It’s Hard Raising Boys in a Feminist World

With all the women that protested around the world, I had to sit back — as the mother of two boys — and wonder what I’m supposed to tell my kids about the world we live in today.

It’s such an odd time when you become alienated by your own sex.

Though, the division seems clear enough.

Equal rights — and freedom of speech — for those who deserve it. (This excludes Republican women, those who choose to support pro-life, and of course, men.)

I hope and pray (yes, pray) that my children never fall into this mentality.

It all starts will labels.

Women don’t want to be objectified, harassed, or overlooked, just as much as people don’t want to be labeled by their sexuality, religion, gender or even political persuasions. Because this is prejudice.

When you teach your children that one group of people is a certain way, you become the problem; you’re reinforcing the cycle of discrimination.

Many of the political signs being held up in peaceful protest were offensive to me, as the mother of boys.

Women are now stereotyping; women are being sexist. We have become the pot calling the kettle black.

I ask myself:

How can we promote equality with division of the sexes?

How can we promote love with hate?

How can we promote peace with alienation?

Why do we focus on women’s rights instead of human rights?

How can we promote anti-bullying with bullying?

How can we promote freedom of speech by silencing some?

There is no supremacy in equality, and there is no room for hate in acceptance.

Susan B. Anthony was arrested for voting in the presidential election of 1872.

Women didn’t take this stand in history so that we would abuse our power. Women took a stand, so that we would all have a voice.

I want my voice to be heard, just like I want my sons’ voices to be heard.

I don’t want my boys to grow up in a world that wants to silence them.

I want them to not live in fear to have their own opinions.

I have this distinct desire to get out the bubble-wrap, and draw it around my children.

Our freedoms in this country are being minimalized all under the presumption that we’re making things better.

“There is a moment you have to choose whether to be silent, or stand up,” as one protest sign said.

I’m standing up, and saying that I have two sons that I love more than anything, and I’m afraid for them.

I respect people for being different than I am. I respect people who stand up and fight for what they believe in. But, I don’t respect people who want to silence others.

If your goal is to truly Make America Kind Again, which will ultimately Make America Great Again, I’m with you. 

The Perks of the Handwashing Experience

This past week, I’ve gotten a real taste of what it truly means to be a housewife. This job requires a lot, even taking over when you household appliances fail.

My dishwasher has been sick for some time; and, I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it would go so quickly.

One day it’s running (mind you, sort of haphazardly), and then, you blink, and it’s gone for good. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

I do realize, everyone doesn’t have a dishwasher. My aunt (who is 80), has a dishwasher now for the first time in her life.

And the other day I was on the phone with her, discussing my current predicament, and she said, “I really don’t mind handwashing dishes at all.”

I told her she is more than welcome to come over and wash my dishes anytime.

Although, the first dishwasher was developed by Josephine Cochrane, in 1886, it wasn’t even until the 1970s that dishwashers became commonplace in households across America.

I’m of the opinion the invention of the dishwasher was made to save humankind — continuing the cycle of reproduction. I don’t know if I would have agreed to two children in the first place if I hadn’t had a dishwasher.

The greatest takeaway from the whole handwashing experience, has been that it’s given my husband a rare opportunity to learn where things go in the kitchen.

For you see, I explained to him, if I must suffer through being the dishwasher, then he must be the dish dryer.

Apparently, he hasn’t put dishes away in the last 10 years of marriage. Obviously, I’ve been doing something wrong. But, I’m glad we’ve remedied the situation.

I also pointed out to him, that not only was this a great learning experience, but a great bonding opportunity as well, (as he gets to spend extra quality time with me).

It only took two times drying dishes, before he said, “OK, we’re going to buy a new dishwasher; the first day I’m off. What kind do you want? Top of the line? Anything for you.”

I really should thank my old dishwasher for failing, and leaving us in this bind.

My husband has a whole, new appreciation for the culinary arts. 

And, I told him, that he’s off the hook for Valentine’s Day, as the new dishwasher will be our tribute to one another. After all, it’s keeping the love alive, one wash cycle at a time.

(Or — at least — keeping the wife cooking.)

Which, I believe was the ultimate goal here.

He’s a smart man; and, he realized that the longer I went without a dishwasher, (and the less he offered to help), the more take out on paper plates we would be having.

What can I say? I guess he likes my cooking.

My new dishwasher won’t be here for another week; but, when it does arrive, there will be much celebration. Until then, please reuse your glass, dear.

Driving the Winter Blues Away with Man’s Best Friend

I’m beginning to see new meaning in the Nelly Furtado song, I’m Like A Bird. I’ll only fly away. Honestly, if I could winter in the Bahamas, I would as well.

Cold, dark and dreary … that pretty much sums up this time of year.

While my boys don’t seem phased by winter, I remember, they’re still young. They’re coming off the Christmas high, and have snow days and valentines from secret admirers to look forward to. Oh, the joys of youth.

