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Category Archives: Choices
Hail to the Chief
I recently saw a poll asking people if they would like their kids to grow up to be president. If my memory serves me (and don’t quote me), only 46% said yes and 52% said no. What happened to the other 2%, I don’t know.
<Side tangent: I am always curious about the “I Don’t Know” categories in surveys, especially when it is a simple Yes or No question that does not involve any specific knowledge of a subject. I’m a little worried for these people — buying coffee must be an arduous task. But I digress…>
Any-catty-statement, the majority of Americans did not want their children to grow up to be President. I must say that I am in that group. In the current political climate, where everything is suspect, even one’s birth, where a political rival is a mortal enemy, and all is fair in hate and war, I don’t dream of them becoming President.
Which is sad. Because once upon a time, I dreamed of becoming President. In an ill-fated conversation with my father, I announced this to my family. In 1984, Geraldine Ferraro made history by becoming a Vice-Presidential candidate. I was so inspired that I proclaimed that I would be the first female president of the United States. To which my father said, “No, you won’t”.
Yes, he did. And this weighed heavily on me for many years. I believed that my father thought I was incapable of being President. There are few things more painful than thinking that your parents don’t believe in you.
Flash forward 24 years. Hilary Clinton is a viable candidate for the Democratic Presidential nomination. Dad and I have a discussion. I “casually” mention that I had wanted to be the first female President but he didn’t think I could be. He looks at me surprised.
“It wasn’t that I thought you couldn’t be President. I just never thought that you would be the first. I was sure that we would have elected a woman by now”. So there you go. For almost a quarter of a century, I thought that my Dad didn’t think me worthy.
Why did I believe that? Did he say it wrong or did I hear it wrong? Does it really matter?
So here I acknowledge that I don’t dream about my children being President but not because I don’t think they are worthy. They are. Therefore, my children will never know that I feel this way. If they dream it, I will support it. And I will say, “Yes, you can”.
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Up In Smoke
Help! My marriage is going up in smoke. I need words of wisdom from my friends.
Dramatic enough beginning? Maybe I over-utilized the hyperbole but I do need some advice.
Do any of you smoke? Because I don’t. But my husband does. And I have begun (and by begun I mean long since past) to lose my patience with the habit.
Part of me says this is not new, he has always been a smoker. That same part says that I don’t have this addiction and I can’t understand.
But then there is the other part.
The part of me that is over it! The part of me that is sick of the smell. The part of me that is sick of coming up with excuses to give my children when he sneaks out (because to his credit, he has never smoked in front of the children). Yes, it is me that is coming up with the lies! The part of me that is tired of paying more and more to help my husband shorten his life.
For years, I was patient. For years, I knew I couldn’t make him quit. For years, I decided that patient understanding would lead him to health.
Well it has been sixteen years of marriage! And now we have children. And he has promised me time after time that he is quitting. That this is the last pack. That he will no longer spend “our” money on the dreadful things.
And promise after promise has been broken. But still I was patient. Until he had a moped accident six weeks ago and all my patience drove off with the ambulance that took him to the ER.
Because when I saw him in that ambulance, I saw my life without him. As my children sat in the back seat of the car chatting with a police officer, I saw my husband lain out on a stretcher. And something in me clicked.
Click. I don’t want to live without my husband.
Click. I don’t want my children to lose their father before they have their own children. (If he were to die at the age his father did last year from smoking, he will likely never meet his grandchildren.)
Click. I am sick of watching my husband commit suicide a little bit every day.
So I have become cigarette police. I have begged. I have pleaded. I have cried to him. I have cried alone. And I have gotten angry.
Which is NOT helpful. I know. You don’t have to tell me because I know. I still know that it is an addiction. I know that it has been his chief coping device of more than half his life. I know. I know. I know.
But right now, I just don’t care. I want it to stop. Now. This minute. Today. No, yesterday.
So, my friends, help me. I need your advice and support because I am being a passive aggressive witch worthy of Dorothy and her Yellow Brick Road. This is not me! But I am not letting go. I am a dog with a bone. And I am not liking the sound my voice now makes every time I see him head for the back door.
