An...acquaintance...of mine sent me this the other day, and I laughed so hard reading it that it just had to be shared. It has been edited very slightly for the sake of certain involved parties, but the spirit of the thing has been preserved. Enjoy!
...I set off for Different Town. We decided to eat Chinese... At first I told the Husband to pick up the order, and I would meet him at the B & B [place where we stay when we're in Different Town]. Then I realized that if it were the Husband, HE would have picked up the food on the way in and brought it 'home'. I was merely accustomed to being spoiled as a "lady" and not out and around after dark if I could help it (my thoughtful husband's behest). So I called him back, said I would pick up the food, chatted with Mrs. Chinese Restaurant Owner and exclaimed over her children (now quite good-looking, both of them), then set off home with a bag of aromatic lo mein, honey chicken and rice and a large [supposedly] Diet Pepsi. (It turned out to be a Dr. Pepper, fuel on the fire, fuel on the fire.) I arrived to a darkened B & B with sounds of banjo music mixing in with announcer calls most consistent with Fight Night. I entered the kitchen side, food in hand, and was greeted by my loving husband who had leapt up from his sofa, put down his banjo, and come to relieve me of the food the moment he heard my [dulcet] tones inquiring as to his whereabouts. This is the point at which disaster struck.
I made Wife Mistakes Numbers 1 and 2: 1)Making assumptions (in this case, making the assumption that he would realize I was hauling in stuff from my car) and 2)Expecting understanding without clarification (in this case, expecting he would realize that just like the other 52 times or so that I've arrived at the B & B I would, indeed, have various gear, food and sundries to haul into the edifice).
I returned to the car to pile even more (and heavier) articles into my arms. I turned around, no husband was in sight. Well, he's just putting the food up a bit slowly, perhaps. I entered the kitchen to be greeted with an almost identical situation: darkness with echoes of banjo music and announcer quips. I proceeded to shuffle my feet somewhat noisily. Ah. Almost instant results. The Man comes out before I've completely traversed the floor to relieve me of my burdens. "Is there more?" he asks, innocently. Of course there's more. I've taken on his tendency to travel with not just clothing, but books, electrical gear, musical instruments and food, as well as anything that strikes my fancy as I glance through the house one last time before setting the alarm (this is when the kitchen sink makes it into the car....). I am now quite perturbed. It's past 8, I'm hungry, thirsty and tired and have more gear to unpack. I turned to make yet another trip to the car. 10 feet became 20, 30 pounds became 60, in my irritation.
Unfortunately, Mrs. B&B Owner's very carefully timed lights are not timed for darkness. As I stepped out into darkness, I forgot the 1" drop from stoop to driveway, lost my balance, fell onto my right knee and left palm, scraping both. As I writhed in temporary pain, the Husband called out, "Are you all right?" I writhed a little longer, granted mostly for effect and [righteous] consolation. It was not to be. As I picked myself up, having ascertained I'd received only the most minimal of injuries and even less consolation from my fight-night-distracted husband, I replied in what I thought was a voice laced and dripping with irony, "Oh, I can handle the rest of it by myself." Remember the Wife Mistakes above? He took me at my word and I ended up hauling in my heavy suitcase by myself. (Never mind that I had earlier hauled it to the car and loaded it myself, a more difficult task. My status as a trophy wife was, at this moment, precarious and endangered!!) This time when I entered, there was no activity whatsoever in the kitchen. Why should there be? The Husband had served himself and speedily returned to watching his fight. And then he wondered why I was mad the rest of the evening.
To add insult to injury, I went to church the next evening and the readings were too appropriate:
"Wrath and anger are hateful things,
Yet the sinner hugs them tight."
The only saving grace was that the Husband had gotten called in and wasn't there to nudge me in the ribs....
My slightly-insane life and times
Showing posts with label Guest Post. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guest Post. Show all posts
9/14/11
4/27/11
Welcome to Earth
In honor of my son's birthday, since this has filled my heart and mind since I read it, and nothing else could come close to being such a beautiful tribute, I present my only sister and her gorgeous words:
I remember when I learned about love.
It’s hard to think back to that one moment in time when your mind draws an association between an abstract concept and a concrete word. To remember when you thought to yourself “I am sad” or “this is what happy is.” I may not recall exactly when I learned what love was supposed to be and how to recognize its trappings, but I do remember when I learned about what love really was when it came from me in its purest form.
And it all started 8 years ago….
It seems impossible to come to this date without at some point in the day recounting the event of Evan’s birth. It was a wild tale that started 2 months before it was supposed to and ended with me babbling on the phone “Jesi’s…given birth!” to might-as-well-be-family who had the good grace not to laugh at me and/or have me committed (had I not been 17 at the time, I think that would’ve been the point at which someone would have handed me a stiff drink). There was a helicopter ride (not involving me), a car ride that almost ended in catastrophe (involving me), a father getting trapped in an elevator, two girls in prom dresses (who did not end up going to their prom), and a hotel that caught on fire. It was, needless to say, an eventful two days.
