Over the past few weeks, Mark and I have been getting our house ready to go on the market. People keep asking us where we are moving and to be honest, we don’t know yet. We have a general idea of the location in which we would prefer but we have not yet found our new home. After 17 years in our current house, we decided it is time to take a Leap of Faith which, if I am being perfectly honest, is both unnerving and exciting at the same time.
I have found myself reminiscing, a lot, over the past few months. Ever since Thomas and Leah were toddlers, I have measured their height, every few months, by making a mark in the door frame and writing their age juxtaposition to said mark. I love those notches in the door frame. When I am carrying a load of folded laundry into their rooms, I walk past the threshold and smile, thankful that my kids are growing and thriving. I re-painted nearly the entire house but saved the dreaded door frames for last. I was stalling, hesitant to cover up the notches that remind me of the fact that my children are growing up really fast. I recently decided that it was time to stop stalling and get the last of the painting completed, which included these door frames. At one time, I contemplated cutting out the door frame to take as a memento but, that would have required replacing the frame with new wood. Ultimately I decided that transferring the marks to something else would be my best bet.
Last Friday, I went to the craft store and bought a few pieces of thin ply-board to make cute little height rulers that the kids can continue to use for many more years to come. As I drove back from the craft store, I started thinking about how I brought my babies home to this sweet little house. I distinctly remember driving home in the car with my newborn baby boy strapped in his car seat, his head smelling like sugar cookies. I even remember the song that was playing on the radio as we pulled up to this house as a family of three. I have made it a tradition to measure the children every 6 months and I have fond memories of plucking them from the tub, freshly bathed, in their bathrobes, hair still wet, standing straight with their backs pressed against the doorframe, excited to see how much they had grown. Once I returned from the craft store, I made my way up the stairs, tears welling up in my eyes. I placed the ply board next to the doorframe and hesitantly transferred the marks denoting each significant milestone. Eventually, I lay the two ply boards side by side and compared Thomas’s growth to Leah’s growth. I chuckled out loud when I realized that Leah is taking after her mom because she is at least two inches taller than her brother was at the same age. She is my little amazon princess.
We rented one of those big storage PODS and started storing all of our extra stuff. We REALLY have a lot of extra stuff. We have made several trips to Goodwill to donate items that we don’t need and the rest is in the POD and so far, I don’t really miss anything that is being stored. At first, my kids were a little anxious about putting some of their extra toys and games into the POD but as time goes by, they seem to forget about it. I have taken this opportunity to teach my children that material things are not important. I have encouraged them to use their imagination and create games. Yesterday, Thomas spent hours outside, creating a make shift bow and arrow set from an old pair of shoe strings, a flimsy stick and some sharp rocks. Leah was pretending to make a fire with sticks and stones (something she saw on one of those survival shows that Thomas and I like to watch). They have both been real troopers. They understand that it is important to keep the house clean and neat until it sells.
We have fresh new carpet throughout. I have explained to my children that they should not wear their shoes inside the house because it is important to keep the carpet clean for the new owners. Okay, maybe it was more like a tiny threat that they would lose technology privileges if they wore their shoes inside but, regardless they heard me loud and clear. I have noticed that when my kids are outside playing and have to come inside for something, they get on their hands and knees and crawl ensuring that the bottoms of their shoes do not touch the carpet. I know what you are thinking. Why don’t your children just take off their shoes to walk through the house? I asked my son this same question and he explained that it would be too complicated to sit down, take off his shoes, walk to the bathroom and then sit down to put his shoes on again. Crawling on his hands and knees takes less time and effort on his part, the carpet stays clean and mom stays happy. Gotta love that boy! Maybe I’ll initiate this same rule at our new house.
The anxiety over leaving this place is beginning to subside. The kids are excited about the prospect of a new home even though we have no idea where that home will be and what it will look like. It is the thought and the dream of this new home that has us all excited. The other day Thomas said that the most important thing was to have all four of us together under one roof. I’m slowly detaching from this place because it is beginning to look different to me. The once light blue walls of my living room are now a neutral off white, covering the old scars of projectile Lego pieces and sticky fingers. The former soiled Berber carpet, that once held remnants of fur from our beloved dog, JJ, is now replaced with a soft beige shag carpet. The old kitchen cabinets previously stained a mid-1990s orangey oak, now shine with a more updated espresso stain. Leah keeps asking if her new house will come with new toys. Thomas hopes the new neighborhood has a pool. We are not picky people. I think most home buyers have a very specific idea in mind when they purchase a home. Perhaps they are set on a certain number of bedrooms, a certain amount of square footage, an updated kitchen, a garage, an open floor plan etc. Although we need more space for our kids as they grow we want much more than that.
I have come to the conclusion that the two most important assets of our new home are feeling safe and belonging to a community. When I talk about my current home I usually tell people that my children feel safe and they know the name of nearly every single person on the street. I realize that we have been quite fortunate to live on a street with so many fantastic neighbors and not being able to see them every day will be very hard for me, for all four of us. Last night, Mark confessed that despite all of the hard work over the past few weeks, he feels excited about this change. We are not sure how long it will take to sell this house and find our next home but we have faith that this leap will help us to embrace change and live more simply. With Martin Luther King Day quickly approaching I thought it would be most appropriate to end this blog post with a few of his wise words.
