what I want you to know: being gay and Christian

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s post is by Kate.

 

I was raised in a conservative, evangelical Christian household in a medium-sized town in a semi-rural part of New England. Growing up, I was taught (among a great many other things), that homosexuality was a choice and a lifestyle, that it was sinful and wrong. I was conflicted about how to engage an increasingly gay-friendly world with these views - but at least (I assumed) as a nice, Christian girl who had always done all the "right" things, I was safe from anything that had to do with being gay.

At the age of 19, I met and fell in love with another woman. In the space of a single week, everything I thought I knew was ripped out from under my feet. I was finally faced with a reality I had avoided and denied for years, which was that I was never going to wake up and have sexual or romantic feelings for men. I had always assumed something was wrong with me, that I was asexual or developmentally stunted or... well, I hadn't given it a whole lot of thought, actually. Keeping your "purity pledge" as an evangelical teen is a whole lot easier when you're just not that into the opposite sex. But now I had a word for what I had always felt, and it was not a word I had ever wanted anything to do with: lesbian. I was scared out of my mind. I was sure that I was going to hell. I was furious at the God of my childhood for putting me in the position of having to either lie about who I was or live in sin. I couldn't imagine there was any way that a loving, omnipotent God would make me gay.

Fast forward four years, and I am still in love with the incredible woman who gave me the first inkling that I might be gay. The world didn't end that week, as much as I expected (really. REALLY) to be struck dead for falling off my evangelical "nice girl" pedestal. I have found a welcoming church home. I have begun the long process of making peace with myself and with God, of coming to terms with who I am. I'm even starting to make attempts at reconciling with my family, many of whom are still happily oblivious to the fact that I am gay.

I want you to know that being gay isn't a lifestyle, but Christianity is.

I want you to know that being gay isn't a choice. Given my family, my upbringing, and my theological background, I would never have chosen to be gay. But here I am - a woman who is romantically attracted to other women.

What I want you to know is that my heart breaks every time I read the comments on any online news article or blog that has anything to do with Christians and LGBT issues. Because as people throw around misguided phrases like "the homosexual lifestyle" or "hate the sin, love the sinner", they aren't discussing some faraway socio-theological issue - they're talking about me. They're talking about my partner of four years. They're talking about my friends who are gay, closeted, and serving our country proudly (although, thankfully, many of them will be able to serve openly soon!)

I want you to know that I am terrified to walk into a new church because I have no idea whether I'll be chased out with pitchforks. I want you to know that I cry every time I take communion now because of the sheer joy of simply being welcome at the table. I have learned never to take the communion table for granted, but I have also learned enormous caution where Christians are concerned, because the church can cause untold pain. I stll grieve for the uncomplicated Christianity of my childhood, where friends never turned their backs on me in the name of Christ. But I am a better Christian and person  today, because I've learned what it feels like to be an outsider, to be misunderstood. I have learned more about grace in the last four years than in the 19 years that preceded them.

I want you to know that if you are a Christian who struggles with the "issue" of homosexuality, you can still love, care for, and get to know me or other gay people without any discussion of our individual understandings of Romans 1:26. I want you to stop worrying about how you will be perceived and just get to know your gay neighbors, or nephews, or cousins. I want you to know that honest conversation is never offensive, but a sudden lack of contact from old friends stings for years.

I want you to know that I want to get married someday, but I fear that no one in my family will show up. I also want you to know that I have found a church family that accepts and loves me and my partner for exactly who we are. It is my hope that a wedding full of chosen family will be just as meaningful and joyous as if they were all blood relatives.

I want you to know that there is a vast array of experiences and stories within the gay community, and within the Christian church, and those of us who are both LGBTQ and Christian often find it difficult to fit into either of those groups.

And I want you to know that every time I tell this story, my heart feels a little less heavy. So thank you for listening.

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I love U2, Terrance Howard

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Several times a month, I write a post that gets lost in draft mode, or that I fail to finish, or that I forget about.  I think I have more posts in draft than I do on this blog, and I’m trying to be better about publishing the things I start. This is one of those posts.  The U2 concert was about a month ago, which is when I wrote this, but I felt the fact that I basically busted a celebrity getting busy in a bathroom made this worthy of making it out of the drafts.  Please to enjoy.