I will not pretend that the months leading up to it were easy for they were anything but. Everyone in the family was readjusting his or her course in life and it frequently resulted in flaring tempers and too many tears. We were changing as a family, in a state of metamorphosis, and in the process I think we all got a little bit lost in ourselves. I was not exempt and I fell inside myself out of pure selfishness.
However my selfish teenage world vanished the day my sister went into labor. My world became a hospital room. A sea of anxious faces. A person on the cusp of being. And a family. I was so fearful for my family that I simply didn’t have the space inside me to think about myself. And in those endless days I found that my love for my family was distilled to its purest form in the presence of fear. Love for my brother who I thought was too young to endure this. Love for my parents and their bravery as they had to let other doctors, strangers, take care of their baby girl. Love for my sister, whose pain and struggle was reflected in the faces of all my family members. And love for the tiny womb-held baby for whom I feared the most.
The story, as you know, has a happy ending. Evan arrived to us in time and grew to be a healthy, compassionate child with a distinctly un-childlike mixture of gravity and levity in him and a social insight far beyond his years. But in those days, eight years ago, while we waited on tenterhooks for news, good or bad, we did not know him yet. And yet, we knew that we feared for him and in that fear we grasped the strands of unadulterated love.
I am surprised no one was blown away by the collective sigh that was released when Evan was finally born in the wee morning hours of April 27th. The long wait had passed and Evan was finally with us. Of course, since he was so premature, he had to remain at the hospital but we felt that we had weathered the storm and the rest would be just some tricky sailing. While he was still in hospital, as a little “blue light special,” monitored by doctors and nurses and a revolving shift of watchful friends and family, my cousin Zach gave him a handmade card with a picture of the world and the words “Welcome to Earth.”
Every birthday is a reminder of that welcoming. Of how our anxious family tentatively welcomed him into the world, and how Evan – in a sense – likewise welcomed us back to Earth, back to ourselves. To a family that was irrevocably altered but stronger, tempered with the love that sometimes only fear can bring out.
That tiny, premature baby, born into love, has given back that love a million times over. His presence is a joy and his utter selflessness is a constant reminder to me of what true love is. I know there will be times when he’s older when he may say or do hurtful things, when he may grow weary of the constant stream of affection and attention the family throws at him, but I know that it will only be temporary. I know that it will come from a place of rebellion not from pure nastiness because he has nothing nasty inside. And I wonder if all the people who do, who carry ugliness inside them, I wonder if they do so because they were never properly welcomed to Earth.
I remember when I learned about love.
It’s hard to think back to that one moment in time when your mind draws an association between an abstract concept and a concrete word. To remember when you thought to yourself “I am sad” or “this is what happy is.” I may not recall exactly when I learned what love was supposed to be and how to recognize its trappings, but I do remember when I learned about what love really was when it came from me in its purest form.
And it all started 8 years ago….
It seems impossible to come to this date without at some point in the day recounting the event of Evan’s birth. It was a wild tale that started 2 months before it was supposed to and ended with me babbling on the phone “Jesi’s…given birth!” to might-as-well-be-family who had the good grace not to laugh at me and/or have me committed (had I not been 17 at the time, I think that would’ve been the point at which someone would have handed me a stiff drink). There was a helicopter ride (not involving me), a car ride that almost ended in catastrophe (involving me), a father getting trapped in an elevator, two girls in prom dresses (who did not end up going to their prom), and a hotel that caught on fire. It was, needless to say, an eventful two days.
I will not pretend that the months leading up to it were easy for they were anything but. Everyone in the family was readjusting his or her course in life and it frequently resulted in flaring tempers and too many tears. We were changing as a family, in a state of metamorphosis, and in the process I think we all got a little bit lost in ourselves. I was not exempt and I fell inside myself out of pure selfishness.
However my selfish teenage world vanished the day my sister went into labor. My world became a hospital room. A sea of anxious faces. A person on the cusp of being. And a family. I was so fearful for my family that I simply didn’t have the space inside me to think about myself. And in those endless days I found that my love for my family was distilled to its purest form in the presence of fear. Love for my brother who I thought was too young to endure this. Love for my parents and their bravery as they had to let other doctors, strangers, take care of their baby girl. Love for my sister, whose pain and struggle was reflected in the faces of all my family members. And love for the tiny womb-held baby for whom I feared the most.
The story, as you know, has a happy ending. Evan arrived to us in time and grew to be a healthy, compassionate child with a distinctly un-childlike mixture of gravity and levity in him and a social insight far beyond his years. But in those days, eight years ago, while we waited on tenterhooks for news, good or bad, we did not know him yet. And yet, we knew that we feared for him and in that fear we grasped the strands of unadulterated love.
