Brave knows no gender

Not long ago Jen Hatmaker wrote a bog post entitled Brave Moms Raise Brave Kids, and my Facebook feed exploded with mothers saying that they wished they could do this with their sons.

I like Jen. And usually I agree with Jen. And kind of I agree with her here, too – we are those laid back parents. My kids totally use sharp knives and build. things with actual nails and hammers and power tools. They have (and use!) air rifles and I love it.

But here’s the thing y’all – I have daughters. Three of ‘em. And it is my daughters who live on this edge, doing stupid things like sliding down the stairs in a laundry basket.

This is not a ‘boy’ thing.

Why should it be? As Jen said, we are not precious people. I was never one to mind the place of a girl, with long silky hair and a pretty little dress, playing girly games. In the dirt I played, in the woods I hunted with my Dad, to the river I went with my Pap. I played in forts, collected broken glass, swam in muddy creeks and learned how to spit and hit and catch and run and do it all right along with the boys.

Brave isn’t a boy thing, and I bristle and resent the implication that it is.

Reading all of these friends’ thoughts about how boys should be raised made me bite my tongue. Hard.

When I was pregnant with Lilly, I can’t tell you how many people asked if we were finally getting a boy. Or how my husband felt about having three girls. Was he supposed to be disappointed? Are girls not as valuable? All men want sons?

As time passed, we came to resent the comments more and more. Each time we were asked if we would try again later for a boy, we grew more and more convicted that we didn’t want any stinking boys anyway, thankyouverymuch, our girls are pretty darn awesome. I once, in a very pregnant and hormonal state, snapped at a woman in Sam’s Club and asked how she dare to say such a thing in front of my young daughters, as if to tell them they are any less than a boy. She stared at me, dumbfounded, and finally spit out that men always want sons, whether they admit it or not.

Jerk.

I went to the car and sobbed.

Because the truth is, I did want a boy. And probably so did my husband.

Not instead of, mind you. Never once did we hope to have one gender or the other, and never once were we even a teeny tiny bit disappointed with what we saw on the ultrasound screen. Our girls are the greatest blessings of our lives, and we have never been anything but thankful for them.

But we tend to want it all, don’t we? And I wanted a boy, too. I wanted a boy because I know boy. The emotional girl stuff I see coming with my middle daughter terrifies me. I don’t know how to deal with girl stuff. Boy stuff I know. So actual boys or tomboys, I can do. Girls – real girls – this is scary, y’all.

We talked about adopting a boy. An older one of course – we aren’t baby people. We were selling our house in order to buy land and build a bigger house, and maybe then, after we were settled. Maybe in a few years. Maybe a toddler. But of course God laughed and so here we are, not selling, not building, not having a toddler but two baby boys.

And many people have told me that I will find boys are different. And I’m sure they are. But so are all three of my girls.

I hear things like ‘boys are physical – they climb and throw and dive off of things’ and I think of how Annabelle was walking at 7.5 months, climbing and sliding down poles in our basement when she was barely a year old, diving off the back of a recliner even younger than that. It’s easiest to smile and nod politely, I’ve found.

Ultimately what I want for my children – for all five of my children – really isn’t that different. And how I will parent them all probably won’t look that much different either.

I expect them all to be brave, boy and girl alike.

Everyone gets dirty around here.

I wish for them all to have broken bones and scars and stitches and various other non-life-threatening injuries sustained while doing something incredibly stupid and fun. I really, truly do. Because those dumb things I did when I was a kid, those scars I have to show for them – they are memories that I treasure. The busted knee playing baseball, the head cut open from a skateboarding accident, the multiple broken and sprained ankles playing basketball…I want my kids to have those, too.

I will pray for them every day. I will cry with them when they are hurt or sad or wronged, and I will always be on their side, macro. But I will also call them out when they are wrong, micro. I will make them handle their own problems, and deal with the fallout from their bad decisions.

I want them all to get caught when they inevitably do wrong. Getting caught leads to [sometimes painful] lessons learned. Getting away with it is where the real danger lies.

I’m kind of a tiger mom, so they won’t always like me. I won’t let them quit the team when it isn’t fun anymore, because we honor our commitments. I will not pull them out of a class with a mean teacher, because God put them there for a reason. We grow from bad experiences more often than good ones. And I won’t sugar coat it when I explain this to them, either.