My oldest son keeps asking me when I’m taking him on an expedition to Antarctica to see the penguins. (I don’t think he got the memo that I’m out of the office until spring.)

I can barely make it out to the mailbox.

I’m like a lizard; I prefer sitting on a rock, and soaking up the warm rays. (Preferably with a cool drink in hand.)

The start of winter has left me jittery and sluggish, barely able to move. (Of course, this might have something to do with the five cups of coffee I’ve had to drink to stay warm, and the multiple layers of clothing I have on, but I’m not sure.)

I haven’t quite mastered typing in my fingerless gloves yet; but, let me assure you, I will keep on trying. I’m no quitter.

One thing that has actually kept me from mindlessly binge watching all Hulu has to offer, or covering my head and hibernating, is spending time with my dog. Now, whether this means something is wrong with me, the vote is still out.   

Rex and I have taken this opportunity to perfect the sport of wogging (otherwise known as walk-jogging). The explanation for our newfound athletic activity is that he’s an Aussie full of energy, and I’m a winter zombie in need of mental and physical stimulation. (But, not so much that I keel over. And, he enjoys the breaks.) It’s an ideal situation really. When you start to get cold, you jog again.

While it probably won’t be inducted into the Olympics anytime soon, and I’m not logging my miles or counting my steps, the truth is, we wog because it’s fun.

I’m not really the type to buy a watch to tell me it’s time to get moving.

My dull state of mind, and inability to type a sentence, are clear enough to me.

Spending time outside, I begin to see the world with clarity again; the fog lifts. Oh, and there go those nerve synapses in my head again; brain is still functioning after all.

It’s no wonder we go stir crazy in the winter, wondering where our lives are going, and combatting dull moods by devouring carbohydrates to keep ourselves sane.

Even the kids are wilder, with no outdoor recesses or time at the park.

The birds have the right idea here. But, I say, if you can’t fly south, (bundle up) and fly out the door, every chance you get. 

Some Stuff Isn’t Just Stuff: You Have the Proof

While spring cleaning has become a popular, annual event in homes far and wide, I started mine a little early this year.

The holidays were great, but they made me realize one thing: I have way too much stuff.

It’s amazing the things one can accumulate in life. In the three, short years I’ve lived in my house — and the ten years I’ve been married — the stuff has just piled up.

So, when we couldn’t open the door to our walk-in attic, we became slightly concerned, and realized it was time to take action.

I don’t consider myself a hoarder, but I do have a hard time letting go of things.

My husband just laughs at me.

He even labeled one of my totes, “Baby Clothes Rachael Can’t Part With.”

I do want it noted, I did just pair it down to one tote though. Props to me; I’m really getting good at this.

I’m pretty sure I could never be a minimalist, despite its lure of freedom. And I do know that stuff is just stuff, and we all have to give it up one day.

But, as much as I’d like to think I’m not tied to my personal possessions, it’s hard for me to see a future without the past.

Take for instance, I didn’t even know my great grandmother was a writer until the other day when my grandparents pulled out an old album with some of the articles she’d written for The Advocate newspaper in Baton Rouge, La.

I knew writing was in my blood because of my father, but, as it turns out, it hits me from both sides of the family.

No wonder I can’t escape it, as hard as my ability to procrastinate lets me try sometimes.

Thank goodness my grandparents are a bit like packrats.

But, truthfully, it becomes harder to whittle your stuff down, the older you get. You have more and more to preserve — an entire lifetime of memories.

And you think you will remember it all; but, it’s amazing how much you can forget.

My husband and I both have narrowed our lives from “before kids” down to one giant tote each.

Who knows, someday, our boys may actually want to know what we were like before we were parents … supposing there was such a time.

My youngest son certainly doesn’t seem too convinced. When I recalled something about my childhood to him the other day he said, “Mom, you were never a kid.”

And, yes, while this might seem to be true, I have proof otherwise.

I have pictures, horse show ribbons, love notes, and a T-shirt from second grade (I still wear) to prove that mothers were children once, too.

The hard truth about being a parent is that it turns you into a whole new genre: a sentimental hoarder.

When you’re young, you roll your eyes as your mother pulls out your second-grade poem and cries as she reads it to you.

Wow, talk about issues.

Then, one day you wake up and you literally can’t throw away a tiny Post-it that you son wrote “I love you mom” on in crayon before he could even spell.

Getting rid of my stuff is hard; getting rid of my kids’ stuff is almost impossible.

Sometimes, I even find myself going back and digging out things that I’ve tried to give or throw away.

It’s sad, really; I may be a lost cause.

But, when it’s hard to remember my lanky boys as round, chubby babies with rolls of thighs, all I have to do is pull out those tiny, itty-bitty, camo pants.

Suddenly, the smell of dirty diapers, sleepless nights, and rocking well-fed babies to sleep doesn’t seem so long ago.

I never really knew what life was all about until I saw it through the eyes of a mother.

A house is just a building, and — yes — stuff is just stuff. But the people inside the house, and the memories attached to the stuff, well, that’s what really matters.