This past weekend, we went to a U2 concert.  Except that we almost didn’t go, on account of a small little outfit crisis I had at about 15 minutes prior to the moment we needed to leave.  See, the concert was going to be outside, and it’s June gloom around here and rather chilly after the sun goes down.  But we were tailgating first, and it was really hot in the sun.  Also, we had floor tickets, so there was a lot of standing involved.  So, I needed an outfit that was cute without a jacket, that still made sense under my leather jacket (because my only other coat is a vintage peacoat that is the opposite of concert attire).  I also needed to figure out a hip and yet comfortable shoe option (the only comfortable shoes being my cross-trainers), and I needed the entire ensemble to also make me look stylish but just a tiny bit edgy, and also about 20 pounds thinner than my current weight. 

This task proved so impossible that at one point, I had to take a break from searching for an outfit and lie down for a bit.

Are you already sick of this outfit crisis?  Let me give you a little hint as to how Mark felt about it.

We were finally on our way, and showed up to the parking lot of the Angel’s Stadium about three hours prior to the show for what was my first “tailgating party”.   I’ve heard tell of these things before, but I think my friend Garrett ruined any other future tailgates for me because instead of cooking hot dogs on a hibachi, he actually loaded his fancy Weber grill into his truck and we feasted on grilled chicken, grilled bananas, and sweet potato fries.

We got to start out the night in a VIP suite, which basically translates into a room full of people looking at each other trying to figure out if anyone else is famous.  The only celebrity that I recognized was Terrance Howard . . .and I really had to restrain myself from singing You Know It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp at the top of my lungs once I spotted him.  Although a few minutes later, a really drunk guy did that very same thing, and I was happy that it was him and not me having that awkward moment.

I also wanted to ask Terrance if he was trying to be incognito.



But instead, I just pretended not to notice him, and then tried to take a picture of him while pretending to take a picture of Mark. Sly, right?

AND THEN TERRANCE HOWARD PHOTOBOMBED THEM.



And then I became the biggest Terrance Howard fan ever.  We watched a good portion of the show from the fancy box, but then I finally convinced my husband to go down to the floor so we could really experience the rubbing-elbows-with-common-folk part of the concert.  Mark is . . . how to say this gracefully?.  He’s a bit of a concert snob.  Some close friendships with musician/promoter types have given him a sense of entitlement to the tune of, “if I can’t watch from the stage, I’m not even sure if I want to go”.  When he acts like this, I like to sing the song Prima Donna from Phantom of the Opera in my best soprano to mock him.  He doesn’t appreciate this.  But it’s true.

Before we left the VIP area I made a run to the bathroom, and on my way in a friend told me that there was a couple in one of the stalls.  Indeed, when I sat down to pee I noticed two pairs of shoes in the stall next to mine – a pair of boots, and a pair of heels, facing each other.  I just got this funny feeling that it was Terrance Howard in there.  And then while I was washing my hands, they came out.  AND I WAS RIGHT.

Oh, Terrance. You're so crazy.

Once we got on the floor, we were surrounded by all the usual suspects at a concert.  There was the couple totally making out.  There were the girls who think that it’s a dance floor even though we are all crammed into a tight space.   There was the guy who thinks he’s Bono, dressed just like him and singing along as if HE were on stage.  There were the people who insisted on fist-pumping with their beer.  And then there was Maria Shriver.

Yeah, she was standing right next to us, too.  I am here to tell you, she looks HOT.



I’m probably giving myself away right now, given the fact that I haven’t mentioned U2 at all yet.  I’m just going to put it out there: I think they are overrated.  There, I said it.  Yes, they put on a great show.  But there were some distractions for me.

First of all, Adam Claypool’s outfit.  I just don’t know what is going on with this guy.  He was wearing white cropped pants.   With a shirt that looked like someone took an Ed Hardy tee and said, you know what?  THIS NEEDS MORE SPARKLE.   It appeared to be bedazzled, as did his guitar strap.  The whole get-up looked like an outfit that would be available in a tacky boutique for older women with heavy plastic surgery at Fashion Island (OC peeps, ya’ll know what I’m talking about).  It was very “ladies who lunch” chic. Or should I say Chiccos.



Then, after the mid-show break, he changed into a shirt that was just all white sequins.  Still wearing the white manpris. I believe I had the same outfit in 7th grade that I got from Charlotte Russe.

Bono’s wardrobe choices had me puzzled, too, especially when he came out wearing a JACKET MADE OF LASER BEAMS.  I know that Jafta would have thought this was the most awesome jacket ever.  Myself, though, being a full-grown adult, found it to be a bit ridiculous.  Then he had a fancy microphone that looked like the discs from Tron, and after singing into it for a while he climbed aboard and used it as a swing.  Again, Jafta would have loved it.  Me, not so much.