I will be their mother and their best friend, and I know this is possible because I had it with my own parents. There was never any blurred line. I knew without a doubt that they were my parents, but I also knew even as a bratty teenager that no one would ever love me more than them, and I genuinely valued and respected them for that – not just as parents, but as friends. I knew I could go to them with anything and they would love me through it. Somehow, someway, I will do this for my children, too.

And when the ‘parenting’ years are behind me, I look forward to just being a friend. I have three really cool daughters and I’m excited to meet the adults they become. I will love my daughters with all of my being for all of my life, and I hope that we will always be as close as we are now, in a different way. I will do my best to bite my tongue when I am tempted to advise them as adults, so that maybe I will remain a good friend instead of a resented mother.

I do not want to have Momma’s boys. I will never, ever, EVER read to them ‘Love You Forever’, and I will never be the creepy freak climbing into my daughter-in-laws bedroom to rock her husband in the middle of the night. {Seriously people, do you ever really think about that book? It’s messed up.} I will love my sons with all of my being for all of my life, but if I do my job correctly, they will leave me. I want them to leave me. I want them to find a woman better than me, and love her more than me, and put her before me. And I will do my very best to butt the heck out of their lives so that maybe I will gain another daughter instead of a daughter-in-law.

I don’t have a ‘parenting philosophy’, but I do have these goals in mind. So far, we have had one broken bone, two sprains, two arms in slings, countless ER visits, two hospitalizations, a very dirty house, and three Christ-following children to show for it. Not too shabby.

Yes, brave mothers do raise brave kids – that we can agree on. But gender has nothing to do with it. I feel sorry for everyone who thinks that it does.

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An ugly truth

There are some subjects that am so passionate about that I can’t help but speak up and speak out.

Adoption.

The R-word.

The Pittsburgh Steelers.

{And in turn, the Ravens and Tom Brady, and, well, lots of other sports related stuff that really isn’t the point right now}

There are also things that I care so much about I can hardly dare to speak of them, because I know I can’t be trusted to keep my composure.

In our house we have a policy:

Think before you speak – Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

If it doesn’t meet these requirements, then it’s generally best left unsaid.

Sometimes I struggle with the kind and the necessary.

Subjective, aren’t they? And sometimes I find it necessary to forgo one when the others are needed so much more.

But finally I have decided that this is True and Necessary, and the kind, well…I won’t be killing anyone with kindness today.

And I am okay with that.

Because this?

This is big. Huge. About as big as it gets.

And pedophilia and child molestation are something I just can’t shut up about.

CNN reported that on the one year anniversary of his death Tuesday, Paterno supporters gathered around a mural depicting the former coach. A mural which used to have a halo above his head, but someone mustered a small shred of decency and had that painted over.

Sadly, he was not painted out entirely…or given horns instead of halo.

Did you know that there is a Facebook fan page called Support Joe Paterno? It’s a safe haven for over 22,000 Penn State football devotees to sing his praises and, apparently, point out who else is guilty and wait for an apology to the Paterno family.

I hope they die without it.

I saw this banner on ESPN last year and I cheered. Loudly.

My thoughts exactly.

And the day that very thing happened was a very good day.

Don’t tell me that he did his job.

The absurdity of that would be laughable if it weren’t so sick and sad.

His job.

As if, when it comes to the rape and sexual abuse of a child, the letter of the law is all that is required.

As if you wouldn’t feel differently if you were the one being forced against that shower wall.

As if you wouldn’t feel differently if it was your child who was crying in the shower as he was being raped.

Too graphic for you?

This is Truth.

An ugly truth.

And it is the truth that Joe Paterno chose to do – at best – the very least that he was legally required to do.

At worst? Well, in my book, he’s an accomplice.

Don’t bother telling me who else was involved. Believe me, I’ve done my research. There is a lot of blame to go around. A sickening number of guilty parties involved in the inaction/coverup of these heinous crimes. Paterno’s egregious breech of ethics and morals and basic human decency was not his and his alone, I am well aware.