“You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”-Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Last week, I was reading an article on the Today Show website, regarding Bobbie Thomas’s struggle with infertility and her now wonderful news of being 12 weeks pregnant. During an interview with Kathy Lee and Hoda Kotb, Bobbie admitted to feeling “grateful, cautious and a little bit guilty”. She went on to explain that she felt an obligation to “remember” everything that she has been through over the past two years. My heart went out to Bobbie as the memories of my own infertility struggles began to resurface. My memories of those years are never far from the surface, always present, raw emotions of anger, pain and emptiness. These memories are a constant reminder of how grateful I am for my children. I found myself weeping as Bobbie shared her milestone of reaching the 12 week mark in her pregnancy. I still rememberthe pain and agony of infertility.
I still remember the weight gain, hot flashes, nausea and side effects from the overabundance of hormones and medications flooding my body.
I still remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror, huge bruises covering my thighs, hips and stomach from the daily shots, struggling to find a new injection site that was not already purple or tender from previous needles.
I still remember feeling as though the wind was kicked out of me when a friend or co-worker would announce their pregnancy.
I still remember when the infertility specialist told us that he could not explain the cause of our infertility, while I stifled tears, trying desperately to not appear vulnerable or desperate.
I still remember the 28 day emotional roller coaster, the giddy excitement that thiscould be the month and then, the heavy pangs of depression, when the vicious cycle would start all over again.
I still remember weeks turned into months, months turned into years, panicked with the thought that our chances of conceiving diminished with each passing day, while time continued to progress, agonizingly slow and incredibly fast at the same time.
I still remember the confusion from the multitude of pills, creams, needles, bottles and graphs that we were expected to keep track of.
I still remember the nights when Mark was working late and I had to give myself an injection, fighting through the angst, rising to the challenge, hoping for a positive outcome.
I still remember setting my alarm for 2:00 am, just so I could wake up and give myself yet another injection, that had to occur exactly 36 hours before a procedure, worrying that I would not hear the alarm and sleep through “my window” of opportunity, rendering the entire IVF process another failure.
I still remember the humiliation of explaining our infertility to other people, only to be told that we should just adopt or accept our fate as childless adults, and wanting desperately to slap those people across the face, choosing instead to swallow my rage and keep my thoughts to myself.
I still remember the isolation of infertility, the mostly unconscious cruel seclusion of the infertile from the fertile.
I still remember the anger I would feel when someone would inadvertently ask an insensitive question about why we did not have children, reminding us that we were not getting any younger.
I still remember how unfair it felt to spend so much money on a dream, and wanting so desperately for this dream to come to fruition, only to find out that we were once again unsuccessful.
I still remember feeling as though I were being punished, admonished of the inalienable human right to carry one’s own child and give birth.
I still remember the panic and excitement at being told we were having twins at the 7 week ultrasound, only to be plummeted into sorrow at 12 weeks, when we saw one healthy baby on the screen, and a second empty sac, completely devoid of the fetus that had been there only a few weeks before. It is so hard to describe what it feels like to be pulled between two very different emotions all at once, sheer joy for a healthy baby and grief for the loss of another baby.
I still remember the pictures of my future children as embryos, those tiny beautiful symmetrical circles, cells dividing and growing with each passing day, longing for them to survive and grow into the beautiful creatures they are today.
It’s been 12 years since we started the journey of becoming parents. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank god for the gift of Thomas and Leah. I am also so grateful for the opportunities that infertility has brought to my life, the opportunity to grow, evolve and appreciate what is most important in my life.
So Bobbie Thomas, it is okay to enjoy this time in your pregnancy. Go ahead and celebrate because you have earned it. Those of us on this end of the struggle understand why you feel grateful, cautious and a little bit guilty and that is okay because we know that you will NEVERforget.
This is a picture of a 3 day old Embryo, incredible to think that this is how we all start out.
Here is a link to the article if you are interested.
At 46 years of age, I am keenly aware that I am on the edge of the last half of my life on this earth. I don’t take it for granted. Most people would say they are middle aged because it makes them feel a little less vulnerable and I get that. I take good care of myself because I have two children and a husband that need me around for a very long time. I eat well (okay, sweets are my vice), I exercise, maintain a healthy weight, limit caffeine and alcohol, I don’t smoke or do drugs and I always get my annual mammogram. I have had one every year since I was 39 years old. I know my risks. I have a familial history of breast cancer, my first pregnancy was after 30, my breasts are apparently very dense and lord knows what I put my body through from the endless injections, hormones and medications associated with two years of fertility treatments.
Last Friday I made the annual trek to the imaging center. I always have a good experience. The techs are professional, gentle and efficient. I am usually in and out in 20 minutes and then I am on my way, until next year. This year was a little different. Three days after my mammogram, I received a call.
The cell phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number so I let it go to voicemail. A few minutes later my phone buzzed with a voicemail so I listened. It was a woman, named Nell, from the imaging center asking me to return her call. My heart sank and I felt a little nauseous. I immediately returned her call and identified myself. She did not waste any time.
“Mrs. Brandenburger, we found something….on your mammogram results.”