Photo credit: Moritz Waldemeyer

It also didn’t help that Bono kept referring to The Edge as The Edge.  I just don’t think people over 23 should have nicknames. Especially not ones that start with a grammatical article.  All of these shenanigans made me want to pull them band aside, give them a big hug, and tell them it was okay to start acting their age.  And to tell Bono to stand up straight because the bent-over tilted microphone schtick is getting old and gonna hurt his back.

So.  To summarize.  My husband is an entitled snob and I am a grouchy old lady, and the U2 show was a lot of fun in spite of it all.

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thinking outside of the “orphan-care” box

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When people talk about responding to orphan care, there are usually two avenues that come to mind.  The first is adoption – and often, this implies a couple from a wealthier country adopting a child out of an orphanage in the third world.  The second is the idea of building an orphanage to care for children.  I think that these can be good solutions for children . . . certainly international adoption and orphanages have been a way to care for millions of children who have been orphaned or abandoned.   But as my eyes have been opened to the breadth and depth of the global orphan crisis, I also think it is really important to begin creating models in which children can be cared for in their own country.  Especially for the many children living in countries in which adoption is not an option.

This is not always an easy task, because local adoption is not as socially accepted in some countries.  In Haiti, when a child is taken in by someone else, they are most often relegated to a role of household servant and treated very poorly.  In Korea, India, and other countries where bloodlines are emphasized, adoption is frowned upon.  Traditional adoption (outside of biological caretaking) is not a common practice in most African countries, either.  As such, many countries have overflowing orphanages, and the trend of adopting children out to countries where adoption is more accepted has been a way to bridge the gap.  However, this will never solve the orphan crisis.  There are many, many children growing up in orphanages in countries that do not have a system in place for international adoption. Uganda is one such place. 

I am hearing more and more about organizations that are seeking to change things at a systemic level, and one example is the campaign by the Childs i foundation.   They are working hard to promote domestic fostering and adoption in the local community in Uganda.  Instead of building more orphanages, they are trying to get kids into homes.

The following is a tv spot they did with the local news in Kampala:

 

I would love to see more churches, especially churches sending short-term trips to care for orphans, to begin to look at ways we can partner with local churches to find solutions beyond building more buildings where kids will be raised by staff instead of by a family.

I also love the work the Rileys in Uganda are doing to try to resettle children into their birth family when that is an option.  How different would it be if every short-term mission trip spent their time trying to locate and problem-solve with birth families?  What if, instead of raising the funds for an orphanage, churches raised the funds to house young mothers who want to parent? 

I think it is good for us to think outside of the international adoption/orphanage paradigm.

(Speaking of such ministries, check out the opportunity Harbor House has to win the "Giving of Life" grant contest.  They are doing amazing work in Haiti, helping young mothers parent their children).

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I guess that Oprah chic was right

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You know, my whole life I have heard people talk about making career goals with this advice: 

Figure out what your passion is, and turn it into a job.

And every time I heard that, I would this, That is ridiculous! Who is going to pay me to watch bad reality tv and then make fun of it?

Well, folks.  Looks like dreams can come true! Check out my Bachelorette recap over at MamaPop – one of my favorite websites (and my new gig).

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this week in iPhone photos

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This week was book club - my favorite night of the month because I get to have grown-up discussions eating grown-up food. We switch hosts every month, and the host leads the discussion and prepares a meal loosely based on something in the book. We read Molokai, a great summer novel about a leper colony in Hawaii. 




I spent the beginning of the week in bed with some weird strand of summer flu. I got it, both the girls got it, and our babysitter got it. All males in the house were spared. OR SO I THOUGHT ...




A sick babysitter and a looming deadline meant that I got to grade 44 essays with Karis climbing up my legs. Multitasking - it's what we do.




I love this picture - epic sunshine + ice cream.




On Wednesday I went to dinner with some friends and saw the OC premiere of The Help. It's very good. Not as good as the book, but isn't that always the case?




An overabundance of zucchini sent me searching out zucchini recipes. This is zucchini "hummus". With zucchini for dipping. Sound like overkill? It was.




Kembe likes to wear my sunglasses and Mark's hat, and somehow looks cooler in them than we do.




Jafta had football camp this week. He gave Karis a few pointers.




