The Power of Words

Pain. Raw, crushing, suffocating pain. Aching and burning to the core.

When I was little the things that caused me the most internal pain were things. Things that I wanted, but didn't get. Things that I thought mattered. Along the way I lived and learned. Things don't cause me pain anymore. Somehow, somewhere I learned that things don't carry the importance I had placed on them. Don't get me wrong, I would be sad if my family photos were lost in a fire, but I know that those memories aren't tied to the pictures. I actually lived those moments and had those experiences and I could go back to them in my mind if I had to.

These days, the only things that cause me pain are people. People's words. Their actions. The things they do and don't say. The words that they say in anger or in love, not understanding that both can affect deeply. Do you or do you not choose to believe them? They were spoken, but does that give them meaning?

When you have children, you learn to not be affected by some of what they say. They are innocently observing and absorbing the world. My son, Austin, asked me a few days ago if I was going to die first or daddy?
"I don't know who will die first." He has always thought that death went in age order. Grandma's and grandpa's die first, then daddies and mommies, then Sam.
He responded this time by saying, "I hope you die first, so that way Daddy will stay home more." There was never a minute that I was offended by what he said. I know that in his mind, that is the only way daddy won't travel so much for work. This seemingly hurtful comment caused me no pain.

And yet, as I write, I am living and dealing with the pain of words spoken two years ago. I've heard many quotations on the power of words. One, by Ralph Ellison, "If the word has the potency to revive and make us free, it has also the power to blind, imprison and destroy." The problem with words is that once they are spoken, they can't be taken back. And to a degree, most of what is said by people has some ounce of truth in it. So here is the big decision: Do you let those words have power over you? If you do, does it make you a weak person? Do you let them imprison and destroy you?

I can't go through my life believing that someone's spoken words define who I am. People get mad, angry, frustrated. I've said things that I have later regretted. Even if the words were meant to be taken exactly as spoken, words won't ever make me the person that I am. But they obviously still have power...they cause pain, raw and crushing; aching and burning. But then eventually, they will also allow me to revive and be free.

The Waxing Incident of '08

When I was a senior in high school I took a weight training class. I heard it was pretty easy, as long as you attended you got a passing grade. Plus, HELLO, boys....enough said. Anyway, after a semester of socializing and not getting any stronger, I decided to actually lift weights one day. I remember saying, "Look at me, Mr. Hood, I am really doing something today." Seconds later an unsecured bar crashed down on the bridge of my nose and knocked me out cold. With only a few days left of school, I am sure I appear in more than one person's photo memories with two black eyes and a swollen nose.

I can't help but think of the good intentions I had that day as I recover from my latest incident. I am not into self mutilation, but I am also not the most coordinated person in the world. Look over my body at any given time and you would find bruises in varying shades of purple and yellow, scratches, bumps, and more than one sore muscle. None of this can compare to what I will refer to as "The Waxing Incident of '08."

Yesterday I decided to give myself a bikini wax. This is a semi-regular occurrence. I do a decent job...I've never felt the need to pay someone else to do it for me. I heated the wax in the microwave, got my strips ready, and settled in for the ordeal. I applied the wax to a delicate area and it was a little warm so it ran into an even more delicate area. No biggie, I thought. I put a strip on it and pulled. Pulled off a one inch by half inch section of my skin. Down there. EEK!!! Between the gushing blood and the wax that was still left I was near passing out. How was I going to get the rest of the wax off because I was NEVER going to put another strip on myself and pull? If you have ever used wax on yourself, you know that hot water DOES NOT take wax off.

I did the only thing I could think of at the time, I called my neighbor Dana. "Dana, I had a waxing incident. You can tell Pete (her husband) but at least wait to laugh until after we get off the phone."
Dana is a very smart person. I knew she would have great advice for me. But when she suggested that I get out a lighter and try to melt it, I knew I was on my own. It probably would have worked, but between the missing flap of skin and the wax that was still down there, there was NO WAY I was going to take a chance at having to explain burns to an ER doctor too.
"I could come over," she said, "It would be like the Sex in the City episode where Carrie loses her diaphragm and Samantha has to go look for it."

Yeah, thanks Dana, but I think I got this. Between scissors, a hot bath, and neosporin I think I will survive. If you need me, I'll be sitting on my ice pack....

Learning to Ride and other lessons

My 5-year-old son, Austin, learned how to ride a bike this weekend. He's tried off and on for months now. He asked us to take off the training wheels. Now put them on. Now take them off. Oh no, put them back on! Okay, I want to try no training wheels.

Once we got over that part, the "trying" looked like this: Austin would plant one foot on either side of the bike. He would start to pedal with one foot. He had no concept of balance. Once the bike started to tip the slightest bit in one direction he would bail off like he was leaving a sinking ship. He's very dramatic so he was actually quite good at this phase in the learning process. Making sure he was close to grass, he would leap off, do a couple stunt-man rolls and say "Whoa!" or "Aaahh!" or something else to make it seem like he had just survived a major test of strength and character.