I froze, my stomach flipped and my heart skipped a beat.
“Okay.” That was all I could say at the moment as my brain desperately tried to comprehend and process what she was saying.
Nell was very skilled. It was obvious to me that she delivers this kind of news on a regular basis. She was calm, matter of fact, and thorough. Every time I thought of a question, she would answer before I even got a chance to ask. Nell is really good at what she does and probably deserves a raise.
She went on to explain that because my breasts are particularly dense, sometimes shadows or masses may appear as the tissue folds over on itself. She also explained that women often have benign cysts that are completely harmless but, given my familial history and other risk factors, she was recommending a more thorough 3D mammogram and ultrasound. She made an appointment for me, three days later at the Sarah Cannon Cancer institute. The fact that the title of the facility includes the word “cancer” was extremely unnerving and made me want to throw up.
I immediately texted Mark. My husband, who knows me better than anyone, responded in the only way that would make me feel better. He texted a funny meme about how fabulous my breasts are and I laughed out loud.
For three days, I suppressed my feelings. I was determined to think positive thoughts, go on about my day and not put anything negative out into the universe. It was really freakin’ hard. In fact, it was impossible to not think about the what if.
As I pulled into the parking lot and saw the letters on the outside of the brand spanking new medical building of the Sarah Cannon Cancer Institute, a chill ran up my spine and I felt nauseous again.
Taking a deep breath I soldiered on, walking into the building to the registration desk. I spent the next 20 minutes filling out paperwork and answering some of the same questions I had already answered at last weeks’ mammogram.
Do you have a family history of breast cancer?
Do you have a medical directive?
What is your insurance?
When was your last period?
Who is your primary care provider? And so on and so on.
She explained that the medical center requires a deposit of $100 because we had not met our deductible for the year. She told me that insurance would likely cover most of it and we would receive a bill for any outstanding payment. I swallowed hard as I remembered that Leah’s swim team registration is due next week, we just had the driveway sealed, Thomas needs new shoes for Parkour and I need to start looking at registering the kids for summer camps. I reluctantly handed her my credit card and she placed one of those hospital bands on my arm similar to what you receive when you are admitted for surgery.
In the lobby of the registration desk, a TV was tuned into one of those HGTV house hunting shows. Featured was an annoying couple in their late 20s. The husband had way too much gel in his thinning hair and the wife was dressed like she was a contestant on The Bachelor. They quickly realized they were in way over their heads but they had a first time home buying budget of $750,000! What the hell?
After registering, I was sent upstairs to another waiting area and greeted by a nice lady who put more paperwork in front of me with more questions, many of which were the same as the registration desk questions. I sighed, looked up and saw a little table in the corner with a Keurig and a shiny tray lined with Starbucks cookies. I wasn’t hungry but I needed something for my stomach to digest because I was nauseous again.
I handed my paperwork over to the greeter who then walked me back to a changing area, instructing me to undress from the waste up. She handed me a robe and one of those alcohol wipes to remove the deodorant from my underarms. Once I was undressed, robed and deodorantless (yes, I just made up that word), I waited.
After about five minutes, another woman greeted me politely, leading me to a locker room where she suggested I store my coat and purse. After securing my personal items she lead me to another waiting area to wait once more. I spotted a People magazine and on the cover was Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. I flipped through the pages, glancing at pictures of celebrities on the beach, a red carpet event and movie stars eating lunch in restaurants. I scanned an article about a man whose two children have been missing for two years and he swears that his wife knows where they are. My stomach was churning and my hands began to shake from nervous energy. I tossed the magazine onto the table, pulled out my phone, and glanced through Facebook posts, an attempt to occupy my mind.
Eventually a pregnant radiology tech, named Sara, greeted me and led me to another room. As we walked, I asked her how far along she was. She told me this was her second pregnancy and she was due in June. I smiled at the distraction of her story as she manipulated my breast and body to conform to the position I needed to be in for my boobs to be squeezed into pancakes. She was very nice and I was grateful that she did most of the talking because I was trying hard to suppress the fear, willing myself to not feel vulnerable and cry.
As the glass shield clamped down, the muscles in my neck and chest strained against the firm tug. I held my breath, as instructed, and waited until the machine released me from it’s grasp. Sara explained that the radiologist would review the 3D image and I would know something in about 10 minutes. As she walked me back toward another waiting area, she indicated that typically the 3D image is efficient enough to ascertain a negative result, meaning that I would likely not need an ultrasound. She wished me luck and walked away, leaving me to sort through several more outdated and torn magazines. I glanced at my phone and took note of the time. Ten minutes, she said. That won’t be so bad.
Almost exactly 10 minutes later another tech peeked her head around the corner and introduced herself.
“Hi there, I am Nancy. I am going to be doing your ultrasound today.”
Wait, what? I thought to myself because I was too shocked to actually speak the words. Didn’t Pregnant Sara say the 3D image would be enough? Didn’t she say that I would not need an ultrasound? I felt the panic rise from my stomach, to my chest, my throat and my face. I was sweating like a horse and the fact that I had removed my deodorant with that freezing cold alcohol pad made me worry that I probably smelled as bad as my 12 year old son’s laundry.