On Friday I was feeling a little sad about leaving the kids for our weekend get-away, so I took them to Starbucks for cake-pops. Or guilt-pops, if you will.




Mark and I took off on our big anniversary getaway, and about half-way to Palm Springs Mark was hit with the same flu bug we all had earlier in the week. He spent the first 24 hours feeling queasy, but rallied for some pool time.





Today Mark was feeling better, so we lazed around the pool and in the afternoon indulged in some separate interests. We had a nice dinner out tonight and are ready to head home to the kids tomorrow. It was a great trip - even if the only photographic evidence I have is of my feet.

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that’s what she said: weight, food, and body image edition

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Last week, I shared a bit about my journey with eating healthy and body image, and this week I thought I would share some good posts I’ve read recently on weight and/or eating.  These are just snippets, CLICK ON THE TITLE TO READ THE WHOLE POST.

I'm bigger than that from Millions of Miles

Am I heavier than I've ever been?  Yup.  Am I 30 (okay 40) pounds overweight?  Yup.  Am I happier than I've been in years?  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I feel more alive and more like I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to do with my life than ever before.  My marriage is happier and healthier than it has been since we had the boys over four years ago.  I feel like I am being and doing the best that I can for my children and the causes that I support. My husband thinks I'm sexy and tells me so on a regular basis. I am my most authetic self.  So why in the world did I get so bent out of shape at one stupid comment?  I wish I knew.  But I think at the root of it- I know my own shortcomings.  I'm harder on myself that anyone else could ever be.  So I don't really need anyone else to point out my flaws- especially about my weight. 

Chub related confessions from Cathy Zielske

Sometimes it seems when everything in my life is going pretty well, I like to toss in a few things to sabotage my wellness by celebrating it with, what else? Food. And specifically, food that isn't all that good for me. It lets me play this vicitm role which allows me to absolve myself of any responsibility from doing what is right and needed in my life. In short, it lets me eat shit without feeling guilty.

Stress, change, and fighting the food demons. from Uppercase Woman

What I don’t want to do is diet in a way that makes me crazy again, so I tried to find a compromise. Lately I’ve been surrounded by the gluten-free (heh); lots of my friends have given up gluten, and this was never more apparent than at my last conference when my friends were rejoicing because the restaurants in the town of Asheville is unusually accommodating for the gluten-free.

I decided to go one step further and dump wheat altogether. Well, actually, I decided to give up all forms of carbohydrates other than fruit. This lasted until day two, when I broke down and had some brown rice sushi. So I’ve basically decided no wheat and to keep the other carbs – rice, corn, potatoes – to a minimum.

I felt better in two days.

Today is the first day of the rest of my self-flagellation and alienation from Sweetney

It’s funny though – vegans (and other people demeaningly deemed “health nuts” (NUTS! As in CRAY-CRAY! GEDDIT??!)) invariably get pegged as being the Snotty Judgmental Ones, called out for condescendingly looking down their noses at troglodite non-vegans. But if anything, I’ve found the exact opposite to be true. The vast majority of what I’ve heard since going public with the changes I’m making in fact falls along two lines:

1. Good for you, but now I’m going to slowly back away from you warily like you have the plague, because suddenly you’ve gone from being someone I understand to becoming someone I couldn’t possibly relate to (because, clearly, the basis of my relationships with most other humans is about what we eat… Uh, WHAT?).

2. Gee, I wish I could stop eating X/Y/Z things as well, but I can’t, or have convinced myself I can’t (because that’s easier), so your lifestyle changes are making me simultaneously envious AND filled with profound self-loathing. I am, in essence, JUDGING ME FOR YOU. And based on my own judging of me projected onto you, I think you think you’re better than me. BITCH.

Meet My Sobriety Belly. Her Name Is Esther.  from Schmutzie

As far as I'm concerned, that handful of belly (or two generous handfuls, because who am I kidding here) is a sign of what saved me through this last winter while I learned how to live it sober for the first time in my adult life. Seriously. My comfort foods brought me through some very low moments since last August, and on more than a few occasions they were what kept me from running out to a local dive and sucking back some liquor where no one I knew could see me do it.

Making things that are a lot of work seem like…not that much work from The Happiest Mom

Last month I posted about my first experience canning. In the comments, Ana said: “The best part of reading your blog is seeing how you manage to actually do fun/interesting and time-consuming things even with small children in the house.”