But as I tell my children, pointing out someone else’s wrong doesn’t change your own behavior. The fact that Mike McQueary - and let me show his face here, because everyone should know what the ‘man’ who saw a pedophile in action, admittedly made eye contact with the young boy being attacked, and then walked away and did nothing to stop it…everyone should know what that kind of ‘man’ looks like. It should also be noted that ‘man’ in parenthesis is the kindest possible word I have to describe him. By a long shot. -

the fact that Mike McQueary saw a child being raped, made eye contact with him, and chose to walk away…

it’s unspeakable. Unfathomable.

How is that even possible?

I may very well have gotten myself beaten to a bloody pulp, but I would not walk away. Would not let him continue. Would not forgo 911. And I sure as heck wouldn’t go home to my family and act as though nothing had happened.

Presumably he will be cool with it if someone ever abandons his child in a similar situation.

I would find it hard not to worry about a karma boomerang if I were him.

But even being arguably the most guilty party lined up behind Sandusky – in a vomit-inducingly long line of guilty parties – he isn’t getting his fair share of media attention.

No, that honor goes to JoePa, the face of Penn State.

I’m not the media. I didn’t shine that spotlight. But I don’t feel bad that it’s hitting him. And I don’t for a fraction of a second believe it’s undeserved.

It’s part of the job he took on in 1966, being the head coach of a major football program.

When you are the face of an organization and the heart of a school, you accept a huge responsibility.

If that team loses games, you’re the one held accountable, not the grad students working for you.

Paterno was happy to take credit for 409 wins. He even owned his 19 losing seasons.

He owns a big piece of this as well.

Let us never forget that.

What I wish I could say {Just Write}

If I had it to do over again, I would blog anonymously.

Not even because I care what people think, really. And by people of course I mean women – men couldn’t care less what I say or how I say it. But women? Women are a different animal entirely.

And I find this restrictive.

I can no longer say what I think, because it will be analyzed and internalized and occasionally held against even my young daughters. I have to weigh words very carefully, because there is this presumption that there’s always a deeper, hidden meaning, rather than just taking words at face value.  For someone who is accustomed to calling a spade a spade, these are difficult waters to navigate. And for someone who has always used writing as an outlet, this has removed both the pleasure and the purity of my writing.

I feel as if I can only share the happy shiny moments of our lives, and that’s not a very realistic picture to paint.

I wish I could write about our struggle with the sneaky girl who my daughters describe as being more concerned about her popularity than anything else, and how alarming it is to me that this behavior starts at such a young age. Or the pain of seeing a child you knew and loved turn into someone you don’t even recognize, and how you can’t do anything about it because it’s not even your own child.

I’d like to rail against parents who are oblivious to their children’s flaws, and the damage that this head-in-the-sand parenting does to the rest of the world – or at least the student body.

I want to ask you how you survive the tweens, let alone the teens, because right now I’m not sure I have the strength. Or enough wine.

I’d like to tell you how crazy it makes me when these people I know spout their pop psychology my direction, and how hard I laughed inside the time I randomly asked one, mid-lecture, if she’d ever read the blog People I Want to Punch in the Throat. [Warning: adult language within] She completely missed my humor.

I wish I could write through the heartache of my daughter learning she was excluded from something by a girl she thought was a very good friend – the way she sobbed for an hour and asked me why she wasn’t good enough. The way I held her and told her that her worth would never be determined by anyone else, and the way she looked at me with huge, sad eyes, completely unbelieving.

I’d like to ask for your thoughts on organized religion and denominations. I’m struggling with concerns and frustrated with some things on a macro level, but I’ve learned from experience that when you put it in writing, people interpret it on a micro level…so I can’t. And that’s even more frustrating.

The easy answer would be just to write it anyway, but I’ve learned firsthand that this just invites questions and assumptions and chatter. I’ve been very taken aback by people reading my blog and then questioning me about it when I see them – was that written about them, why did I say that, what does this mean?

Sigh.

And this is the trouble with women to begin with. I’m not shy. If I have something to say to someone, I will say it. But be warned, I’m used to talking to men, where I can say what I please without need to carefully weigh words first. I don’t use flowery language. I don’t really sugar coat. I’m not looking to change that, either.

And if I don’t say it, it’s because there’s nothing that needs to be said. If I write something, I’m writing. Period.