How do I help him without harming my marriage? How do I accept something that is fundamentally hurting my husband without hurting our relationship? How do I stop being a b$&*h?
So, if you are a smoker, tell me what he is facing and what would help you. If you are not a smoker but have a spouse/partner/friend that does, tell me what you have done. And if you are neither, but you have an idea, tell me. PLEASE.
Before I go up in smoke.
P.S. For whatever reason, Wordpress has randomly decided that all comments (including mine) require approval. I don’t know how to change it but it is annoying. Almost as annoying as the 200 spams I get everyday. But if you are a WP expert and know how to change this, I obviously need your help, as well.
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I Am a Hypocrite
Okay, I admit it. I am a Hypocrite with a capital H. “Hello, Kettle. Have you met, Pot? Why, yes. Yes, I have.”
I spend a lot of energy and time telling my family that I need help around the house. I look at the things that need to be done and wonder why I seem to be the only one willing/capable/interested in doing them. And I feel put upon. Very put upon. Sometimes even desperate.
So you would think that in that state of desperation, I would grasp hungrily at the crumbs of effort that my children and husband provide. You might think that. You would be wrong.
I wish it were true. I do. I wish that I could just let go. But I don’t.
Why? Because I have standards. Ridiculous standards. Stupid standards. So if they are ridiculous, stupid even, why don’t I kick them down the street like the can in The Twilight Zone?
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the Million Dollar Question. If phrased in the form of a question, it would be Final Jeopardy. Dick Clark is talking while my back is to the big pyramid. You get the picture? Oh. You got it a couple of metaphors ago. I know. But I never met a metaphor that I didn’t like!
So back to the point, pre-metaphor. I need help. A lot. But why don’t I ask my husband to fold the clothes? I mean, he can do that with a broken leg. Well, it might have to do with the fact that he seems incapable of folding a towel the same way twice. He has this bizarre method that excludes matching edges and includes an origami style worthy of a master.
See, I fold the towels in half making sure that the edges are lined up. Fold again (again ensuring that all edges are lined up) and then do a tri-fold which makes the towels sit very neatly on the shelves. My towels may be old but they are neat in there. His do not sit neatly. But if they are clean, out of the basket, and in the linen closet, why do I care?
I don’t know. Well, I suspect that it has to do with parents, and old insecurities, and so on and so forth, but the why doesn’t really matter. because it needs to stop. Because right now, I can’t do it all. I have two children, a new puppy with serious potty-training issues, and a husband on crutches. I am failing miserably and I need to allow people to help me.
So I am starting today. My kids may stuff their clothes in their drawers as long as they get them to their drawers. My husband can fold the towels like a foil swan with Chinese leftovers, as long as he folds them. And maybe, just maybe, if I do that I might find a little time to do something besides worry about what still needs to be done!
P.S. My thoughts and prayers still run to Arizona. Also, today marks the anniversary of the tragic Haitian earthquake, the Haitians, as well as the people struggling with floods in Australia, remain in my heart.
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A Love Letter
Ode to Halloween Candy
Your bright packaging draws my eye
Orange, black, silver, and gold
I try to look away but a glint of light
Catches on your cellophane and foil
“Come to me”, you call
“No”, I say. “I need you not”.
“You do need me. You know you do!”
“I shouldn’t”, I say. But even as I say these words,
I look down to find you in my hands.
Feeling much like Alice in her Rabbit Hole
“Eat Me”, is what you seem to say.
Unlike Alice, I know which way I will grow
Bigger and bigger and bigger
“It’s only once a year. Surely, it’s okay…”
The wrapper crinkles in my hand. It tempts my very core.
As I feel the package tear into two, the chocolate grazes…
“Mommy. May I have a piece of candy?”
“Of course, dear. Please take this one”
Aah. Disaster averted. (Until next year).
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Making Me All I Am Supposed to Be
Often I think of my life as a mother as something separate from me. As if I am biding time until my kids are grown and then the real Traci will come back out. The actress. The woman.
It is not that I don’t enjoy being a mother. I do. I love my kids. I love being a part of their growing world. It’s just that sometimes, it all seems separate from my world.
I remember the days of independent films, books without pictures, and television shows that did not involve extended pauses wherein the central characters anticipate an answer from the audience.