That made me smile because if only Ana could see all the things I would like to do, but don’t because it’s too much hassle, takes too long, makes too much mess…how many fun things I’ve put off and put off and put off because “who has time/energy for X with all these kids in the house?”

The insufferable cruelty of tight jeans (aka, The Tyranny of Discomfort) from Elizabeth Esther

I’m tired of trying to shoe-horn myself into tight little jeans. #1 it’s uncomfortable. #2 nobody deserves the punishing view of me overflowing my denim.

Come to think of it, I don’t deserve the punishing view of you overflowing your denim, either. But somehow, we’ve all decided that smashing ourselves into jeans is really pretty awesome.

This needs to stop. I mean, at what age is it OK for a woman to stop warring with her womanly curves? I’m dead weary of fighting my curves. Sometimes, wearing jeans just feels like such a cruel thing to do to my childbearing hips.

It doesn't equal happy from Storing Up Treasures:

For a long time I believed that if I could just get skinny enough then I would be happy. It isn't true.

While I am happy that I am healthy and that my body shows that, I want you to know that looking better hasn't changed my life. It hasn't made my insecurities go away. It hasn't made me like myself more. And it hasn't fixed any of my problems.
The thing is, we always think that the next thing will make us happy.

Can a Feminist Diet? from Sociological Images

That said, recovering from anorexia made me a feminist.  While battling for my sanity and health, I became increasingly pissed off at the THIN=BEAUTIFUL*GOOD environment we live in.  Our culture’s valorization of thinness caused well-meaning friends to compliment me on my rapid weight-loss, literally up until the weeks that I entered treatment. Even after entering treatment, some people didn’t think I was skinny enough to be “really” anorexic.  Worse, my awful then-boyfriend hinted that it would be great if I could recover without gaining any weight, “since you’re not, like, scary-thin.”

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what I want you to know: the fistula epidemic

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s post is by Hope, who blogs about her life in Niger here.



The idea here is that when we share our personal stories, we bring greater compassion and awareness to the unique issues that we individually face. Reading these posts made me think long and hard about my story. What one thing would I want to tell other women? What is it in my life that needs to be told?

I want you to know about an epidemic called fistula. Not because it’s something that I am facing myself; I only became aware of it this year. But once you know, if you are like me, you will carry this story of heart break and tell it with passion.

I encounter this epidemic in the faces of the women who live around me here in Niger. I am sitting at my desk in front of my iMac, but there is another woman not very far from here (a mile or two maybe- I live in the capitol city) who is suffering from the horrible problem called fistula.



A fistula by strict definition is an abnormal hole in an organ or vessel. The problem here in Niger is Obstetric Fistula.

Girls and women in Niger work hard. Many of them haul water every day, traveling miles between huts and wells with jugs on their heads. This is expected of girls and women young and old. When they have reached puberty, girls are often married. Men in this country frequently take four or more wives. A young girl makes a “good” third or fourth wife because she can help with the many chores in a very large family. These girls are often small in stature because of a lack of good nutrition. Sometimes they become pregnant at 12, 13, or 14 years of age. Pregnancy is harder than you and I can imagine. No electricity. No running water.

One day labor starts and does not stop. The small girl labors all day and into the night. Sometimes for days.  Her small body does not help her deliver the baby the way an older or larger body would. By the time the family realizes that she is in danger, it is too late. The nearest clinic is very far by donkey cart. She is too tired to make the journey.

Eventually the baby arrives. Many times he or she is already dead.

She survives, but in the days following her delivery, she finds that her body will not heal. The fluids keep leaking out of her. The delivery has torn a hole in her that will not heal. It is a fistula.

Weeks. Months. Years go by.

Her husband has left her. She cannot bear him any more children. Because she still constantly leaks bodily fluids, she stinks and no one wants her around.

Her husband has sent her back to her parents. They see her as a disgrace. A failure. They cannot stand to let her live in their home because of the smell and the shame. They build her a hut behind their house. She lives there for years.

This story belongs to THOUSANDS of girls and women in Niger and in other parts of Africa and Asia. In places where women work hard and medical care is not adequate to meet their needs, they suffer in silence and shame.

They do not have an iMac to help them tell their story. And so I will.

There is help for women with fistula. The surgery to repair the damage to their bodies is often a fairly simple one. With a little education and encouragement, women at risk for fistula can travel to clinics in the days or weeks before delivery to ensure they receive the care they need.  Organizations have formed to try to make a difference for these women.  And in Niger a new hospital is being built.

