IslandRoar

Spin Cycle: Confessions

I'm not big on confessions. Maybe because you already know everything about me there is to know.

 

I tend to share the small stuff freely. The big stuff you probably couldn't pry out of me with a ten-foot pole.

 

So this post is really about the ability to withhold a confession. A major confession.

 

Over ten years ago my mother got a call from her brother informing us a long lost cousin had popped up. Well, she really couldn't be classified as long lost. More like never-before-heard-hide-nor-hair-of.

 

This cousin, who supposedly resembles my mother, had been given up at birth for adoption. She'd had a good family, a happy childhood, yet always wondered about her birth parents.

 

When, as an adult, she'd managed to get a copy of her birth certificate, she'd discovered she was born at a baby hospital in the Bronx. Her mother was my beautiful, eccentric great aunt, my grandma's baby sister.

 

Little by little the story emerged. My great aunt, whom we'll call Mary, was unhappily married with two small sons. Apparently she'd had an affair with the Italian grocer, gotten pregnant, and given the baby up for adoption.

 

I try to imagine how trapped she felt, her anguish at finally having a daughter, yet relinquishing her in order to save her marriage.

 

My mother recalls Mary and her two boys coming to live with them at my grandmother's for several months when she was a child, no doubt during the pregnancy. No questions were asked, but she insists there were long talks between Mary and my grandmother. Voices raised. Tears.

 

Imagine how strained the marriage must have been when she went back. But also, what joy she must have felt, nine years later, when she gave birth to another child, another daughter.

 

What amazes me most is how Mary and my grandmother, and lord only knows who else, kept this secret. Literally took it with them to their graves. Both of them were long dead before this cousin found our family. Before she discovered she had two brothers and a sister.

 

How did Mary go the rest of her life without confessing this to her children? To anyone? And what other secrets are out there in my family, your family, that might change everything, yet will never be revealed?

 

Got any to share? Click over to Sprite's Keeper and see what other bloggers dare to confess.

 

We Rock

I slept on curlers the other night, for the first time in a long time. The soft, foamy kind. Electric rollers don't work so well on my hair. It's kind of thick and stubborn. Like me.

I like my hair a lot. I've said this before. I consider myself a pretty humble person, but, for the record, I realize I've made a point of stating here that I like my hair and I think I smell nice.

Oh, and my feet. I think I have pretty feet.

I try to take photos of them in a variety of exotic warm weather locations. It's a love found late in life.

Believe it or not, I didn't start polishing my toenails until I was over 40. It seems the older I get, the more of a girly-girl I become. But a tough girly-girl. I am, after all, from New Jersey.

I'm a little worried that by admitting this stuff, you might think I have an inflated ego. Because of my feelings for my hair and my feet and how good I smell.

Why is it that we as women are so often hesitant to admit the many good things about ourselves, to praise ourselves? Are we worried other women will label us conceited bitches?

I've noticed most of us are pretty quick to point out our faults. I'm trying to stop doing this. I could name five negative things about myself right now in the blink of an eye.

But I won't. Instead, I'm going to tell you three good things about myself. Things I like.

And I'm going to have the nerve to ask you to do the same.

Here are mine: (in addition  to those I've already mentioned) I think I'm a generous and fun person; I like to think I have a really good sense of style; I like my fair, freckled, Irish coloring.

Okay, your turn. Come on, three things you like about yourself. Really, I want to know.

We all do.

 

Female Troubles

 

I was thinking today about how far we've come in terms of being open about women's health issues. Society, I mean.

When my ex mother-in-law was only a young mother in her 20's, she lost her own mother to cancer. To this day she has no idea what kind of cancer it was.

"Oh," she'll say dismissively, "nobody talked about such things."

Many health topics pertaining to women just weren't spoken of. My father took this to extremes. I remember him once mentioning a female business colleague at the dinner table, and how she was doing poorly.

Ever curious, I piped up, "What's the matter with her?"

As children were generally supposed to be "seen and not heard," he glowered at me before lowering his voice significantly to say, "I'm not sure...Female Troubles."

I had no idea what the hell those were.. But it sounded deep and dark, and clearly I understood I should inquire no further.

As I got older however, I enjoyed making waves.

When I came home during college I would challenge him. "Women's troubles, dad? What does that mean? Is it (and here I would whisper) down there?"