Then two nights ago, he just did it. He climbed on the bike and rode. No drama...no big announcements. In fact, if I wasn't watching him closely, I wouldn't even have known. I can learn a lot from him. Drama aside, sometimes you just need to do something. Jump in. Fall if you need to, but get back up and just do it. Don't do it for the praise. Do it for yourself.

When I looked at him while he was riding, the pride was undeniable on his face. He was so pleased with himself and yet it was a private pleasure. I can share the pride from a parents' point of view, but I won't ever know what it was like for him. To do something he had worked at for a long time and he knew was a cool thing, but to not even care if anyone knew but him. It was enough for him to know that HE could do it, he didn't need to show it off to us.

It is at these moments that praise for a job well done feels the best. Unsolicited and unexpected. No disappointment if it doesn't come because you weren't expecting it and didn't need it anyway. You knew all by yourself that you did a cool thing.

Communication or lack thereof

I come from a family of non-communicators. If you asked them, they would say that I am crazy. But it's true, they are non-communicators. I'm not asking for the full rundown of everything that pertains to a certain situation or, a 2 hour telephone conversation detailing every aspect of an event...I'm really only interested in very basic information.

For example, tonight I have invited my family to come over for wine tasting on my newly completed front porch. Everyone is bringing a bottle of wine and an appetizer. I invited them a few weeks ago, via e-mail, and asked them to e-mail me back letting me know what kind of wine they are bringing and what appetizer. Anyone who hosts regularly knows that this information is necessary...I don't want 5 bottles of chardonnay and a bunch of sliced bread. I need to balance the menu. I need to shop, I need to prepare. I also invited them to stay the night, so they don't have to worry about drinking too much, and asked them to let me know when they might be here, but I was aiming to start around 4 pm.

Here it is, 2pm on the day of the event. I know my sister, Carrie, is bringing an artichoke dip (and may show up any minute...I'm not ready for her, but whatever). My mom is bringing dessert. I have no idea what kind of wine either one is bringing. I don't know if my mom is working today so I have no idea when she and my dad will be here. My other sister, Amy, lives in Sonoma and has only replied that she "might" come.

Last night when I spoke to Carrie I said, "Well I invited everyone to stay the night, but I haven't heard back, so I am assuming no one is."
To this, she said, "Well we are."
"Who? You and Naj?" I asked.
"Mom and Dad are going to sleep in your spare bedroom, Naj and I are sleeping in Austin's room, Amy will be in Sam's bed, and I guess the kids (her daughter and my boys) can sleep in sleeping bags."
Huh?!? Is it just ME they don't communicate with? Do they not know that this means I will be changing sheets, straightening up bathrooms, and trying to scramble a decent breakfast together for tomorrow morning? It's not that I mind having them here, but advance notice used to be a common courtesy.

Basic communication...that's all I ask....

Dirt, spiders, and other gross stuff...

I am a girly girl. Yes, I like and play sports (I'm not the most coordinated, but I can hold my own). Yes, when I get home for the day I will put on my p.j.'s right away instead of staying dressed up. Yes, I like to camp, cook out and get sweaty. Still, I am a girly girl. I dress up every day even if I'm just taking the boys to school. I wear heels, I get my hair highlighted, I get pedicures and facials. I camp, but I don't bring anything from the trip into the house until it has been washed and I immediately take a shower.

Somehow I ended up with two sons. My boys are probably normal, but to me they are gross, tacky, and stinky. Don't get me wrong, I love them! But seriously, how many times do I need to hear about what a great burp you just did or turn socks the right side out that are crumpled in a hamper and filled with grass and dirt? I don't like boogers or talking about poop. I have bleached mud, blood, and grass stains out of more things than I can count.

There are days when I really believe that they are finally getting it. We made a rule that all "poop talk" could only happen in the bathroom. I walked by it one day and Sam was in there saying "poop, poop, poop." I guess he just needed to let it out. Once I even found Austin in the bathroom cleaning up the floor (yes he probably made a bigger mess with all the soap and bubbles everywhere, but hey, it's a start). They were actually fighting over who got to vacuum the house a couple days ago.

But then a few weeks ago, they drug home a dead snake from the field by our house. Austin had THREE bloody noses yesterday. Sam tricked me into patting him on the head and I ended up with a hand full of 7-year-old boy sweat. And I swear between golfing, soccer, swimming, chocolate ice cream, and spaghetti I do 2 or more loads of laundry a day!

My favorite time of the day is when they have stripped down, taken a bubble bath, brushed their teeth and are snug in their beds. I come in and cuddle and give them kisses and for those few minutes of heaven I am happy that I had boys instead of girls. Boys love their moms. Boys give hard tight squeezes. Boys don't care if their outfits match or if they have bed head. Boys play with the kids that are having the most fun, not the ones who belong to a certain social group. I love my boys....and I like them too, most of the time....