Last week food poisoning brought a curse upon our home - food poisoning so awful it made my die-hard Green Bay Packers fan of a husband get down on his knees and bargain with God for a Brett Favre Super Bowl in exchange for his well-being. Too little, too late. The playoff game was indirectly responsible for our digestive-tract malaise. Even the cat joined in on the yak-fest thanks to enjoying the rarely gifted table scrap.
I think I'm practicing mental toughness for our potential Leadville Trail 100 race because I suffered through 3/4 of the work day before retreating for home and realizing my fever hit at least 101.5.
The real sickness - one far more long-term - revealed itself when someone rang our doorbell. Obviously we were home, and despite the fact that I we lay near-lifeless on the sofa, I just couldn't ignore someone at the door. They'd know! ::gasp:: Beyond my better judgement I walked out on the screen porch to find a woman standing in the cold with a clipboard, waiting to ask me to help motherless baby monkeys in South America or demand better soil for Minneapolis gardens or something along those lines. Usually I listen to these people, but before she could even state her purpose, I stopped her:
"You don't want to talk to me right now," I said weakly. "I've got the flu really bad."
I lied, not wanting to get into the food poisoning. Why did I even think I had to explain?
"That's okay," she responded, a little too upbeat. "I can talk to you through the door."
Huh? WTF? I just said I was sick. My skin felt hot for the first time in hours.
"Um. No. You don't understand. I'm really sick and I don't want to talk to you right now," I let my voice raise. "Good night."
I huffed into the house. Her nerve! Talk to me through the door? How thoughtful.
But I knew it was all in my delivery. Why had I phrased it the way I had? Why not just say, "Now is not a good time; please leave some info or come back another day"?
Or how about not answering the door at all?
I think I've become more assertive in recent years, but now I know I still have a lot of work to do. When I'm spending every 10 minutes in the bathroom, it's fine to put my needs first without excuse.
This is the same behavior that has screwed me over in job negotiations and other life decisions. It is a fairly sizable flaw. And so I have my 2010 resolution: to fearlessly ask for what I want and need without hesitation.
31 January 2010
30 January 2010
Childless
Babies. At one point in time, the mere mention of me having any inspired the same response as if someone suggested I might one day move to Kansas. Classify under things that will never happen without an act of God.
It's strange to me - all of it, from the fact that people seem so obsessed with the procreation interests of women in their child-bearing years to the fact that I feel so completely detached from this natural part of life.
I've just never had the desire. In college it was kind of a joke that I wanted nothing to do with such matters. When we were dating, I told my now-husband that children were unlikely to be in the cards. Early in our marriage I thwarted outsiders' questions with "maybe someday, but not anytime soon." The inquiring party often responded something along the lines of, "well, you have plenty of time to change your mind."
I teased that my "clock" was on snooze. For a few years, I forgot about it all together. And lately, I am beginning to think my model came without the "clock." Now that I'm into my thirties, I realize my body won't wait forever. The window, while still open, is coming down. Perhaps in the years to come, we will join the ranks of parents everywhere. But my heart hints otherwise. I find myself working to accept that mine may be a childless life.
And while this is a decision my husband and I make together, I say I am working to "accept" it because I catch myself talking myself into it. You never know until you try it, right?
I worry about regret. I wonder about loneliness. I feel a pang of guilt for not giving my parents a grandchild or two. There are no real "reasons" for this choice. I like kids and my life is full of them. Fertility does not seem to be a problem on either side of the family (I come from a family of five, and Chris comes from a family of six). Mostly, I think I question our lifestyle because being a childless, married, heterosexual couple is not really a social norm.
The bulk of my same-age friends are beyond their firstborn and moving onto numbers two and even three. For my husband and I, it is a strange place socially. When we get together with friends, we can't relate to the parenting conversations or our single friends' experiences. Sure, there are a couple of newly marrieds without kids, but they are definitely sitting in the station, waiting to get on that train.
No one pressures us or comments on our childlessness. However, I sometimes feel shallow and selfish because instead of talking about our children's activities, we only have updates on our bike racing and home-improvement projects amongst other self-centered reports.
Perhaps that is where we turn the acceptance into balance. As we grow old and childless together, we must solidify the relationships with the children in our lives and invest in them, reach out to our community and not become too self-absorbed while appreciating and enjoying the life we choose as a childless couple.
It's strange to me - all of it, from the fact that people seem so obsessed with the procreation interests of women in their child-bearing years to the fact that I feel so completely detached from this natural part of life.
I've just never had the desire. In college it was kind of a joke that I wanted nothing to do with such matters. When we were dating, I told my now-husband that children were unlikely to be in the cards. Early in our marriage I thwarted outsiders' questions with "maybe someday, but not anytime soon." The inquiring party often responded something along the lines of, "well, you have plenty of time to change your mind."