Nancy led me to a dark room with an ultrasound machine next to a bed. She gently encouraged me to lie down on my back and put my right arm above my head. I did as she said, while fighting back the tears and anxiety that were beginning to take over. She was polite and professional, guiding me along with what she needed to do to perform the ultrasound. She squeezed an ample amount of gel onto my right breast and began to move the wand to capture the ultrasound image. Although the gel was warm, it was unsettling and somewhat irreverent. The tears that blurred my vision began to flow down the side of my face, across my temple and into my hair line as I silently cried, hoping that she would not notice. I resisted the urge to wipe at my face because then it would be obvious that I was crying. Nancy suddenly paused, reached over my head for something that I could not see and placed a box of tissues in front of my face, smiling gently with calm and kind eyes. And that is when the flood gates opened. Every ounce of suppressed trepidation came flowing out of me all at once and I sobbed, wiping at my eyes and blowing my nose, while Nancy softly encouraged me.
“Go ahead and cry. This is a safe place for tears and fears.” she said.
“I’m sorry. I have been holding it in for days.” I said between sobs.
“I know this might not be the best time to spout out statistics but in 80% of the cases, the results indicate nothing to worry about.” Nancy said as she began to move the wand once again up and down and around my breast. I thought to myself, but what if this is one of the 20% cases?
Eventually, she finished the ultrasound and informed me that the radiologist would deliver the results in just a few minutes. Then she quietly left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving me to process my fear all alone. I took several deep breaths and used one of the grounding exercises that I encourage my son to use when he is having an anxiety attack. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my mind and regulate my breathing. Eventually there was a knock at the door.
A woman, about my age walked in and introduced herself as the radiologist. She smiled and handed me a clean tissue to wipe the tears that were beginning to dry up. Working quickly and efficiently, she spread more of the warm gel onto my breast, guided the wand up, down and around a few times as I continued to take deep breaths to calm my nerves.
“Well Mrs Brandenburger, everything appears to be normal.” she said with a warm smile.
And the waterworks started again. She handed me another tissue as she explained that my dense breast tissue, made the conclusion more challenging. Apparently the original tech saw a shadow that was most likely dense tissue folder over on itself.
As the tension left my body, I thanked all of the staff for their diligence, dressed myself and walked swiftly to my car, texting my husband that I and my healthy breasts were headed home! On the drive home, the sun seemed a little bit brighter and the spring blossoms a little more colorful.
When I drove up to the house, Leah, who had been riding her bike, hopped off and ran over to give me a hug, nearly bringing me to my knees with gratitude. I kissed my husband who made a silly remark about his willingness to conduct daily breast exams on me because it’s best to be “proactive”. I walked into the kitchen and on the counter was a cute little stainless steel wine tumbler that I had recently mentioned I wanted. Mark had wrapped it with a note that said “Happy Healthy Boobies Day”. My breasts may be a little more deflated after breastfeeding two babies but they are still healthy and I am so grateful.
Beautiful women of the world, please don’t forget to do regular self exams and get your mammograms. We need more healthy boobies out there! From now on, April 5 will be officially known as Healthy Boobie Day in my house!
I am a child of the 70s and 80s, more specifically, a southern child of the 70s and 80s. I grew up in a farming community in eastern North Carolina where cotton and tobacco fields stretched far and wide. I knew the names of every single one of my neighbors and everyone went to church on Sunday. Our community was filled with hard working people who looked out for one another.
Most of us had lived in that community for generations and generations, children attending the same schools and churches as their parents, grandparents and great grandparents. If you opened a local phone book, there were pages and pages of the same surnames, Hardison, Manning, Roberson, Leggett and Griffin. I used to think that I had hundreds of cousins because so many of my classmates neighbors and teachers shared my last name. I played with the other kids in my community endlessly, for hours. We built tree forts in the woods behind our homes and played in the water logged ditches in front of our houses when it rained in the summer. We would wave to the farmers as they drove their tractors and combines down the road in front of our house and told stories of being chased by a neighbor’s German Shepherd who ran loose, barking and growling at us kids when we got too close to his property. To this day, I am still petrified of German Shepherds. The majority of the boys played baseball in the spring and football in the fall. Many of the girls took ballet and dance lessons and cheered for the boy’s teams. We all had the same eastern North Carolina accent, distinctive in it’s drawl and dialect. We dressed the same and ate the same delicious home cooking because our mamas shared recipes. All the women and girls had perms, many of which were done at home instead of a hair salon. It was a wholesome place to grow up and I can honestly say has shaped me into who I am today.
Even though there was always someone to play with and some adventure to be had, I found myself daydreaming often. I was an introverted book worm who enjoyed reading, writing short stories and playing alone with my barbies in my room. Both my brother and I were naturally curious about others, very creative and had huge imaginations. We found outlets through the local community theater, music and like so many of us children from the 70s and 80s, the world of television sitcoms.