Why do I want you to know about the fistula epidemic?  It is not my story.

I am a 32 year old American woman.  I am a mother of 3 children all born in a very beautiful hospital in Richmond, Virginia.  I want you to know about my gratitude and my obligation.  My gratitude is to God.  I thank him that I happened to be born in America, one of the richest countries in the world (see the human development index of countries here.)  I thank him for the amazing life I lead- full of adventure, travel, and opportunity.  My obligation is to help those who were not.  That is why I live in Niger.

I want you to know that the need, the poverty, that exists in the world outside of America is beyond what we can really comprehend.  Even me, as I sit here typing on my iMac.  I will never really know or be able to imagine what her story really feels like daily.  I am learning that my middle class American life- that I thought was not that flashy or extravagant- really was.  I made $32,000 a year teaching in a public school.  I thought I was kind of low on the socioeconomic totem poll.  Maybe.  In America.  But when I left the comfortable confines of my homeland, I found that the majority of the world operates on a totally different game board with totally different pieces.  I want to encourage you to take a break from the game you’re in and dare to sacrifice for a woman- or a child- or someone somewhere else in the world who could really use your help.  I want to encourage you to travel- not on vacation, but to a place less beautiful than that.  Take the time to educate yourself experientially.  Even if it means giving up something that you feel like you “need” to succeed at the game of Life.  I want you to pray.  Pray for that woman whose name you do not know, but whose story you have heard.  I want you to know that your life can make a difference to more than just you or your kids or your neighbor.  That is what I want you to know.

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the conversation that starts with “mommy and daddy have been married a long time . . .”

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Mark and I are taking a little get-away for our 15-year anniversary.  I am so looking forward to it.  This will be the first trip we’ve had together away from all four kids that doesn’t involve a conference or a television taping.  We have nothing scheduled, beyond sitting by a pool, reading a book, and a few other activities we enjoy doing together.

(Tennis!  What did you think I meant?)

We waited until a few days prior to tell the kids about our trip, and had a little family meeting about it.  The kids could see that we were ready to tell them something serious . . . something big in the scheme of Things That Matter in their world.  I started by explaining that we have been married a long time, and that sometimes when mommies and daddies have been married a long time, they need a little time away. . .

And then I saw a weird look come over Jafta’s face, and found myself rushing to tell them that this talk was about us taking a trip.   A trip that we want to take together, to celebrate each other and spend time with each other.  But for just a flash, I was mindful that conversations start like this every day, where parents call a family meeting and talk about marriage, and the revelation is not a trip,  The revelation is about a separation, or papers that have been filed, or daddy’s new apartment.

I know that this is a reality for many families, and I found a little catch in my throat as Jafta looked from me to Mark with concern, and then broke out into a smile as he understood.  And really, I guess that’s what this trip is about.  As much as I struggle with guilt any time I’m away from the kids, it’s not just for me that I need to prioritize my marriage.  It’s for them, too.

(Eating Starbucks cake-pops as a “good-bye treat”.  Okay, perhaps there is still a wee bit of guilt about leaving.)

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do you discipline other people’s kids?

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Last night I had what was probably my most awkward interchange with another child to date.  Mark works late on Tuesday nights, and the kids also have swim lessons in the evening, so I usually take them out to dinner afterwards to avoid cooking and trashing the house.  When I am eating out with four kids by myself, I tend to stick to restaurants that are kid-focused.  There’s a pizza place near my house with a little play area, and tonight we went to another favorite spot, which is a BBQ joint with a small outdoor play structure.

These settings are always an interesting study in parent-to-parent dynamics, because basically what happens is that a group of moms sit around watching their children interact and play with a bunch of strangers’ children.  It seems inevitable that conflicts arise . . . some kid is breaking rules or rough-housing, or using potty words or being too loud.  And when something happens, if your own kid is involved, you get the pleasure of trying to solve the issue in front of an audience of parents you don’t know.

I have determined that parents tend to fall into one of three categories in these settings.  Some parents watch and observe, and then assume their child to be the innocent victim in any conflict that arises.  (You know the ones.  The “Oh, sweetie, what did that boy do to you?” types).  Then there are the moms who, when they hear crying or fighting, just assume that their own kid is the cause.  (That would be me, yelling, JAFTA, WHAT DID YOU DO?  despite the fact that the crying child is ten feet away from him).  And then there are the moms that just aren’t paying a bit of attention to the dynamics of the children.  It is also my experience that the children of this last group of moms are usually the ones causing the most trouble in the circus ring, as the rest of us shoot each other exasperated glances and make passive-aggressive sighs of solidarity in how ridiculous and neglectful we find these mothers, the ones who choose their own food and conversation above hovering over their child’s social interchanges.  HOW DARE THEY.