Writing. Thinking. Processing. Not sending out subtle messages – that’s a sneaky, girl thing, and I don’t play those games. {It’s telling when others’ thoughts go there, though}

So I’m not writing here much. Not because I don’t have happy shiny moments to share, but because that’s not all that I have. We are so much more than craft projects and school awards and book reviews, and if we can’t be us, if I can’t be me – all of me – then I’m not sure I want to be here at all.

{Just Write}

Bob, part deux

Wow.

After a record-setting number of visitors and emails yesterday, I’m a bit overwhelmed. I feel like I should have something really profound to say today, but as my regular readers can verify, I rarely have profound things to say. I like to bust out my profoundity profoundess profanity deep thoughts only on special occasions.

Coincidentally, I do have another subject that I’ve gotten several emails about. Marriage. And if you’re reading this all ‘Why is the world would anyone think she should be giving out marital advice?’, don’t worry – I’m right there with ya. I’m not qualified and I know this. But my post about my friend Bob marrying the wrong woman apparently struck a chord with many of you, and I got an unusual number of questions. Never one to disappoint my handful legion of loyal readers, I’m obliging with a few more thoughts.

Reader Lisa (not the Lisa from the Bob post) asked me how I know that settling is a bad thing. ‘Just because it wouldn’t work for you doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work for someone else, right?’

Maybe. Maybe if you’re not very intelligent, or you’re not very passionate, or you’re not very ambitious, or you have low self-esteem…maybe then you’ll be okay with settling. Not happy, but maybe not miserable. So if ‘not alone’ and ‘not completely miserable’ appeals to you, well, then, best of luck.

For the majority of you, settling will not a happily ever after make.

You know those sitcoms like Everybody Loves Raymond, where the loveable characters bicker over how the toilet paper goes on the dispenser [paper over] or how the toothpaste gets squeezed [bottom up] or who carries the suitcase up the stairs? And then they laugh at their silliness before the kiss and make up?

Lies.

Things like one spouse saying ‘alls’ will make you homicidal one day ['Alls you have to do is...'] You will not laugh and kiss and make up, you will silently stew over the most annoying spouse in the whole entire universe because little things become huge when you’re in close proximity with the same person for forever.

When I was a young girl my mom said that for a happy marriage, spouses should agree on religion, politics, and money. And while I don’t necessarily disagree, I’d have to amend this thought.

Those things might make you, but sometimes it’s toilet paper and toothpaste that breaks you.

If you don’t have something deeper and more meaningful underneath, if you have no passion, no true love, then the little things become too much to bear.

The Art of Marriage
by Wilferd A. Peterson

Happiness in marriage is not something that just happens.
A good marriage must be created.
In the art of marriage the little things are the big things…

It is never being too old to hold hands.

It is remembering to say “I love you” at least once a day.

It is never going to sleep angry.

It is at no time taking the other for granted;
the courtship should not end with the honeymoon,
it should continue through all the years.

It is having a mutual sense of values and common objectives.
It is standing together facing the world.

It is forming a circle of love that gathers in the whole family.

It is doing things for each other, not in the attitude
of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy.It is speaking words of appreciation
and demonstrating gratitude in thoughtful ways.

It is not looking for perfection in each other.
It is cultivating flexibility, patience,
understanding and a sense of humour.

It is having the capacity to forgive and forget.

It is giving each other an atmosphere in which each can grow.

It is finding room for the things of the spirit.
It is a common search for the good and the beautiful.

It is establishing a relationship in which the independence is equal,
dependence is mutual and the obligation is reciprocal.

It is not only marrying the right partner, it is being the right partner.

You’re not likely to do that for someone you settled for, so don’t tell yourself you will. It’s a lie, and it’s a lie that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

So whatever happened with Bob?

Well nothing, yet. He was a little annoyed with me for writing about him, but said it made him think. He’s still dating the same girl, but he’s not talking marriage proposals anymore. And he said he’s thankful that he isn’t ‘stuck’.

Now let’s hope it stays that way. Stuck is a very bad address to have.

If you don’t advise settling, then how would you recommend I meet someone?

I don’t know. Truly. I’m just being honest here.

My parents met in a bar. I would not recommend meeting someone in a bar. Yet my parents have one of the best and strongest marriages I’ve ever seen.