Of course, you can’t hold on to everything. I’m a renounced advocate for spring cleaning (any time of year). But, I would suggest holding on to a few of those memories. Because, one day, you may want to look back on your journey, and see all the places you’ve been.

You’ve lived and loved, and you have the proof. 

Finding Your Own Path Through Swirling Snowflakes

The first official snowflakes have fallen.

While I’m not a big fan of winter, or the cold (as I have Raynaud’s and my fingers and toes like to turn purple in frigid conditions), I do like the way snowflakes look as they sprinkle out of the sky.

Snow reminds me of my childhood. I was born in the Texas panhandle, and needless to say, we had plenty of the white stuff during the winters. I loved building snowmen, eating snow ice cream, and making snow angels. 

Snow isn’t quite as much fun when you’re older. First, there’s cleaning the walkways, driving on slick streets, and, of course, all the wet clothes to wash when your kids run out to play.

But, I do enjoy watching the snow fall, leaving behind a world that’s pristine and white.

Snowflakes have three basic ingredients: ice crystals, water vapor and dust.

Yet, while all snowflakes are made of the same components — and are all six-sided — it’s not likely you will ever see two the same.  

In fact, scientists estimate the chances of two snowflakes being exactly alike are about one in one million trillion according to the National Center for Families Learning.

So why do snowflakes — even from the same clouds — end up being so different?

As snowflakes tumble through the air — swirling and spiraling — they take different paths to the ground. Each snowflake falls and floats through clouds with different temperatures and moisture levels, which shapes each snowflake in a unique way, says the National Center for Families Learning.

As I watched the first snowflakes drift down from the sky, I was reminded that we all have our own paths to take in life.

We each tumble and whirl in our own ways, but it’s ultimately our individual routes that help shape who we become.

We need to appreciate and respect the journeys of those around us. And, we’ve always got to remember that even though we’re different — just like the snowflakes — we’re alike in a lot of ways, too.

I hope when my children are grown, and look up at the sky to see the snowflakes fall, they will always think of me.

Sometimes we work so hard to make sure our children fit in, but we can’t be afraid to shine light on exactly what makes them different.

Because, therein lies the beauty.

It’s our differences — such as character, strengths and abilities — that make us stand out from the others.

We all shine and sparkle in our own ways; you just have to be brave enough to find and take your own path.

Will it be a white Christmas? It looks like they’re calling for rain. But, regardless, I’ll be looking out my window, waiting for the next snow, and the hope it brings. 

The “Other” Spelling Bee

My seven-year-old son came home and told me that one of his little friends — another boy mind you — in his first grade class said a bad word at school the other day.

I asked, “Oh, did he get in trouble?”

“No; nobody heard him except me.”

I looked at him, trying to decide if that was worry or excitement I detected in his voice.

Then he continued, “It was a really bad word.”

“OK. Well don’t repeat it.”

“But it was a really bad word,” he said. “Really bad. The h word. You know the one that starts with h – e …” Well, you know the rest.

I sighed — great — now he’s spelled it.

So, the next day he comes home and again tells me his friend said a bad word. “It’s a really bad word. You know the one that starts with s.”

He proceeded to spell it out for me. But I told him that really wasn’t necessary, I was more than familiar with the word.

By the next time he’s telling me about this friend — who I’m beginning to think my son has put on a pedestal for his ingenuity in language — I’ve realized for sure that this is a co-op mission. In fact, his friend may be the one to say the word, but then I’m pretty sure it’s my son who spends his recess period trying to sound out and then spell these words that they ought not be saying, or spelling, in the first place.

The take home message is that my son can spell; and, I’m so proud. If only he would use his powers for good instead of evil.

Or, perhaps if we lived in an alternate universe — that showcased the dark side of spelling bees — I’m quite sure my son would be the national champion.

This draws to my attention the fact that boys and girls are so vastly different. I remember the first time I said a bad word, (and it wasn’t anything like my son can spell); I cried for days.

But, I guess I should have had my first clue when my boys were drawn to the Stormtroopers instead of the Jedi. Boys idolize bad guys.

My son thinks he’s truly brilliant because spelling isn’t technically saying. It’s like he gets to deal the cards, but not gamble. No crime, no punishment.

I don’t know if I should applaud him, or be deeply afraid of this young mastermind. The other bad thing is that even I can’t even spell things out in my own house anymore. You know, I used to get by with spelling things out to my husband that I didn’t want the boys to know about or hear. Those days are long gone. Like I said, my boy can spell and sound things out quite well.

A blessing, and yet, a curse.

And, as much as I love the fact that he has an inquisitive mind and a love for learning, I told him for now, we need to take a break from spelling bad words. I don’t want him to showcase his talents at school or, heaven forbid, Sunday school.

Last year, I thought it was great as I stacked up his full semester of perfect spelling tests. Yes, he got all his words correct for his entire Kindergarten year. Now, I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good thing? And no, I’m not quite sure where he gets his talents from.