He would look to my mother for help, but, to her credit, she would be laughing too.

When I finally told First-Born Son he was to be a big brother, I made sure to explain that the baby was growing in my uterus, not my stomach. I was following parenting advice I'd read which warned that if I didn't make this clear, he might surmise I'd eaten the baby or some ridiculous crap like that.

The very next day after I'd told him the good news, my parents came over. First-Born Son, only three at the time, ran to greet them at the door.

"Poppy," he shrieked. "Mommy has a baby growing. In her uterus!"

I thought my father would pass out. I'm betting he could've gone his whole life without acknowledging that either of his daughters even had a uterus.

First-Born Son today is, of course, more modern and open about these things than my dad. But in our house with all its estrogen, the girls and I have been known to bring up certain subjects just to give him a hard time. Tough boy that he is, he rarely cringes. But that doesn't mean we won't stop trying.

As I head toward The Big Change, I can't help but try and think of yet another way to yank both his and my father's chains. I'm not yet peri-menopausal, but at 48, I anticipate the big arrival any second now.

I envision myself calling my parents and getting my poor father on the phone.

"Guess what, Dad? I just had my first hot flash!"

How do you think that would go over?

Or maybe, better yet, I could get First-Born Son to make the call and tell him for me.

 

Spin Cycle: Fear?

I am not a fearful person.

Sure, there are things I don't like, such as heights, slasher movies, and stories about real life serial killers. But fear? Not so much.

When I was a young nurse working on pediatrics, one of my colleagues commented that she was afraid of dying.

I'd thought about this one a lot. "I don't really fear dying," I said, with the naive self assuredness that one can only possess in his or her 20's. "I mean, I don't want to die. But I''m not afraid of it."

To her credit, she did not slap me. "That's because you don't have kids," she said kindly. "Being a mother changes that."

"Maybe." I shrugged.

Maybe?

My son was probably only hours old when my fear of dying set in. If I died, who would raise him in the manner that I so carefully envisioned?

I felt a little better when I gave him a sibling, but I now had two souls whose very existence hinged on me being alive and well. And then, soon enough, three.

It's not as though it's some neurotic phobia. Rarely, if ever, does it creep into the forefront of my mind.

Yet somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, it's always there: I must stay alive at least long enough to see these three people into the realm of independent adulthood. Anything less would leave them vulnerable, exposed to emotional and psychological scars that might never heal.

Am I blowing this out of proportion to increase my own sense of importance? Possibly.

But it has always seemed to me that the loss of one's mother, before a certain age, is one that few recover from completely.

When Princess Diana died, I felt this pain for her as well as her sons. I was reassured that they were old enough to have lifelong memories of her, but felt she would've been devastated not to be there for the joys and pain of their teen years, and to cushion the angst of their early adulthood.

I'm sure I was internalizing big time.

So what is the magic age, the one my children need to reach before I'll feel comfortable giving up this fear? Well, at 22, I feel First-Born Son may be close. But Daughter #2 is only 15.

Believe me, I'm not about to stand up, arms wide open, beckoning the Grim Reaper, the day she turns 25. I fully intend to live to a good and annoyingly ripe old age.

And yes, I'm aware my grown children will never stop needing me in one way or another. But the major leg work, so to speak, will be complete. And, I think, I'll finally be able to let go of my fear.

To see what other bloggers fear-or not-go take a peek at Sprite's Keeper.

 

"Mommy Blogging"

 

What do you think of the term "Mommy Bloggers?" I don't write about my kids all the time, but I'm sure I do it often enough to be categorized somewhat as a "Mommy Blogger."

Then of course, there are the "Mommy Wars." Because apparently women  really believe there's only one way to raise a child: theirs. I don't know any of these women. The women I know are generally pretty damned supportive of one another whether they work outside the home or not.

How about "Chick-Lit?" I know I've felt guilty more than once the last few years when I read a novel about women that is light and breezy or, God forbid, romantic. And forget about wanting to write one. As though the only reading material on any of our nightstands must surely be Faulkner or Proust.

Why all the divisiveness and negativity when it comes to female labels (like if they can keep us fighting amongst ourselves, maybe they can stop us from taking over the world?)? I've mentioned this before when I blogged about how insulting I find the term "cougar." And don't get me started on what's happened to the word "feminist."