You just never know. And I realize this is not the answer you want, because it involves waiting and patience and fate and destiny, none of which you can control. I can totally be all ‘eharmony.com baby’ if you’d like, but I wouldn’t have any idea if that’s really good advice or not.

What I can tell you is that I went to a Bible college, and the place was crawling with husband hunters. It was repulsive. Granted, Bible college is probably a decent place to meet a good man. But to have marriage as your only goal makes you, frankly, not very appealing. And I say this as a woman who wanted nothing more than to be a wife and mother, so I know of what I speak.

Develop yourself, get a hobby, and volunteer somewhere so you don’t become completely self-centered. The right partner will come along, and if you rush it all you’ll do is make yourself more likely to settle for the wrong one.

If Bob ever breaks it off with Ms. Wrong, will you play matchmaker?

Um, no. See the above, and sign yourself up for zumba or something. Patience is a virtue.

In closing, Bob would like me to clarify that he’s not a loser. He thinks I made him sound desperate. He’s not. [Because not desperate people marry someone that's just 'ok' all the time...] He’d also appreciate it if I clarified that he does not have ‘a good personality’. He’s a stud.

He just wanted you to know that.

I told Bob that you don’t always get what you want.

Amen

Why I’m not celebrating

I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now. After 9 1/2 years of pursuit, Usama Bin Laden has been declared killed by US Forces. I watched the television coverage late into the night, with very mixed emotions.

I am glad that he’s not ‘out there’ anymore. I’m not even mourning his death, really. But I cannot stomach the celebrations that I’m witnessing.

Let me say right now that I consider our military personnel separately from what I’m about to say. Their story is not our own. Their emotional attachment to this news is and deserves to be  on a different level. I understand something of their relief and their satisfaction at a job done. Something.

But for those who have done mostly nothing…those average Americans who sit at home day after day, living their comparatively cushy lives, risking nothing and sacrificing nothing…for them – because of them – I feel saddened. Weary. Ashamed.

UBL did evil things. Few would argue with that. The world is probably a [marginally] safer place without him in it…though I don’t for one moment deceive myself enough to think there aren’t hundreds more radicals lined up to take his place.

I’m not sorry he is gone.

But I’m very, very sorry that another soul has been lost.

By earthly standards, Usama Bin Laden was about as bad as it gets. He was ‘less than’ me.

But by God’s standards? He was another child. A child just like me.

A child loved and lost.

I cannot allow myself to lose sight of that, and I cannot bring myself to celebrate something so contrary to the heart of God.

I don’t generally like to hear scripture quoted in a context like this. It can seem so self-righteous, and that’s not my intent. But in the hopes that it might give you pause, or reason to look at this victory in a new light…

Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when they stumble, do not let your heart rejoice, or the Lord will see and disapprove, and turn His wrath away from them. ~Proverbs  24:17

As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign Lord, I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked. ~Ezekiel 33:11

From my feed, Facebook statuses from the past 10 hours:

‘Good News. Osama Bin Laden is in hell.’

‘Wish we had footage we could all watch on tv, Al-Jazeera style’

‘We should have a parade with his head on a stick’

‘Earthquake warning: Bin Laden is in hell and even they don’t want him.’

‘They should strap a bomb to him and blow his body to bits, let the pieces rain down over the whole [bleep] country’

Nice.

Oh and of course the numerous ‘Ding Dong Bin Laden’s dead’ posts. Cheering the fact that he’s gone ‘below, below, below, yo-ho!’

Awesome.

I’m very sorry that this nation, despised for its arrogance in much of the world, will now be making international headlines for our celebration in the streets. Much like they celebrated the terrorist attack that started all of this. Much like I imagine they would celebrate the assassination of our President. And we would be sickened by their celebrations, wouldn’t we? Because it’s evil. Because we’re above that.

Except when the shoe is on the other foot, apparently. Then we’re able to appreciate the differences.

‘But we’re the good guys!’

Right. The good guys.

Who, in that moment, don’t actually look all that different from the ‘bad guys’

Perception is reality.

Remember that while you celebrate.

Conduct yourself accordingly.

We did what needed to be done, but we don’t have to delight in it.

I take no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Sovereign Lord. ~Ezekiel 18: 32

And…the job is not done.

