Day 19.2

     In the spirit of frank and honest discussions I've had with myself about my role in the world, I'm taking a look at myself as a teacher. I've come to the realization that I've been inadvertently sanitizing the music in my classroom. 

     Work Songs. They are listed in the textbooks as work songs. I've utilized them in class. I've taught and talked about them. But I've never outright said, "these were slave songs". I changed that this week. 

Looking for The Courage to Teach

     14 years of teaching and I thought I was being inclusive and culturally sensitive. I've done a disservice to my students by not calling them what they were, and for that I apologize. 

     Picking cotton was not work. It was slave labor. To call it work is horrendous. I didn't even realize I was doing this. I think I'm a pretty great teacher. I design thoughtful lessons that incorporate a multitude of instructional methods in order to reach every kid that comes through my program. I teach music of various cultures, I use authentic recordings as examples and I reach out to students to find the music that is relevant to them. But for years, I called slave songs "work songs". It may seem small, but I have to own up to the fact that I did not have the hard discussions that I should have.  

     I want students to leave my room with a love for music that will guide them through the trials that lay before them. They are growing up in a world where they will need something to hold on to. They absolutely need to know about the dark experiences of slavery and racism that led to some of our country's most beautiful music. And I'm going to listen to my students and to their experiences. 

     Today I played Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come" for a fourth Grade class. Change is coming here for me. I'm not sanitizing the music I share. We are going to have those tough conversations (age appropriate for sure) and they will leave my class knowing that I cared enough to tell them the truth. 

Day 17.2 & 18.2

     On Wednesday night, I dressed myself up and took myself out. I enjoyed fabulous music, amazing company, and social time with adults. I got to see the fruits of my labor (talented and successful former students) and connect with the parents who raised them. I sang along to music and had great conversations. A coworker who saw me that night told me I looked like a model and that she barely recognized me. Clearly she was exaggerating, but it was almost a punch in the gut during our follow up conversation today. What was it about going out by myself that led me to "glow", well aside from a few too many drinks?

Shadowy picture, but you get the idea

   The key part of this evening was that it was adult time where I was an individual. I spend so much time filing other roles, and I have neglected me. This wasn't a fancy night out, but I made getting ready a priority. I didn't focus on setting up dinner and nighttime activities for kids. I didn't do a quick cleaning of the house. I did my hair, put on makeup, and looked through my closet for a outfit that was flattering- not just the first thing I grabbed from the drawer. I listened to music on the drive out (that wasn't of the kid variety), as opposed to my usual NPR. I let my guard down. I'm so hyper-focused on the kids, the house, the job...

A few nights after this invigorating and liberating night out...

Back to reality. 

     A hysterically screaming toddler. Over an hour of crying. Food didn't work, bath didn't work. 

Extended breastfeeding is simultaneously my savior and the bane of my existence. 

     I know there are people who just say "stop it already!" It seems as if we've been weening for months now. Caroline is not over it though, so I keep trudging along. Obviously there is something about the fact that she's the last one. This phase is the end of my "baby years". Of course, it's a connection that I know will be transformed into something new and wonderful, once the nursing ends. But I also know that it's definitely holding me back from regaining more of myself. 

     How can I be a fierce, individualistic female when I'm still finding myself on the bathroom floor at 7 PM, un-showered, in the same clothes I slept in the prior night, covered in snot and tears, while breastfeeding a naked & tantruming toddler? Do I accept that this phase that will end shortly? Do I really believe that breastfeeding is the only thing that holds me back from asserting myself as an independent woman? 

Something for me to think about. 

Day 16.2

     So after my post the other day, I needed to take a step back and ground myself. Conveniently, it also happened to be my oldest son's first reconciliation this weekend. The church has this beautiful tradition where the parents write a letter to their child for them to open after they have made their sacrament.
     Now, truth be told, I forgot all about this letter. In fact, when I wrote it at the retreat, I was half paying attention while I chatted with other parents and tried to mentally plan out the rest of the weekend. Not really appropriate I guess, but it's my truth. When we go the paperwork after the service on Saturday, I realized the letter was in the packet and I shared it with Lucas. I can't quite describe what happened. It's like he saw straight through me and was in my heart. I felt so vulnerable, like for the first time, my son had a glimpse into the love I have for him, and understood what kind of person we want him to become. He climbed into my lap and hugged me.

     I've made mistakes. A lot of them. I'll continue to make more. But if I'm able to forgive my son, I must also be able to forgive myself.

 

  I'm so grateful to be his mother. 

Dear Lucas,
We are filled with joy as we watch you grow and mature into the person you're becoming. You're a caring and thoughtful friend, a playful and kind older brother and a loving and helpful son. There are times when we all make bad choices, or do things we aren't proud of. The important thing is how we respond, learn, and grow from those times. None of us are perfect and we never expect perfection from you, but we do expect truth, kindness and respect for the world you live in and the people around you. I know that you will continue to grow and be your best self and we are so proud to have you as our son. We love you and support you in all of the great, happy moments & in all of the tough ones as well. We hope that you are able to find comfort in God's love, as well as ours. Daddy and I love you more than you'll ever know!