Last night I was faced with the EXTREME COMBO of the aforementioned obnoxious child/oblivious mom.  We were at the BBQ place, and there was a little boy (we’ll call him Trevor) who was being really pushy with India.  He kept grabbing onto her shirt while they were playing, and she’s a pretty laid-back kid but I could see her frustration mounting.  At one point he was chasing her while holding onto her shirt and I started to kind of scan the crowd to try to figure out who is mom was before I intervened.  No one was watching and they were standing within earshot, so I did my usual “group admonishment” that I employ when I’m trying to call out a kid that doesn’t belong to me without really looking like I’m calling out a kid that doesn’t belong to me.  So in my best kindergarten-teacher voice, I asked all the kids to keep their hands to themselves.  Only Trevor didn’t look at me, and still had the end of India’s t-shirt in his hand.  So then I looked at him and told him directly to keep his hands to himself.  I’m still looking around for Trevor’s mom and still don’t see an interested party, which is a bit strange.  Typically when an adult interlopes into the play area, it’s like a record scratch moment when other parents prick up their ears to see if the intervention is involving their own kid.  So I unfurl his hand from her t-shirt, and say, “Honey, where is your mom?”, because it’s feeling a bit weird to be physically pulling him off my kid, but he clearly isn’t listening to me using my words.  When I ask this, he laughs and runs away from me, and I walk after him, asking where his mom is, and then he’s running and suddenly I feel like I am chasing someone else’s kid so I stop and go back to my table, hoping that will be the end of it.

At this point, Trevor and a couple other kids (who seem to be with him) start running back and forth between the play structure and an alley that leads to a parking lot behind the building.  Of course, Karis starts to follow them.  Not being a fan of kids running in alleys that lead to areas where cars are driving, I tell my kids they aren’t allowed to run back and forth with these boys, and I hear a number of other parents issuing similar rules to their kids.  I’m a little perplexed that this group of three boys don’t seem to have parents that care if they do, but I can’t decide if I should make an issue of it or not by telling other people’s kids to stop running in the alley.  I decided not to.

Trevor and his friends now make a game of running into the play area, telling a kid they are going to shoot them “in the privates”, and then running back into the alley out of sight of any adults.  A few times Karis is in the mix, and now Trevor’s grabbing the end of her shirt, too.  Then I notice he’s chasing India in the play area again.  Then I see that she’s on the ground and he has a death-grip on her leg as she’s trying to get away from him.  Once again, I walk into the play area and tell him to keep his hands to himself, but this time I’m determined I’m gonna get his mom involved because SHEESH.  Other parents are shooting me sympathetic glances.  I ask him where his mom his.  He runs away from me, and this time goes around the restaurant to a side area with a storage shed.  I follow him back there, trying to coax him back to the play area so we can talk with his mom.

This is where it gets really weird.  Because now I’m alone with a kid around the side of a building.  I try taking his hand and reassuring him that we’re just going to go find his mom.  But when I do this, he pulls his hand out and tries hiding from me.  So now he’s in what I wouldn’t consider a safe area, hiding . . . and I’m the adult who followed (chased?) him back there, and I feel responsible to see to it that he is corralled back to the play area.  I ask him to just point to his mom so I can get her.  He refuses.  I take his hand again, because I’m not leaving him back here, and I now have four kids playing unattended, one of whom is a toddler who is pretty keen on following some other boys into the alley that is on the other side of the building.  I tell him we need to go find his mom, and take a firmer grip on his hand, now feeling really, really weird that I’m touching someone else’s kid, but unable to think of anything else to do because this kid is about 6 years old and completely non-compliant and I don’t feel good about leaving him back here.  Finally, he runs around me back into the area where the adults are, and as he runs by a woman about my age, she says, “Where have you been?”  Clueless mom identified.  Sitting in deep conversation with a friend and clearly annoyed by the need to stop and actually parent.

At which point, I wanted to say, HELLO?  He’s been running up and down the alley for the better part of an hour and you are just now noticing he’s not in view? But instead I let her know, in my best non-judgmental, understanding voice, that her son was being a bit grabby with my girls.  She tells him not to play rough, and goes back to her conversation. 