I have fond memories of plopping down in front of the TV at 8:00 pm, just in time to watch our favorite sitcoms. Growing up in a conservative southern community, I did not have much exposure to other cultures and religions therefore the sitcoms of the 70s and 80s were a way for me to fuel my natural curiosity. Three’s Company was a riot. The concept of a man and two women living together in a platonic relationship was not something that was done in my community. I loved watching John Ritter’s physicality and I thought he was a comedic genius. I had a huge crush on Michael J Fox in Family Ties but, who didn’t? The hippie parents on that show were fascinating to me. Different Strokes introduced me to a type of family in which I had never interacted. I would giggle at the antics of George in The Jefferson’s and wondered what it would be like to live in a high rise apartment in New York. My brother and I would do impersonations of the actors from Perfect Strangers. We memorized the scenes between “Cousin Larry” and Balki Bartokomous, endlessly acted them out, laughing until we had tears in our eyes and our stomach muscles ached. After watching the sitcoms, I would often retire to my room and write a short story based on one of the TV characters or daydream about what it would be like to live in their shoes for a day.
We lived in that same small farming community until 1986, when my dad got a new job in Charlottesville, Virginia. I was a rising freshman and Greg, a rising junior. We were scared out of our minds to move away from everything and everyone we had known but secretly, I was also really excited about the new opportunities because I knew there was more to this world and I wanted to experience all of it.
We were enrolled in Albemarle High School and those first few months were really tough for a shy 14 year old girl with a thick North Carolina accent and a bad perm. Charlottesville, although relatively small, is quite eclectic and liberal. The University of Virginia draws a lot of students and professionals from all over the country and different parts of the world, hence my high school was comprised of their offspring. All of my classmates were so exotic to me. Their accents were different, their clothes were different, their religions were different and their cultures were different. I met kids who were Jewish, Catholic and agnostic. I met kids who were “transplants” just like me. They too had moved from other parts of the country, and had their own accents, fashion trends and cultures and none of them sounded like me.
I was thrust into a world of diversity and, at times, I found it overwhelming as my brain quickly processed the differences and scanned for the similarities among my peers. These kids were raised with different family values, their last names were hard to pronounce and spell and we were the only Hardisons in the phone book. Every year, when the new phone books were printed, I quickly scanned the pages for another entry that matched our surname and inevitably, never found what I was looking for. Eventually, I learned to appreciate the fact that I was one of a kind in my new school. On a side note, I have married a man with a surname that is typically the ONLY one in the phone book….kind of funny how that worked out.
My school had so many different options for sports teams, many of which I had never been exposed to or even heard of. Field hockey, lacrosse and soccer were not sports that were traditionally played in the small community in which I was raised. I was intrigued that so many of the girls in my school participated in the sports teams rather than choosing to cheer or dance. These girls were more sure of themselves, and many did not have perms, even though it was the 80s, go figure. They chose to wear their hair in it’s natural state….the horror! It would take another three years for me to totally give up on perms. I missed the kids I grew up with, I missed the woods behind my house and I longed for some familiarity among my peers. As I adjusted to my new school and community, I learned to cope in a number of ways, one of which was watching sitcoms. A month after our move to Charlottesville, I sat down to watch a new sitcom that was airing on CBS, Designing Women.
It was a new sitcom about four women in the south. I was smitten with the characters, Mary Jo’s sarcasm, Suzanne’s self-absorption, Charlene’s naivete and Julia’s sophistication. I loved everything about it, the accents, the perms, the food, the eccentrics and the familiarity of our shared southern heritage was comforting to me. Even though Charlottesville is technically located in the south, it felt millions of miles away from eastern North Carolina. I had found a television show that merged the love for my southern roots and introduced me to issues and topics that challenged me to see things from a different perspective. Over the next several years, I would watch the sitcom every week, soaking up the humor. I once wrote and submitted an assignment for a high school creative writing class based on the Designing Women sitcom. It was hysterical and if I recall, my teacher gave me an A for the assignment. The writing for the show was ahead of it’s time in terms of the topics addressed including AIDs, homosexuality, male chauvinism, negative southern stereotypes, politics, religion and mental illness to name a few. Mary Jo, Suzanne, Charlene and Julia took on each topic with courage, intelligence and wit. It was my first experience watching a cast of women challenge the negative stereotypes of the south while taking on politics and social injustice. Designing Women showed viewers that southern women can be brave, perceptive and funny. Even though I loved all of the characters, Julia Sugarbaker was my favorite. She was sophisticated and sharp-tongued and I loved watching her unleash on a narrow minded racist or an unsuspecting misogynist.
Today, I was browsing through social media and saw a clip of Julia Sugarbaker. In the video clip, she was challenging a male political opponent who had made some assumptions about her liberal views. I watched the clip over and over again and showed it to my son, explaining the relevance it holds 30 years later. Even the name of the sitcom, Designing Women, implies so much more than four gorgeous women performing for a few laughs. The term designing means inventing, planning and creating. I started to see the parallels with has been happening in our country regarding politics, especially those specific to women including reproductive rights, equal pay and sexual misconduct. I grabbed my computer, which I had not turned on for two weeks because well, it’s Christmas break, and I started typing. It’s been thirty years and we are still arguing about some of the same issues, drawing lines in the sand, making assumptions and stereotyping.
Today is the first day of a new year and I could not be more excited to put 2017 behind me. I hope and pray that our leaders, on both sides, will find the common ground and stop drawing lines in the sand, making assumptions and stereotyping. I hope they will begin designing, inventing, planning and creating options that will make everyone feel safe and keep us healthy. And with that, I wish everyone a Happy New Year and I leave you with this quote from the fabulous Julia Sugarbaker of Designing Women.