Happy IDA Day!

Love is in the air, right?

Blech.

I kinda hate Valentine’s Day.

The stuffed animals and chocolates and overpriced flowers and card aisles overflowing with pink hearts and mushy sentiments…make me throw up in my mouth a little.

I’m not down on love; quite the contrary. I love love. I love people who are in love.

I don’t love that people will express that love today by giving their significant other a 4-foot teddy bear.

Throw up. Mouth.

Seriously, anything done today has very little meaning. The other 364 days a year? Go to town. Love it up. Because if you bring your lady flowers on June 14th, it’s clearly because you love her and wanted to brighten her day. Four months earlier? You’re a sucker willing to pay inflated prices because Hallmark guilted you into it.

All of the jewelry and chocolate and lingerie commercials? Throw. Up.

I not-so-affectionately refer to this as IDA day – Insincere Displays of Affection.

My plans include shipping the weekend orders (shameless plug), shuttling to not one but two different Girl Scout meetings (and picking up cookies!), and hopefully squeezing in time to straighten up my studio. If I’m really efficient I’ll pull off a trip to the grocery, too.

Romance out the wazoo over here, let me tell you.

The one part of the holiday that I do enjoy is the kid stuff. The cutesy homemade cards, the decorated boxes for the school exchange, the sweet treats baked for friends. That I can do, so do it I did.

Super cute, right?

And more than that, these suckers taught me a life lesson. A friend gave me the recipe and I was so excited to make these…until I saw that 2 months later, the recipe was also printed in Family Fun magazine. I immediately felt deflated, like my cool treat was reduced to ‘Oh yeah, I saw that in Family Fun too.’

Bakingcandycanesuckersforyourownglorymuch?

{hanging head in shame}

In case you don’t get Family Fun and you’re still dazzled and want to make your own, read on.

You’ll need some miniature candy canes and lollipop sticks to start out with

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees, and lay out your suckers on a greased cookie sheet.

Be sure to use your oldest, most stained, super worn baking sheet, especially if you plan to take pictures to share with the world. That makes you look klassy.

Pop into the oven for 2 minutes – watch the clock very closely because they will melt and be ugly very soon after that 2 minute mark. Remove and quickly pinch the candy cane ends onto the lollipop sticks. They will be warm and soft, but won’t burn your fingers. Unless you’re a wimp.

Your frames should look like this:

Again, in order to keep up that klassy appearance, be sure to snap your pictures in front of liquor bottles, particularly when you are showcasing kids projects. That’s awesome.

{Responsible Parenting Note – My kids weren’t drinking. This was a Christmas gift and I used it in that nasty honey-lemon-whiskey concoction that aided my pneumonia recovery. 3 weeks prior to this. I’m just too lazy to hide the evidence. And also the bottles are FULL.}

Now you’re going to need some white chocolate and perhaps a few sprinkles.

You can melt the chocolate in a pastry bag and pipe it into the suckers, but I’m not too handy with an icing bag. I opted for a simple dish and spoon.

And then I spooned it into the suckers whilst they lay on waxed paper.

At this point you could call it a day and go for the less-is-more look

but around these parts, we like excessive embellishment.

They’ll only need to cool off for 5-10 minutes before they will be ready to wrap.

And if you’re like me, you’ll then wish you had made them sooner, since they make a nice little IDA Day decoration for the counter.

Enjoy your day peeps!

Suck it up

The football thing?  Turns out I lied.

I had intended to talk about football.

James Harrison, in particular.

I’m kinda bent about the whole thing.

But then, I don’t know…I just got kinda sick of it all.  I’m over this conversation.

His crybaby ‘take my ball home and quit playing’ declaration might have fueled my apathy.  (Apathy can totally be fueled, by the way.  Totally.)

So I’ll just summarize.

He’s a big, bad scary man.  It’s his job.

Of course he wants to hurt people. Duh. Find me a linebacker that doesn’t want to hurt people.  Except perhaps those that play for the Bears, since clearly they’re lacking.

But I digress.

