing perfectly arranged, and then either the cat or one of us big, clumsy oafs (a.k.a. adults) will put something askew as we attempt to walk through the room (how dare we). On this occasion, his dad was the instigator, stepping over a bunch of Duplo buildings and causing a couple to be tipped over. The boy’s indignant comment? “Dad, you’re messing up the neighborhood.”

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At our most recent restaurant visit, the establishment kept a steady groove of very danceable songs pumping through the sound system. As he polished off a kid-sized pizza, the boy boogied in his booth seat; several other children were doing the same around us. When we finished our meal and exited the restaurant, a light rain was sprinkling. My boy sashayed out the door and, noting the weather development, sang out jauntily, “I can even dance in the rain!”

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Often, I blow off steam about things to Todd. One recent rant was based on upcoming church developments, which are heavy on change and even heavier on member involvement at every level. I was blabbing about how the minute a group becomes organized, it assumes the organized group mentality—which means that people become, among other things, either “doers” or “pretty people.” On and on I went to Todd, explaining (in my best the-boy-is-listening-and-may-repeat-what-I-say code) that the doers are the ones who step up and take care of everything, and when folks attempt to convict the beautiful people to get more involved and contribute, they totally miss the message. Or they get the message, and then beat a quick retreat to an exit in order to find another place that appreciates their beauty without expectation. (My friend had a similar concept about workplaces, only she named the players worker bees and delicate geniuses… Yup.) SO, the boy was listening to me going on in my roundabout way, and he interrupted to say, “Mama, what are you talking about?”

I said, “Oh, Honey, I’m talking about how some people do things, and some people get the privilege of just sitting around looking pretty.”

And my quick-witted boy? He replied, “Oh, the pretty people who don’t do anything?”

Yes, those would be the ones.

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We were brushing the kid’s teeth. He’d been especially demonstrative that evening, I’m not sure why, and had hugged me several times and proclaimed his fondness aloud. As I supervised his brushing, he removed the brush from his mouth, looked me in the eye, and said sincerely, “I love you so much, I think about you even when I’m…” He paused, to measure his words. “When I’m—not in this house.” It was one of the sweetest moments of my life to date.

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I’ll let you decide which of all these quotes is my favorite.

A little story about Sue

Sometimes, in my day-to-day life, I feel pretty isolated from the rest of the world. I feel out of touch. I wonder what everyone else [who isn’t home with a 4-year-old] is doing. I think of how hard it would be to suddenly find myself in an office setting again, or back in classes pursuing some end, feeling so rusty and old-fashioned and—well, mentally mushy. If it happens, I’ll deal with it. But I’m certainly not seeking it out, any of it. I know well enough when I’m out of my league.

And then I think of Sue.

I was a young upstart of a girl yet, a junior in college but an absolute twit in pretty much every way. I thought I knew everything, and also thought I should let everyone know exactly what I knew. (However, as is common, I resented those same characteristics in anyone else.) I was a secondary ed major, and as such, I found myself in several classes with a woman named Sue; she was also majoring in education, specializing in science.

Sue was no young girl. She was a single mom of 3 young kids. She had very short, choppy, home-dyed blonde hair, thick glasses, she was slightly heavy-set, she was unfashionable, she talked too fast and too much… and she was a tutor in the on-campus office where I also worked. I saw her regularly at work. I met her kids more than once (she occasionally had to drag the slightly scruffy crew to the office with her), I heard her stories about her no-account ex-husband and how he’d abandoned them… Several times, I was subjected to various stories about how she’d tried to make ends meet when he left, no money for the gas bill, heating the house (and sometimes the family’s meals) with the kerosene heater that sat in the living room, scraping together some clothes for the children to wear to school, etc.

And in classes? Yep, I saw her there too. I couldn’t escape. She’d be up front, talking to the prof well after class start time, hogging his attention. Sometimes I could tell that even the professors were a tad weary of her and her boundless enthusiasm. Because she was enthusiastic. Many of the students she tutored began sessions with a doubtful look, and emerged after several meetings with thanks, praise, and better grades. She could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of teaching, let alone hanging out in a lab all day. She was on fire. She really, really wanted to work, to learn, to teach others, to support herself and her family—she wanted to taste the firm, sweet success she’d been flirting with since getting her life on track.

At the end of my time at that office, Sue was graduating; after two years of watching her work her a** off, I held a grudging admiration and mild fondness for her. She’d done quite well, had multiple job offers from out of state. She never looked back; she pondered which job to take (aloud, to anyone who’d listen), she took a couple of road trips with the kids to try out the possible new locations, and then she snapped up a teaching position in Virginia and was happily planning to take her beloved children and start anew come August. I’m sure she did just that, although I didn’t hear the details; we didn’t keep in touch.

What I failed to fully appreciate then was that Sue was a survivor—and a mom. Now, being a mom myself, I begin to grasp the depth of the struggle that she dealt with every day. I try to imagine how hard it must have been to be strong not just for herself but for those kids while she cooked canned food over a kerosene heater, to pull herself up out of that miserable hole, to get enrolled, to find childcare when needed, to deal with a sick son or daughter when she had classes, to make ends meet. I’m pretty sure she had help in grants or such; I also believe she was taking loans in order to finish the program. Yet, she was determined, and bright, and indefatigable. She was going to make it. She was going to get herself and her family out of there and into the sun.