Growing up, I thought the word "feminist" stood for strong women who supported the rights and choices of all women, but now it's become such a dis, nobody wants to admit to being one, even the women I look up to for their so-called feminist ideals.

When I blogged about the term "cougar," some people suggested I embrace the word. But I'm not so sure.

Like the words "Mommy Blogger," there is something derogatory and condescending about so many of these labels. I'm not really on board with helping them become mainstream terminology.

But I think I'll throw caution to the wind and start calling myself a Feminist once more. What do you think?

In my opinion, it's the ultimate F-word.

Madame Librarian

 

Well, my summer library job has just morphed into a permanent year-round position.

I'm pretty relieved. No more scrambling to find yet another odd job to support my writing habit until I become rich and famous and immortalized in the halls of literary fame.

Yet I don't need Daughter #1 to remind me (though no doubt of course she will) that this latest employment opportunity only serves to clinch my place in the annals of future Crazy-Old-Lady status.

Before, I was just going to be that Weird-Woman-Down-the-Street. You know, the one who lives all alone, with all those cats (for the record, I have only 5 cats, but the way some people talk, you'd think there were at least 20)? I mean, it wasn't like I was some eccentric old spinster librarian or something.

Except now I kind of am. Maybe not full time, and minus the Masters in Library Science, but close enough.

Although I'm not sure if one can actually be considered "a spinster" if one was once married. Or if a sexist word like spinster is any longer even considered politically correct.

Probably not, in which case I can be the Eccentric-Old-Lady-Librarian-Divorcee. However "divorcee" sounds rather racy and provocative, and therefore probably doesn't jive with the whole "librarian" personna.

Or does it?

I think it's time to cast aside stereotypes. Or maybe, just start a whole new stereotype. What do you say to a Brilliant, Single, Writer/Librarian who loves all animals and dances on tables when the notion strikes?

I'll let you know, but I think we might be onto something...

Crowning Glory

To Cut or Not to Cut...

Now that I have the dress for my high school reunion, I made an appointment to get my hair cut.

I've been going to the same woman since I moved out here, and after all these years she's become a friend, as well as being amazing with hair. She did Daughter #1's hair for her junior prom, and Daughter #2's for her eighth grade graduation last year, and they looked like they should be in a full page spread in Vogue.

Not that I'm going to let her do much. I wear my hair long. I'm sure many people (yes, I mean you, Mom) think 47 is too old to wear your hair down your back. But I like it this way.

I've always liked my reddish hair, the texture and the color. I got a lot of attention for it as a kid. I still don't have any gray, but the blond highlights have gotten lighter and lighter the past couple of years, and I'm wondering if they may just eventually turn from blond to white.

I've cut my hair pixie short exactly three times in my life, at 6, 13, and 37. Each time, even at 6, I was looking for a big change, and each time I hated it. At 13 I went to school wearing a hooded sweatshirt, trying to hide it.

"What happened to your beautiful red hair!" my English teacher moaned. And I wanted to cry. I told everyone I needed it short to be on my swim team, which was a bold-faced lie.

That trauma kept me from cutting it short for almost 25 years. But after my marriage ended I wanted to change everything. Native Americans used to chop their hair off as an act of mourning, and sometimes I think that's what I was doing: mourning.

Other times I think I might have been hiding. A woman's hair can be a very sensual thing. I mean, what's the deal with men and long hair anyway? I've seen men turn their heads at women that are seriously not attractive, just because of the hair. I look back at when my marriage ended, and it's easy to see why I may have wanted to hide.

A couple of years ago my hair had grown really long, pretty much the way it is now. Again, I was looking for a change, but I wasn't going to chop it all off. Instead, I had it cut to just above my shoulders. It was dramatically different, sure, but I was totally not prepared for the way the men in my life, from my friends to my ex, responded.

"You cut your hair." They practically whined, seeming to be in mourning themselves.

I felt as though I'd had my breasts removed. I couldn't believe this connection men have between hair and sexuality, or even attractiveness. Come on guys, it's only hair! Has anyone else ever had a similar experience?

I know plenty of women that look stunning with shorter hair. But apparently, I am not one of them. Luckily, that suits me.

This time I'm only going in for a decent trim. Nothing drastic. Clearly, I don't think I could handle it.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

I never changed my name when I got married. Which really irritated my ex mother-in-law, who claimed I was just trying to make things easier for myself if the marriage ended.