“One of the things I pray for is that people with power will get good sense and people with good sense will get power and that the rest of us will be blessed with the patience and the strength to survive people like you in the meantime.”
Here is a clip to the video I referenced, if you are so inclined.
I have had the most fun, browsing through old Designing Women clips and laughing until I cried.
Last week, when I heard the news regarding the sexual misconduct of a prominent movie executive I was not shocked. I was disgusted, incensed and hopeless but, not shocked. As a 45 year old woman, I have witnessed and experienced enough sexual harassment that shock, unfortunately, will never be my first reaction.
I feel disgusted because I know that sexual harassment occurs every single day to woman, teenage girls, pre-teen girls and, sadly, even little girls.
I feel incensed because it is 2017 and women STILL suffer in silence because they are scared to speak up about it.
I feel hopeless because sometimes I think it will never get any better and I worry about what kind of world my daughter will have to face as a pre-teen, teenager and grown woman.
Last night, I was browsing through social media and came across a post that said the following:
Because our silence will not protect us. ME TOO. If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ME TOO, as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.
I immediately copied the post and shared it on Facebook. Slowly, over the next 24 hours I noticed more and more women sharing and posting ME TOO. The familiar pangs of disgust, incense and hopelessness surfaced but, I still was not shocked.
All too often, young girls have their first experience with unwanted advances when they are much too young to comprehend what is happening and too innocent to realize it was not their fault. As young teenagers, our bodies reach their sexual maturity far sooner than our brains are ready to comprehend what is happening. Just as teenage girls are getting used to their new curves, they become intensely aware of how others begin to judge the shape and size of their new bodies. As older women, it’s important that we remind our up and coming young women that their bodies are amazing! A woman’s body brings life into the world, it feeds children, it nurtures, it runs, it sleeps, it is strong, and it is resilient.
This past June our family enjoyed the first few weeks of summer with almost daily visits to our neighborhood pool. One particularly hot afternoon my six year old daughter asked me if I would buy her a bikini. My first thought was Hell no, you are way too young to be wearing a sexy bikini! Of course, I chose to keep that thought to myself and simply said, No honey.
She put her hands on her hips and said, “Why not?” she went on to explain to me that it had been really hot and her one piece made her tummy feel sweaty. She also explained to me, quite eloquently, that when she had to use the bathroom it was really hard to take off and put back on a wet one piece. She rationalized that a two piece would keep her cooler and she would not have to spend so much time in the bathroom. That is when I had an epiphany. I realized that sometimes we start to shame girls about their body at a very young age. For God’s sake Nickie, I thought to myself. She is just hot and wants to be able to get in and out of the bathroom without having to squeeze her body into a wet bathing suit like a wiggling sausage. It was that simple. So we went to Kohl’s and she picked out a sporty bikini that was sure to stay put when jumping off the diving board and surfing at the beach. Some days, I struggle with how to explain the school’s dress code when Leah chooses to wear a spaghetti strap sundress when it is still 90 degrees in September. For now, I’m just grateful that I can blame the air conditioning on why she has to wear a t-shirt under that spaghetti strap sundress. I know that these experiences are only the beginning for her and that scares the crap out of me.
As a mother of a tween boy who is quickly approaching puberty, I have a moral obligation to teach him to not only respect women but to stand up when he sees other boys being disrespectful to girls. This past spring, I received a call from his school about an incident he had with another boy. Apparently, another male student called a girl a whore and a slut. Thomas saw the girl’s reaction and he immediately confronted the other boy. As you would expect, the situation quickly escalated resulting in some pushing and shoving. I realize that school has a no tolerance policy for physical aggression and as responsible parents we talked with our son about his actions. At the same time, I was secretly super proud of him for defending the girl in front of the entire class even if it meant getting in trouble. It know that he is not perfect and one day he may very well find himself in a situation where a girl is uncomfortable with something he has said. I just hope and pray that he will own up to his mistakes and make it right. He has a great role model in his father, who is one of the most respectful men I have ever met. I love that the other moms in the neighborhood and his female students can talk to Mark without feeling uncomfortable, without feeling judged and without feeling disgusted, incensed or hopeless. I watch the way my husband respectfully interacts with women and I know that Thomas is watching as well.
It is so easy to place blame on women. It was the way she was dressed, she was drinking alcohol, she went willingly to his hotel room. That is total crap! I have been standing in the middle of the produce section at the grocery store, in sweats with my greasy hair pulled into a sweaty bun on the top of my head, no makeup, no shower while picking out bananas to bring home to my family and some jerk has felt the need to comment on my ass and remind me that the bananas I just picked up are smaller than his manhood. I can remember being cornered, at 22 years of age, by a 50 year old male co-worker who felt the need to comment on my looks and tell me how sexy I was, just before we entered a board room for a team meeting. I can remember the time I was at a bar with a group of friends and someone grabbed my bottom from behind. I turned around and faced a group of at least 10 men and every single one of them pretended as though they did not see what had just happened. They were just as guilty as the jerk who grabbed me. It is because of these countless incidents that I am no longer shocked when I read the headlines about another man who has gotten away with sexual harassment or sexual assault. It is also because of these countless incidents, 45 years of experience and the benefit of middle aged wisdom and confidence that I can spot these jerks from miles away. That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen to me anymore because it does, way too much to count. It’s just that I can handle it better than I could when I was in my 20s and that, my friends, is the sad truth behind why it no longer shocks me to hear about sexual harassment.