I wonder where she is today. I hope she is still in the sun. The kids would be mostly grown by now, and hopefully following in their mom’s (not dad’s) footsteps. I hope that if I’m ever in her shoes, I’ll be as upstanding an example of how to handle challenges and go on with head held high. I hope I’m as strong a mom for my son. I hope that my worst offense is taking too much of the professor’s time. The poor woman! I understand better now; she was just seeking approval. Encouragement. She only wanted someone to listen, to hear her thoughts, to appreciate the incredible effort she was making. To be validated. To be vindicated. I feel unseen and unheard sometimes, but I suspect my boo-hoo invisibility couldn’t hold a candle to Sue’s in her darkest days.

Here’s to you, Sue. You’re an inspiration, even now, almost 20 years later.

Pondering my potential comeback...or lack thereof

I apologize for my absence. Just in case you noticed I’ve been absent.

I’ve been turning over some heavy subjects, not the least of which concerns whether I will have to return to work sooner than planned. (And pretty much anytime is sooner than planned, since I had cherished the hope that I’d simply be adored and supported comfortably by my patrons for the rest of my life. Don’t laugh; you know you hope for that, too.)

Now, please don’t misread my statement. I am not in a complete panic about the possibility of returning to work. There’s a not-so-small part of me that would embrace an opportunity to work outside of the home again. To work for pay again. To work for recognition again. To work at something I’ve studied and practiced and feel somewhat competent while performing. To be acknowledged by the rest of the working world. No, those aspects or returning to work don’t sound too daunting. My concerns run much deeper than that.

I fear that all the time and effort I’ve invested in my son will be lost. Suppose my investment should fade, those memories we’ve made become lost. Suppose his wild boy instincts are nurtured aggressively by an alternative caregiver, and my sensitive little sweetheart who loves to read and make his stuffed animals talk suddenly becomes a rough-and-tumble bruiser who thinks I’m a sissy neatnik. I know that will likely happen anyway… But does it have to happen already? So soon? I gave up a lot for this kid—and now he probably won’t even remember the bulk of my commitment, if it is to end at this point.

I also shudder when I consider that perhaps, no one will want to hire me. Why should they? What have I to offer? A frumpy housewife who’s been out of the workforce for over 4 years… My work experiences of late are probably not so useful to a potential employer. Yeah, I know there are lots of people out there touting the returning-to-work SAHM and how much common sense and no-nonsense attitude she brings to the office, but honestly, most of the folks spouting that opinion are—you guessed it—other SAHMs who are trying to return to work outside the home. The minute they see I’m not on LinkedIn, they’ll toss my skimpy resume aside like last week’s Us magazine. (Although, in honesty, isn’t LinkedIn just a work version of Facebook? “Connections,” “friends,” whatever you want to call ‘em—it’s all sort of high schoolish to me.)

And the biggest fear of all? That if I somehow can overcome everything, market myself successfully, iron a shirt and wear lipstick for a change, slough off the old homemaker/mom dinginess, and be a valuable commodity again, that it won’t be enough. Because, you see, it won’t be just me pulling myself up by my bootstraps and hitting the street, will it? No sir, it’ll be me…and thousands of other people who live quite near to me. Of which possibly hundreds are qualified to do the same sort of work I am seeking.

So, you can see why I haven’t had much to say of late. I’ve been thinking way more than I’d like to. Sometimes, it really does stink to be a realist.

Maybe next time, I can write something light and funny about my boy. I hate to milk him for amusing anecdotes like that, but I’m just not seeing much else worthy of sharing right now.

Stay tuned. And thanks for checking in.

No good time for a malady

I was all prepared to write a rant of sorts about the overdone nature of the modern kid’s birthday. However. You’ve been spared said rant, because we’ve had to postpone our boy’s big birthday celebration. The day before the festivities, as preparations were in high gear, the child had the nerve to spike a fever out of the blue.

And it suddenly put everything in perspective. Nothing else in your life is good when someone you love—especially your child—isn’t well. Or, perhaps I should say that good things still abound, but you can’t savor them the way you’d like to, because you’re all wrapped up in the wellness issue.

I have some ladies in my life, and whenever I see them, I am reminded of this perspective lesson. These women face the daily battle of caring for and supporting a daughter who is ill. And we’re not just talking flu or virus here, people—we’re talking illnesses that require miracles to disappear.

In one case, the daughter is older, a woman in her own right…but still in tremendous need because of the health-related struggles she faces. Another daughter is college-aged, a child-woman. Yet another is a girl, nearly a teen in some ways but in many ways still very much a completely dependent little child. And the moms of these gals are pretty amazing. They inspire me and others around them—with their tirelessness, their determination, sometimes with their unending faith in God and his healing powers, and at other times in their sheer will to get through each situation. In every case, these ladies inspire me to just be thankful, to count blessings, to look back and focus on wonderful times instead of zeroing in on the far less numerous hard times. And it’s not just the moms who inspire; dads too, even entire families, are all team members in this unceasing mission to love a loved one.

So, we’ll celebrate the birthday a week later, assuming the boy is up to the challenge with no fever in sight. And through the second housecleaning, the second round of shopping, the flurry of guests and cake and wrapping paper that follow, I will thank God: I’ll try to remember to be grateful that this fever, already passing today, was just that: passing. It was not a part of everyday existence. It was something to get through in a couple of days, not a challenge to endure for months, years, perhaps a lifetime. It was a hiccup in the life of a healthy kid.

Which is pretty darned small, when you consider the alternatives.