Love,
Mommy & Daddy

Day 15.2

     I've been thinking about this post for years, but have shied away because I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable. 

     

I'm so tired of making everyone else comfortable- it's time to talk about this. 

How does Mommy get her groove back?

     Before I had children, I was hot. OK, maybe that's an overstatement, but I at least looked in the mirror and felt attractive. I didn't have a 6-pack going, but there were actual abs. I was running multiple long distance races and working out a ton. I dressed well, did my hair and make-up, and partied with friends and went out on dates with my husband. 

     When we decided to try for children, it was an exciting time. I wanted to get pregnant and therefore, birth control was finally out of the picture. It was great. Until getting pregnant became a nightmare. I think that was the first time the "groove" started to have some issues. Sex became a thing that was precisely timed. Positions were restricted. Spontaneity was eliminated. And then, success led to loss and loss led to depression. Baby making became a job and it sucked. Once we had a successful pregnancy, my paranoia prevented us from being intimate. But, when my body began to have issues with pregnancy, the paranoia turned real and we were medically restricted. I'm sure there are millions of women who can back me up when I say that what I endured over the past nine years left me traumatized. The exams, the vaginal ultrasounds, the cervical checks- I've had more hands up my vagina than I care to recount. Seriously. I lost track. And it was brutal, painful, scary, and aggressive. I gave consent, but I didn't want the penetration. I don't think that any of the medical professionals intended for the exams to feel the way they did, but I cried after every single one.

     Maybe it's because it forced me to confront the time I was digitally penetrated against my will. I was in college. I remember what I was wearing. Bootcut jeans, a green sweater and my favorite doc martins. When he came up to me at the party, he specifically said that the outfit I had worn to class that day was much hotter than the one I had on. I didn't realize where this was going. I was drunk- it was the second time in my life that I had ever encountered alcohol. I trusted him because I was 18 and naive. I remember the weight of his body on top of mine. The scratchy feel of the rug under my body as he pulled down my pants. The absolute panic that I had never been touched this way before. The room was spinning and I was so scared. And I know it wasn't my fault. But when I spoke with counselors the following week, they questioned my experience in a way that made me feel that maybe I was "asking for it". Was I really sure I said no? 

     There was a lot of self hatred and many bad decisions that followed. I chose to numb myself with alcohol and hookups. I didn't have many serious relationships. I didn't see myself as a woman who was desired, instead I was a disposable body that didn't deserve respect. 

     Flash forward 12 years- I'm pregnant, married to a man who knows none of this. And so, I stuffed it down, back where it had been hidden for so long. I tried to remind myself every time that this was OK, because it's all for the health of myself and my children. Still, after I gave birth, I couldn't bear the thought of anyone- doctor or husband- touching my vagina. 

     Clearly this has led to some real difficulties in my marriage. Sex is important. Intimacy is essential. I was shying away from both. 

     My body, which in many ways hasn't felt like "mine" since that September night in 1998, has been sacrificed for my children. I stopped carefully grooming myself after the c-section of my oldest, because I was so mortified by my scars. If I continued to shave, the marks on my body would be visible and I didn't want the daily reminder. My small, yet perky breasts had transformed into leaking porn-star boobs that absolutely terrified me. And the weight gain, loss, gain, loss...

9 years of this. 

     My husband has always maintained that he found me attractive. But how could that be? I would look in the mirror and I see such a transformation that I could hardly believe I was the same person. Yet, when I really think about it, I am changed. I'm not the same. 

     Boundaries don't exist anymore. I was once too prudish in my early 20s to flash a crowd at the Preakness, yet 100s of strangers have seen me breastfeed without a cover. I prefer to be covered in a gym locker room, yet I haven't showered alone in years. How do we reconcile ourselves as sexual beings and the perfect mothers that society expects of us. It's not funny that when I was home with my children, I showered once- maybe twice-a week. How can I possibly find myself attractive when the world views me as a "mom of three". I'm not exaggerating that more times than not, any compliment delivered on my physical appearance is followed by "for a mom of three". Was my husband some sort of special man because he thought my stretch marks were sexy? All of a sudden, am I supposed to be grateful that my husband still wants to have sex with me despite the toll motherhood has taken on my body? And when those feelings settle in, it's a pretty f-ed up situation. 

     I'm still figuring this out. I don't have an answer. It's something I struggle with everyday. How can I be "mom" and a "sexy piece of ass" at the same time. Is it even appropriate for me to want to be a sexy piece of ass? 

This is a conversation we need to have. Feel free to join in.