I am surprised no one was blown away by the collective sigh that was released when Evan was finally born in the wee morning hours of April 27th. The long wait had passed and Evan was finally with us. Of course, since he was so premature, he had to remain at the hospital but we felt that we had weathered the storm and the rest would be just some tricky sailing. While he was still in hospital, as a little “blue light special,” monitored by doctors and nurses and a revolving shift of watchful friends and family, my cousin Zach gave him a handmade card with a picture of the world and the words “Welcome to Earth.”
Every birthday is a reminder of that welcoming. Of how our anxious family tentatively welcomed him into the world, and how Evan – in a sense – likewise welcomed us back to Earth, back to ourselves. To a family that was irrevocably altered but stronger, tempered with the love that sometimes only fear can bring out.
That tiny, premature baby, born into love, has given back that love a million times over. His presence is a joy and his utter selflessness is a constant reminder to me of what true love is. I know there will be times when he’s older when he may say or do hurtful things, when he may grow weary of the constant stream of affection and attention the family throws at him, but I know that it will only be temporary. I know that it will come from a place of rebellion not from pure nastiness because he has nothing nasty inside. And I wonder if all the people who do, who carry ugliness inside them, I wonder if they do so because they were never properly welcomed to Earth.
6/15/07
A Guest Post for Your Consideration
"My rant against a facebook group about kids in college classrooms"
By: my sister (sorry about the copyright or whatever, kiddo. Get your own blog...)
By: my sister (sorry about the copyright or whatever, kiddo. Get your own blog...)
So a while ago I came across a facebook group dedicated to keeping children of students out of the college classrooms. Their message was, if memory serves, three-fold: children are distracting, get a sitter, don't allow people who haven't paid for the privilege to sit in on a college class.
This particularly incensed me in that I have known parents who have had no choice but to take their children to class. I have even had to take my sweet, darling baby nephew to a voice lesson and he was an angel! Last minute cancellations and insufficient funds are among the myriad reasons why one might be compelled to bring their child to class.
The group complained about children being distracting to which I might answer that people in general are distracting. The world is distracting. Get over it. Harsh as it may seem, the classroom environment is rarely one that is free of diversions (with the possible exception of test days). I would find the antics of junior playing quietly with his cars in the corner no less enthralling than the kid who sits next to me talking to his buddy the whole time. And don't even try to tell me that everyone in the class is always focused 100% on the material being presented. And those who are should be used to narrowing the focus of their concentration.
Simply getting a sitter for one's child is not always an option. Many parents already have sitters in place or day care or preschool in which their children are enrolled. But complications with such plans are unavoidable, and there are the occasions where the parent is left without recourse to those secondary care providers. The parent is then left with the option of either remaining at home to care for the child, or taking that same child to class with them. I would hazard a guess that the grand majority of the time, the parent would opt to remain home with the child. It's not like anyone is all excited to bring their kid in the middle of somewhere where the kid isn't welcome.
But there are times when doing so is unavoidable. Sometimes it is imperative for one to attend class - like say for an important lecture or to pick up some materials or for a quiz. On days where it is critical for one to attend class, the addition of a child is what one may call a 'necessary evil'. However, as I have already speculated, I think that this is more than likely the exception rather than the rule to bringing one's child to class and as long as it is not a habitual occurrence I think it behooves the student population to demonstrate a modicum of tolerance. But that's just me.
The last complaint (I believe) was that students paid for the privilege of attending classes, and to bring someone in - even if that someone was a five year old who had no concept of the materials being discussed - who hadn't paid was cheapening the academic experience of the students. In making such assertions of course, they ignore the fact that many people who haven't paid to attend the class make appearances: potential students or even friends who just want to sit in on the class. Perhaps if these dissenters could adjust their thinking to include children as potential students there would be no problem. Then there is of course the fact that students' attendance is sketchy at best and if attendance is used to gauge the value of the class it appears variable by student. The fact that a parent would still want to attend class, even with a child in tow, would thereby imply that the class was of some value to that person. If paying a fee grants the privilege of attendance, then parents who've paid tuition should have the same right to attend class.
Accusations of bad parenting were lobbed by this group against the parents who bring their children to class, their argument being that kids will not enjoy sitting through a college class. If it was considered bad parenting on every occasion in which a parent brought a child somewhere where the latter would not enjoy it, then how many church outings, doctor's visits, car rides would be condemned as bad parenting? I would argue that the parent doing well in class - and by extension doing well in college and earning one's degree - is tied to the welfare of the child.
The existence of this group demonstrates a narrow-mindedness to the difficulties that arise when a person is both a student and a parent, particularly when one is a single parent. Decisions must be made while weighing the complex issues at hand, and parents deserve a little respect for their heroic efforts. Basically what I'm saying to this facebook group (who probably will never read a word of this rant) is that as long as this isn't a perpetual problem in the classroom, grow up and try to demonstrate a little sympathy and understanding. Trust me, you'll be better off for it.
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