To all the brave men who confront the behavior when they see it, thank you for having our backs! To all the brave mothers and fathers raising boys and girls, please continue to teach our children about respect for one another. To all the brave women who are speaking up and telling their stories, power on you amazing Wonder Women and by the way….ME TOO!
June 21st is one of my favorite days of the year. It is the first day of summer, the longest day of the year (summer solstice) and it is the anniversary of my marriage to my best friend. Today is our 20 year anniversary. Holy Cow, that is a long time but sometimes it feels like it has flown by. Mark and I met in 1988 and were friends for eight years before we began dating. He has been a part of my life for almost 30 years and it’s hard to recall a memory that does not involve him in some capacity.
Our son has started to show a slight interest in the opposite sex therefore resulting in some interesting conversations. The other day, the topic of girlfriends came up. Mark explained to our boy that there might come a day when he begins to like a girl in more than a friend sort of way. He explained to Thomas the possibility that the girl may only think of Thomas as a friend.
“Buddy”, Mark explained, “some day you might find yourself in the Friend Zone.”
Mark proceeded to explain to our first born, that sometimes it might take a loooong time for that girl to realize that she is ready to move a guy out of the Friend Zone. He told Thomas that when that day comes, it will be worth the wait, even if the wait is eight years. Clearly my dear husband was referencing our eight year friendship prior to me finally realizing that what I needed and what I wanted in a partner was right under my nose and he had been there for eight years.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to an acquaintance. She has been divorced for a couple of years and is still trying to navigate co-parenting with her ex husband. She explained that she and her ex had been very driven by their careers and after having children, the pressures of working and raising kids became too much to handle.
“Our parenting was uneven. We both worked full time but whenever the kids needed one of us it was always me that had to take the time off from work. He never shared that responsibility.” She went on to explain that the inequitable workload in their parenting relationship eventually led to the demise of their marriage. I listened intently, feeling genuine empathy for her while at the same time feeling extremely fortunate.
“I’m so sorry.” I said.
“You know, you and Mark, you guys always seem so equal in your relationship. You really balance each other out.” She said with a smile and perhaps a slight hint of envy.
And it was at that moment that I started thinking about my marriage over the past 20 years. I sometimes think in images and I could not help but see our 20 year marriage as a balance scale. There have been times when one side might have been carrying more weight for a short time but eventually the other side would begin to bulk up, lightening the load so that the balance could be established once again.
Mark and I do balance each other out and this is why…..
We were friends first. We had eight years of friendship under our belt before we decided to take it to the next level. That friendship has served as an anchor for many storms over the years. When you are friends with your spouse, you understand one another, there is harmony and companionship in the relationship.
He prioritizes his children’s needs. After a long day of teaching children, that are not his own, he comes home and immediately asks me what I need. Whether it is powering through homework with the kids, driving Thomas to after school activities or taking Leah to the doctor, he will do what needs to be done. Last week, Leah had her first swim meet and he knew how important it was to be there. He came straight home after work, skipping his afternoon workout at the YMCA and rushed over to the pool. I was volunteering for the first half of the meet so he was responsible for keeping track of Leah until she swam her first heat. At one point during the evening, I walked over to talk to Mark who was chatting with some of our neighbors. One woman asked him why he was still dressed in his work clothes when it was a sweltering 90 degrees outside. That was the first time I noticed that he was wearing thick khaki pants and a long sleeve shirt, sweat beading on his forehead. I knew the answer to her question before Mark could even respond. He knew I needed and wanted him there for Leah’s first swim meet, and changing clothes to make himself more comfortable was not important. Getting to his daughter’s swim meet was his first priority. His priorities are always in line with mine.
He works hard. It goes without saying that teachers have difficult yet rewarding jobs. They choose the profession to make a difference in the lives of their students. It never fails, every time I start to get cynical about the fact that we live pay check to pay check and Mark has not had a raise in years, I am reminded of why he teaches. We live in the same community in which his students live. Everywhere I go, I see my husband’s influence. There have been days when I am at the grocery store and the clerk takes my credit card to swipe it and sees my last name. They usually look at me with a squinty side glance and say something to the effect of “Are you related to….” and I usually answer the question before they are finished asking. “Yes I am, he is my husband.” They ALWAYS smile and say something like “Mr. B. was my favorite teacher.” or “He is so funny.” or “I didn’t have Mr. B. for health and PE but my friend did and I was so jealous!” or “He is the best dancer.” or “I hated PE until I had Mr. B.” My kids think their father is a rock star because everywhere we go, we run into his current or former students. They are waiters at restaurants, lifeguards at the pool, members of our church, neighbors, and some are even friends now that they are grown ups and have families of their own (that makes me feel really old). When I am at the pool chatting with neighbors, the parents of Mark’s students frequently mention how wonderful a teacher he is. They share stories of how he has challenged their son to meet a fitness goal or encouraged their daughter to be proud of her body just the way it is. Recently one of Mark’s former students reached out to us about her upcoming wedding. He was her volleyball coach at Highland Springs high school for four years back in the early 2000s. As she and I messaged one another about the details, she told me how important it was to her to have Mark present at her wedding. She explained that he had been a father figure to her during high school and she wanted him to know how much his presence in her life meant to her. I cried like a baby, reminded of how hard he works to do the right thing for his students. He has a strong work ethic, as do I.