Hurting people is part of the game, folks.  There is a difference between hurting and injuring, and what a bunch of Nancys we are if we fail to comprehend the difference.  You put the hurt on someone to show them you are a big, bad, scary man not to be messed with.  What exactly would football be without physical intimidation?  It would be baseball.  And seeing as how baseball doesn’t work out too well in Pittsburgh, let’s not go there.

Harrison is being fined now because he ran his big fat stupid mouth.  I’m fine with what he said, don’t get me wrong, but his timing was lousy.  The public was up in arms crying for his head on a platter, and he didn’t do himself any favors.

The hit in question?

I don’t believe it was a dirty hit, because I don’t believe it was intentional.  I won’t go so far as to agree with Harrison, who later said that there was a three foot shift.  I’m not seeing three feet here.  But there is definite movement, and I think that made the difference.

Harrison: “I’ll tell you right now, if I’m running blind and I don’t see the guy coming at me, by NFL rules, if he was to go and shoot at my knee and blow my whole knee out, that is a legal hit. All day. If you see me running blind and I don’t see you, please hit me high and knock me silly. I’ll pay your fine for you. Just don’t hit me in my knee and end my career.”

Amen.  Those guys stood up and walked away seconds later.  You don’t walk away from a knee injury.

[cue the cacaphony of emails telling me that you don't walk away from brain injuries either.]  I get that.  Except these guys did walk away.  Yes, they were fortunate – it could have been much worse.  But accidents do happen and there is risk involved when you choose to make your living getting hit.  It’s part of the game.  Accept that or get a desk job.

And if nothing else, how about the other supposedly dirty hit from that game?  Harrison nailed Cribbs and Cribbs isn’t crying about it.  In fact, he came out in support of Harrsion.

Ok, I did manage to generate a little passion there.  But it’s still negated by the retirement talk.  Good grief, dude.  Grow up.  Crap happens.  Move on.

And put the hurt on someone Sunday.

It is, afterall, your job.

And to all the pansies freaking out over this – have you ever seen rugby?  With no
pads?  Now those are real men.

Come to think of it, maybe Harrison could start a new career if he decides to leave the NFL.  Something tells me the Silverback would be effective on the rugby field as well.

There’s a chance I’m a man

Not physically.  But emotionally?  I might be transgender.

The evidence:

1)  I don’t relate well to most women.  They’re petty and catty and dramatic and exhausting.  Prior to marriage, my closest friends were all male.  Men are just easier.  WYSIWYG.  You can have a major disagreement and put it to rest permanently all in the course of an hour.  Or 10 minutes.  Everything is laid out plainly and there are no guessing games or hidden meanings.  Besides being healthier, this is also a huge time-saver.

2)  As I said before, I’m not much of a crier.  Women seem to love cry-fests.  So not my thing.

3)  Chick flicks? Not so much.  I’d pick Dirty Harry over Bridget Jones any day.  Or better yet, 007.  Or Monty Python.  Or the Stooges.  And when I recently saw Eat, Pray, Love [huge mistake] and found myself surrounded by crying women, I began squirming in my seat and counting the minutes until the movie was over and I could bolt from the spontaneous group-therapy session that had broken out.

4)  I love sports in general, and football in particular.  Football and hockey make my heart very happy, and there are few things that annoy me more than trying to watch the game with some sports-clueless woman hanging around, asking dumb questions or worse yet, talking about the cheerleaders’ uniforms.

Cheesy 80s movie. It's girlish to like cheesy 80s movies, right?

5)  I’ve always been a tomboy.  I wasn’t into dolls or dress-up as a kid, unless you count G.I. Joes and Superheroes.  I dabbled in cheerleading, but found myself much more at home on the basketball court.  And while the other girls fixed their hair and makeup, I was shooting pool with the guys.

6)  I like to build stuff.  Chairs and desks and cubbies and washer/dryer pedestals.  And right now, I’m working on an apothecary unit and some bookcases.  There is a good-sized section of the garage devoted to tools, and they are mine.  I chose them, I bought them, and I am the only one who knows how to use them.  I am the handy man in this house.

7)  I’m not squeamish.  I don’t freak out over bugs or snakes or mice.  I clean up the dead animals (we’re rural, people – it happens).  I’m not afraid of heights, and I am the one who scales the extension ladder to hang the Christmas lights from the second story.  And I’ve done it while pregnant, too.  I’m pretty fearless.  It’s not unusual to find me leading the charge to bungee jump or cliff dive or go rafting.