My ex took the whole keeping-my-name thing in stride. "What about our kids," he wanted to know. "Will they at least have my name?"

"Oh sure," I told him. "I have no problem with that."

Then I got pregnant. I don't know if it was the crazy-ass hormone shifts or the nausea and sciatica, but round about the sixth month, I started having second thoughts.

"I knew it," he pounced. "I knew you'd change your mind." It may have been the only time in our marriage he had me pegged correctly.

I mean, it just seemed like I was doing all the work in making this baby. Sure, he'd contributed some piddly little sperm, but the actual baby construction and maintenance was occurring in My Body. The least the little sucker could do for me was carry my name in addition to his dad's.

But how to do it? Space? Or hyphen? I didn't care for either. Then I read an article suggesting couples create a whole new name for their children by stuffing their two names together,without spaces or hyphens (or pretty much any common sense).

My husband was skeptical, but I somehow managed to convince him that this was the cutting-edge solution to our problem. What can I say? We were young and stupid. Too ignorant to see into our unborn children's futures, as person after person calling out or announcing their last name proceeded to completely annihilate the hell out of it.

Okay. I get it now. The hyphen or space is like directions on how to say it. Who knew?

"Wow," people inevitably comment. "I never heard that name before. What nationality is it?


Try Naive American, circa 1987. If I had it to do over, I'd probably give them their father's last name and use mine as a middle name. It really would've made everyone's lives a lot simpler. But somehow, when I was 25, that seemed way too much like settling.

Ah, youth.

People never know what to call us. I have my last name, my ex has his, and the kids have...well...theirs. We all pretty much answer to anything, which isn't a bad lesson in life to nail at a young age.

The ex and I agreed a long time ago we would be fine if any of our kids decided to drop one of our names and go by the other when they're older. And I think we meant it, really, I do.

But now, I'm kind of having second thoughts...

Barbie Girl

Daughter #1 is graduating high school next month. We're planning a graduation party and she tells me she wants the theme to be "Barbie." Seriously.

Where have I gone wrong? I encourage feminist ideals. When she was a young child, I read her empowering books (I can't think of any offhand, but I'm really sure I did). She's amazing at math and science.

Yet she loves freaking Barbie. As in, the doll that cannot stand on her own two tippy-toed feet without pitching headfirst onto her triple-D'd chest.

She wears Barbie T-shirts and makes Barbie videos with her friends, creative, quasi-sophisticated, intelligent young women like herself. Their video, "Pregnant Barbie Gives Birth," has had something like a million hits on YouTube. And, no, I'm not going to give you the link; if you want to view the evidence of my shame, you will have to look it up yourself.

The sound quality is terrible, and the lighting poor. The director's (that is, my daughter's) voice can be heard in the background, giving instructions to the friend holding Barbie. We're so proud.

"Look at you," I said to her. "Top of your class, going off to college, and wearing a Barbie T-shirt."

"Well, who's the one who bought me all those Barbies?" she countered.

She has a point.

I started off with my son, her older brother, trying to be all politically correct. But the boy begged for a Barbie, and, in a compromise (unfortunately, the first of many), I bought him Doctor Barbie. He immediately stripped her, bent her in half, and pointed her at the cat.

"BANG!"

But that in itself is a post for another day. The point here is that my daughter wanted a Barbie. And we talked about the stereotypes. Harmless, I thought. A phase. After all, I had Barbies once too. Many, many moons ago. And I moved way beyond it, right? I assumed she'd grow older and wiser and get over it as well.

Alas, that's not what happened. Instead, she tracks down specialty Barbies on line, collector's items like Barbie posing as Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind. Then she asks for them for Christmas.

And I (gulp) ... I buy them.

I know what you're thinking: that I'm getting what I deserve. That her graduation cake should have a big fat Barbie head plunked in the center of it, and that will be my karma.

Not so fast. You see, she's sharing her party with her best friend. Who is not so in love with Barbie (smart girl). And hey, since when do graduation parties have themes anyway? Graduation is the theme; am I right?

Does anybody out there have their own Barbie stories? Do you love her, hate her, or maybe you just don't care? The gal was 50 this year, so I think it's okay if we give her more than a passing thought.

...

Okay. There, I'm done. How about you?

Supreme Court Pick

Half Court Press

So with the retirement of Justice Souter, President Obama gets to nominate his first Supreme Court Justice. The media is abuzz with choices. Everyone seems to agree the only candidates that don't have a shot are those that fall under the traditionally favored category of white male.