He is self-assured and does not feel the need to prove his masculinity. He is not scared to show his emotions. He refuses to watch scary movies because of how they make him feel and he always cries at sad movies. He will buy me tampons and keeps a variety box of feminine hygiene products in his classroom for female students who get surprised when they start their period earlier than expected. When we were struggling with infertility, he never once complained about the tests he was required to undergo to determine our diagnosis. We eventually turned to In Vitro Fertilization (IVF). Anyone familiar with the IVF process can tell you that it is one of the most difficult and laborious medical procedures any couple can face. The intimacy of creating a child, in the traditional sense, is completely devoid in the IVF process. It is humiliating to have every aspect of the reproductive process (both male and female) manipulated by medical professionals. Mark never complained. He did what was asked of him and was able to keep his sense of humor throughout the process. We still have inside jokes about the IVF process, which I intend to keep between the two of us because let’s face it, nothing about IVF is private.
He is empathetic. If I am struggling with something, he feels the need to suffer along with me. After I gave birth to Thomas, I was overwhelmed with fatigue, anxiety and worry. Getting up every two hours to nurse a newborn was extremely challenging. The first week after Thomas was born, Mark insisted on getting up with me every two hours. He would get me water, food, and note the time so that we could report to the doctor how often Thomas was nursing. Initially, I found it a bit annoying but in retrospect I realize it was because he wanted to share the burden. He did not want me to think that I was suffering alone.
He is gentle and kind. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. I rarely see him angry and even then it looks more like annoyance rather than anger. Our daughter has him wrapped around her little finger. When she wakes in the middle of the night and needs some comfort, it is her daddy that she asks for because she knows he will always come. Leah has him trained well. All that all she has to do is come to his side of the bed, tap him on the shoulder until he wakes, turn and walk back to her room. She knows that her daddy will follow on her heels and crawl into her bed to snuggle until she falls back to sleep.
He is hysterical and ridiculously witty. We have a LOT of inside jokes and he never misses an opportunity to make light of even the most difficult situations. He can remember and recite lines from movies and his impressions of people is always spot on. His humor is not only bust a gut funny but it is also cleverly funny. Sometimes his wit is so over my head that I need him to break it down and explain to me on a level that I can understand. Once I understand the logic and intellect behind the joke, then I bust a gut laughing.
He is incredibly smart. His ability to remember even the simplest fact, data or detail astounds me. As a teacher, he constantly seeks new information to share with his students. He attempts different methods and approaches to ensure that each student is learning. He is frequently recognized by his peers and administrators as a leader in his field. Other professionals regularly seek his guidance and input. Even though he is incredibly smart, he has a way of making others feel at ease, not at all intimidated by his intelligence.
He respects me as a woman. He holds doors for me but also knows when to let me open the door for myself. He knows that it is just not in me to be a stay at home mom. He respects that I choose to be a working mother. These days it takes two salaries to survive but even if money were not an issue, I would choose to work. There was a time, early in our relationship where he was in school full time and I worked a full time job to support the both of us while he finished his degree. During those difficult years, I was the bread winner and it never bothered Mark. I wanted to support him while he finished school and I had the skills and the income to do so. He was always grateful, never embarrassed that I made the money for our family. When I gave birth to his children, I felt admired by him, appreciated and cherished.
I often tell the story of the night I realized that Mark was the man I was supposed to be with for the rest of my life. It was 1995 and I was going to a concert with my friends Kimberly and Krista. We met up with Mark and his sister, Ali, at the concert. It had been about a year or two since I had last seen Mark so we were catching up and he was getting acquainted with my friends. We were all having fun and Mark was being his usual charming self.
Eventually, Kimberly turned to me and said, “Mark is so funny and charming. He is adorable. Why did you two never date in high school?”
I was a little taken aback by her question and paused for a couple of seconds, thinking of a response. Kimberly continued to stare at me, waiting for my answer to her question and when one did not come, she just winked at me and smiled. I turned to Mark who stood on the other side of me.
“Hey,” I said to him and he turned to look at me. “Kimberly just asked me why we never dated in high school.”
“Oh Yeah?” he said flashing a wide smile.
“Yeah and you know what? I could not think of one reason why we never dated.” I confessed, a bit puzzled.
Mark paused took a step toward me and said, “Nickie, I have been trying to tell you that for the last eight years.” and immediately, I knew he was the one. He had been there all along. And that was that. We have been together ever since.
Happy 20th Anniversary to my personal comedian, my co-parent, my best friend and my husband. Thanks for working so hard to balance us out, I love you!
“A great marriage isn’t something that just happens; it’s something that must be created.”
“The greatest marriages are built on teamwork. A mutual respect, a healthy dose of admiration, and a never-ending portion of love and grace.”