8)  I’m drawn to men.  You know how, at social events, the genders tend to separate?  The ladies sit in the kitchen, sipping wine and chatting about schools or shopping or home decor.  The men move outside, swigging beer and playing corn hole and talking about last night’s game.  Guess where I belong?

Except once you get married, it’s no longer acceptable for all of your friends to be men.  People gossip.  And by people, I think we all know that I mean women.  Women gossip.  They ‘talk’ about the girl that’s always hanging out with the guys, and what they are saying isn’t flattering.

I’ve never been one to care what people think – I’m not here to impress.  And so when I first married I continued on, business as usual.  My friends were there long before my husband – why should a ring suddenly wipe them away?

But I found that it must, eventually.

It’s not that I care personally what anyone thinks – quite the contrary.  Any woman who thinks ill of me for talking football with the boys is not one whom I’d ever have common ground with, anyway.   She can just stick it in her ear, as far as I’m concerned.

But kids change everything.

I want to be a mother that my daughters will be happy to have.  I don’t want to embarrass them.  And if the other moms are bad-mouthing the married lady who is always hanging out with not-her-husband men, well, at some point that will be embarrassing.

So these days I sit in the kitchen with all of the other ladies, just as I should.

But don’t be surprised to see me looking out the window, wishing I were still one of the guys.

I miss them.

Writer’s Workshop: The Story of Us

3.) What was it about that movie? Describe a movie you once had memorized.

I hadn’t planned to participate this week.  Even after reading the prompts, I thought I would skip it.  But as so often happens, I was later lured in against my better judgment.

This week you’re getting an abridged version, because I’m following my own restraint policy.
The movie?  The Story of Us.

It came out in 1999, before I was married.  Before I was engaged.

While we were broken up, actually.  While I was longing for someone else.

And something about this movie touched me deeply.  It was so unexpectedly real, and showed an imperfect love in a raw way that I had never seen before.

I’m a love junkie, you see.  I dreamed of a perfect, passionate, all-consuming love.

My grandparents eloped at 16 and 17, and were happily married for 63 years before my grandfather passed away.

My parents have a beautiful story.  That Vince Gill song, Look at Us, makes me think of them every time I hear it.

I’m not so into romance.  Romance fades.  I’m not into flowers or diamonds or sweet nothings.  But love? Real love?  Love gets me, every. single. time.

Elderly couples who still look at one another with adoration in their eyes.  Couples that marry after only a few dates, because they know they have found The One.  Love that conquers all, love that endures.

That endurance, though, is usually depicted in a romantic way in the movies.  We see all of the passion and none of the reality.  The Story of Us was real to me, and it opened my eyes to the idea of love being difficult.  Imperfect.  Not fun.

In ways small and lighthearted:

It is physically impossible to French-kiss a man who leaves the new roll of toilet paper resting on top of the empty cardboard roll. Does he not see it?  DOES HE NOT *SEE* IT?

{love Rita Wilson!}

And ways big and serious:

There’s a history here, and histories don’t happen overnight. In Mesopotamia or ancient Troy there are cities built on top of other cities, but I don’t want another city. I like this city. I know what kind of mood you’re in when you wake up by which eyebrow is higher, and you know I’m a little quiet in the morning and compensate accordingly. That’s a dance you perfect over time. And it’s hard, it’s much harder than I thought it would be, but there’s more good than bad and you don’t just give up!

This movie gave me hope that even when things were bad, there might just be good lurking around the bend.

To be honest, this movie is the reason I took my boyfriend-now-husband back, after swearing I never would.  [That's a whooooole other story]

I believe that love is a choice.  That every day, you have to actively choose to love a person.  Even when you may not like them.  Even when it is hard.  Even when it isn’t fun.  Because that’s what real love is – a commitment, rather than a feeling.

From the movie Captain Corelli’s Mandolin:

“When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.  Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body.  No… don’t blush!  I am telling you some truths.  That is just being ‘in love,’ which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being ‘in love’ has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Doesn’t sound very exciting, does it?  But it is!  Your mother and I had it. We had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.”

This is the love that I dream about now.

Real love.

Imperfect stories.

One tree.