Sometimes it feels like my years as a mother are the intermission between the acts of my life.
But the other day, I was driving with my daughter, The Diva, when I tuned the radio into Daughtry’s “What About Now”. I have heard the song a couple of times before but I never really listened to the words. But this time, the chorus caught my ear. “What about now? What about today? What if you’re making me all that I was meant to be?”
And it hit me.
I say that I believe that there is a great plan. I say that I believe that everything works out the way it is supposed to be. And if that is true, then I am right where I am supposed to be. Being a mom is making me who I am supposed to be. It is not the intermission. It is the central act. It is the chief turning point 1 hour and 5 minutes into the film. In other words, it is my life.
So thank you to my Diva and my Sonny-Bunny for making me be all I am supposed to be. And thank you to God for giving two of the greatest teachers. I no longer will sit on the side sipping my overpriced Chardonnay waiting for the bell to indicate that the second act is beginning. If the world is indeed a stage, and I a mere player, well, I am ready for my soliloquy.
Even if that involves a chorus of Barney in the background.
Shadows fill an empty heart
As love is fading,
From all the things that we are
But are not saying.
Can we see beyond the scars
And make it to the dawn?
Change the colors of the sky.
And open up to
The ways you made me feel alive,
The ways I loved you.
For all the things that never died,
To make it through the night,
Love will find you.
What about now?
What about today?
What if you’re making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it’s lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it’s too late,
What about now?
The sun is breaking in your eyes
To start a new day.
This broken heart can still survive
With a touch of your grace.
Shadows fade into the light.
I am by your side,
Where love will find you.
What about now?
What about today?
What if you’re making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love, it never went away?
What if it’s lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it’s too late,
What about now?
Now that we’re here,
Now that we’ve come this far,
Just hold on.
There is nothing to fear,
For I am right beside you.
For all my life,
I am yours.
What about now?
What about today?
What if you’re making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it’s lost behind words we could never find?
What about now?
What about today?
What if you’re making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it’s lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it’s too late,
Baby, before it’s too late,
Baby, before it’s too late,
What about now?
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Perfectionism: Not All It’s Cracked Up To Be
I am a perfectionist. I admit it. But one of the things that I have learned is that perfectionism has nothing to do with being perfect. In fact, what I believe that I have learned most is that the more I strive for perfection, the less perfect I am.
For example, I can’t just put clothes away. I want them to be perfectly folded and well, frankly, color coordinated. Now that doesn’t sound too terrible, does it? Except that it takes a lot of time and energy. Something of which I am always in short supply. And that means that my obsession with my drawers either results in lost time with those I love or allows clothes to build up in baskets waiting to be put up “properly”.
In other words, my perfectionism often results in bad housekeeping or bad parenting. I don’t know about you but that doesn’t sound perfect.
I “know” this but it is hard to do differently. I am fighting 39 years of programming. 39 years of not believing that I was good enough and trying to compensate with an incredible work ethic. Because I am a hard worker. It’s something that defines me. And it is one of the few things that I will say proudly about myself. Except that it is possible to use work to hide, to avoid, to deflect. I believe that I have done that. Many times. So there is also guilt for me.
So my head says keep going. Don’t stop. You’re not enough. You’re not doing enough. And what you’re doing is not good enough. But over the last year, a small voice has started speaking up. Maybe it is okay. Maybe simply putting clothes away is an achievement. Maybe it is enough. And good enough. Maybe I am okay.
I think that voice is my heart. It isn’t as loud as my head. But it carries a pretty strong stick. The reality that my children will be grown before I know it. The truth that marriages need more love and time than they do perfect hospital corners. And the belief that I didn’t get here for nothing.
The Army used to have the slogan, “Be all you can be”. While never an Army girl (Goldie Hawn as Private Benjamin would not be far off from what I would be like in the military), I always embraced the concept. But I think that I had it all wrong because really what I was living was “Do all you can do” and maybe, just maybe I should focus on the being in “Be all you can be”.
Maybe I just need to be. Need to be… a little less perfect. A little less afraid. A lot more engaged. And then maybe, while not perfect, I might actually be all I can be.
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