I teased that my "clock" was on snooze. For a few years, I forgot about it all together. And lately, I am beginning to think my model came without the "clock." Now that I'm into my thirties, I realize my body won't wait forever. The window, while still open, is coming down. Perhaps in the years to come, we will join the ranks of parents everywhere. But my heart hints otherwise. I find myself working to accept that mine may be a childless life.
And while this is a decision my husband and I make together, I say I am working to "accept" it because I catch myself talking myself into it. You never know until you try it, right?
I worry about regret. I wonder about loneliness. I feel a pang of guilt for not giving my parents a grandchild or two. There are no real "reasons" for this choice. I like kids and my life is full of them. Fertility does not seem to be a problem on either side of the family (I come from a family of five, and Chris comes from a family of six). Mostly, I think I question our lifestyle because being a childless, married, heterosexual couple is not really a social norm.
The bulk of my same-age friends are beyond their firstborn and moving onto numbers two and even three. For my husband and I, it is a strange place socially. When we get together with friends, we can't relate to the parenting conversations or our single friends' experiences. Sure, there are a couple of newly marrieds without kids, but they are definitely sitting in the station, waiting to get on that train.
No one pressures us or comments on our childlessness. However, I sometimes feel shallow and selfish because instead of talking about our children's activities, we only have updates on our bike racing and home-improvement projects amongst other self-centered reports.
Perhaps that is where we turn the acceptance into balance. As we grow old and childless together, we must solidify the relationships with the children in our lives and invest in them, reach out to our community and not become too self-absorbed while appreciating and enjoying the life we choose as a childless couple.
07 January 2010
Did I eat what?
With January's arrival, I may now recount holiday family encounters with a healthy dose of humor. I share with you, dear readers, this year's gem.
The entire in-law family gathered to celebrate New Year's. On New Year's Eve, to be exact, we sat around the kitchen chatting and grazing on hors d'ourves when my brother-in-law pulled a decades-old copy of the "Joy of Cooking" from the shelf. There, of all places, we figured one might find a decent hot toddy recipe for my sick sister-in-law.
Of course, we all wanted to know if the edition was old enough to carry the legendary skinning instructions for squirrel and other small mammals. As I was flipping through the pages, a sister-in-law gave me a wide-eyed look, "Did you grow up eating ..."
"Squirrels?" I laughed hesitantly and tried not to let my jaw hit the red, granite countertop. I started questioning how the in-law family viewed me after all. Just a week prior, I'd cooked them an over-the-top gourmet Christmas dinner that cost nearly as much per plate as my wedding feast.
Sure, I didn't grow up in a major metropolitan area, but my family stuck to the standards when it came to eating meat.
"Well, yeah, you know because, you know ..." She trailed, eagerly anticipating my response.
"[Mom's fiance] hunts pheasant and fishes? No. We didn't grow up with him. I mean, my dad hunted birds, and even so, none of us ..." I hated to make her feel stupid, but really? Squirrels?
On second thought, perhaps I should have stolen a line from the classic Christmas tale of such family moments and responded something along the lines of, "yes, until we read they were high in cholesterol.
It almost topped the time another in-law holiday classic when I was asked how Lutherans celebrate Easter. My darling husband quickly came to my aid and explained that we rejoiced in Jesus' resurrection with ritualistic goat sacrifice.
The entire in-law family gathered to celebrate New Year's. On New Year's Eve, to be exact, we sat around the kitchen chatting and grazing on hors d'ourves when my brother-in-law pulled a decades-old copy of the "Joy of Cooking" from the shelf. There, of all places, we figured one might find a decent hot toddy recipe for my sick sister-in-law.
Of course, we all wanted to know if the edition was old enough to carry the legendary skinning instructions for squirrel and other small mammals. As I was flipping through the pages, a sister-in-law gave me a wide-eyed look, "Did you grow up eating ..."
"Squirrels?" I laughed hesitantly and tried not to let my jaw hit the red, granite countertop. I started questioning how the in-law family viewed me after all. Just a week prior, I'd cooked them an over-the-top gourmet Christmas dinner that cost nearly as much per plate as my wedding feast.
Sure, I didn't grow up in a major metropolitan area, but my family stuck to the standards when it came to eating meat.
"Well, yeah, you know because, you know ..." She trailed, eagerly anticipating my response.
"[Mom's fiance] hunts pheasant and fishes? No. We didn't grow up with him. I mean, my dad hunted birds, and even so, none of us ..." I hated to make her feel stupid, but really? Squirrels?
On second thought, perhaps I should have stolen a line from the classic Christmas tale of such family moments and responded something along the lines of, "yes, until we read they were high in cholesterol.
It almost topped the time another in-law holiday classic when I was asked how Lutherans celebrate Easter. My darling husband quickly came to my aid and explained that we rejoiced in Jesus' resurrection with ritualistic goat sacrifice.
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