No argument here. Personally, I don't care if his nominee is Asian, African American, Hispanic, white, or purple, so long as it's a woman. This should be a no-brainer. There are nine judges and just one is a woman. Only two women have ever been Supreme Court judges. Come on, we make up over half the population; it's time we made up half the bench. And the time to start is now.

It's not just about politics. We need to see women in more positions of power. When they are, the world becomes a better place. Look at Sandra Day O'Connor. I remember so clearly the day President Reagan announced her nomination. A woman! He'd picked a woman. I was in college. 1981. I wasn't extremely politically active at the time, but I was keeping tabs. I remember people predicting Reagan would pick a very conservative justice, and there was the ever present buzz of Roe v. Wade being overturned.

Then he went and picked a woman. Not that it wasn't about time, but still, I was shocked. Ecstatic. And while many of those around me were more worried about her politics, I was busy celebrating the fact that a woman had finally made it to the Supreme Court.

A woman who wound up surprising a lot of people, Democrats and Republicans alike, with her thoughtful and often unpredictable decisions. A woman who helped me understand you can't let the media have too much influence on your political opinions until you get a chance to see for yourself what people are really capable of.

It was an exciting time. Sort of like last year when Hilary captured history as the first woman to make a serious run for the White House. And while I'm happy with Obama, and will continue to cheer Hilary on like mad as she takes on the world as Secretary of State, I hope one day to see a woman in that ultimate US position of power.

Until then I'll settle for more women on the highest court in our land. I may or may not agree with all their politics, but I'll be happy that they're there. Women should be judges; after all, everyone knows which sex is more intrinsically fair, don't they?

LAUNCHING ISLAND ROAR

Cougars? A Collective Roar

Is it just me? Or are there scores of single, middle-aged women out there (and by middle-aged I really mean any woman 35 and over) who enjoy being labeled a Cougar? Because the way the word is tossed about so freely these days, one would think it has a resounding Every-Woman Seal-of-Approval.

Well, not this woman. I may be an unattached female in her 40's, often distastefully referred to as "on the market" (translation: I wouldn't turn down a date with the right guy). I have even entertained the notion, should the opportunity present itself, of dating a younger man. BAM!

That's all it takes to raise society's eyebrows and stamp the word "Cougar" across my forehead in the imaginary social register. As though I am some skulking feline, ready to pounce on my unsuspecting prey.

If there's an equivalent term for an older man dating a younger woman then I haven't heard it. "Sugar Daddy" comes to mind, but it doesn't reek with condescension or contempt like so many labels for women. "Spinster" for example, or "slut."

Making matters worse, the term lately seems to be spreading to include any single woman of a certain age who's not in a relationship, irregardless of whether she is stalking said younger man or not. As if crow's feet and the looming threat of perimenopausal mood shifts weren't trouble enough, now I have to worry what the neighbors will think because I dare to leave my regular Friday night Netflix and pint of Haagen-Dazs to venture out for a drink with a friend? And God forbid I wear earrings (Gasp!), and makeup, or (Oh, no!), maybe even heels?

Women "past their prime" are taken to task if we let ourselves go, or we don't stay in shape, or we don't go out and get a life in the wake of a failed relationship. But when we do take care of ourselves we are labeled "Cougars." There is something raw and insidious being implied here, a penalty for having the nerve to be middle-aged and looking good.

And it seems to me, though I could be wrong about this, that women deemed unattractive are rarely called Cougars. Is this because it is assumed they have accepted their station in life and there is no need to punish them with condescending sexual innuendo? How equally insulting.

Cougars are sleek, beautiful, graceful animals. And while I admire that immensely, I am not fooled for one second into thinking the word is meant to be a compliment when it is applied to women.

What do you think? Does the term bother you on any level, or have you not given it a second thought? Let me know. Because it occurs to me that, by our collective silence, women everywhere are sending the message that it's okay to call us Cougars, that maybe we're even a little amused by the term.

But it's not okay. So I am filing my one-woman protest right here, right now, and hoping it grows from a single voice into many, a tidal wave. One huge collective roar.

I'll have more to say on what I think about a lot of things in the weeks and months to come. I'd love to hear from women (and men) everywhere. So thanks for stopping by and please stay tuned...