A couple minutes go by, and Trevor is still being wild and grabby but not with my kids at least, and at one point actually comes over to me (I’m sitting alone at a table) and starts yelling at me.  He’s yelling that he’s going to put me in jail and throw away the key, and other various threats.  Again, I am left trying to figure out how to respond to another kid’s bad behavior, because I would never in a million years let my kids talk to an adult like that . . . but it’s not my kid.  I think about getting his mom again, but she’s totally checked out, and clearly in some denial that her kid needs more supervision than she’s giving.  I think about reprimanding him myself, but that didn’t work so well before.  So this time, I did nothing, beyond giving the moms at the table next to me a return eye-roll at this kid’s loud disrespect.

Have you ever been in a situation like this, where a stranger's kid is totally out-of-control?  What do you do?  When I came home and told Mark about following him around the corner, Mark thought I should have left him there.  NOT YOUR PROBLEM, he said.  I tend to take a more community approach, because honestly, if my kid was hiding around the corner I would want another adult to corral them back to the play area.  But then again, if my kid was yelling at an adult, I would want that adult to correct them, too.  If my kid was being grabby, I would want to be told.  I don’t really mind other parents giving my kids a verbal correction if they are really out of line.  I guess I’m of the “it takes a village” persuasion when kids are blatantly inappropriate.  But I know others are not so keen on that.

How do you handle disciplining other people’s kids?  When do you step in, and when do you let it go?  How do you feel about other people correcting your kids?

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what “fit” actually looks like

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One of my friends recently entered the world of online dating, and she was lamenting to me about the body standards that some of the men post in their profiles.  “They say they want a woman who is fit,” she says.  “But I know what fit is code for.  It’s code for skinny.”   My friend is tall and active. She runs almost every day. She’s very fit.  And yet, she suspects that her plus-sized body proportions would be off-putting to someone seeking a partner with a “fit” body.  And I have a sinking feeling that she might be right.

What she said really stuck with me, because I’ve been on my own journey in accepting what fit looks like for me.  I talk the talk . . . I gave my friend quite a pep talk about how athletic and awesome she is.  But internally, I have been accepting the same fit = skinny mindset for my body as well.  It’s hard not too.  We live in a society where someone who is thin is described as having a dancer’s body, even when that thin person may get winded after two minutes on a dance floor.  Someone like my husband, who is naturally muscular, is described as having an athletic build . . . even though the man hasn’t done a push-up in years and eats a pint of Ben and Jerry’s before bed most nights.  I have some friends who might be described as “fit” by appearances, but I’m pretty sure I could run circles around them.
I have had varying levels of physical fitness in my life, but my body has never looked like an athlete or a dancer (at least, what the world tells me an athlete or dancer should look like).  I was a theater major in college, taking several grueling dance classes a week, and yet I still lost out on being cast in the chorus of certain musicals because I was one of the “bigger” girls in the company.  After I got married, I gained a couple pounds every year, regardless of whether I was working out or sedentary.  I would go through seasons of being very active, and seasons of not doing anything, because the gym visits never seemed to make much of a difference in my appearance.

Finally, two years ago, I agreed to train for a half-marathon with a group of friends.  We were raising money for a birthing center in Haiti.  While I was excited about the cause, I have to admit that the idea of kicking my butt into shape with distance running was a huge motivator for me.  I knew that I was up for the task, and I began to fantasize about how my body would transform as I trained.  I even started making projections about it.  I couldn’t wait to be able to run in those short running shorts once my legs toned up.  I couldn’t wait to not worry about my muffin top once I’d run a half-marathon and become lithe and lean.  I couldn’t wait to show off my new body at the conference I had scheduled just weeks after the big race.


For three months, I trained with extreme discipline.  I ran according to schedule, and the week before the race I ran 13 miles.   When the day of the race came, I ran the half-marathon comfortably.  So comfortably, in fact, that when I got to 13.1 miles, I considered continuing and running the full marathon, because I really felt like I could keep going.  I felt great.  I was in the best shape of my life.
____

And yet . . . the scale did not move.  My body looked exactly the same three months into rigorous training.  I was in the best shape of my life, and yet I was still at the highest weight of my life.  Sure, my legs were stronger and a bit more muscular, but I still had the same pesky muffin-top, the same concerning flab on my arms, and the same chaffing of inner-thigh fat when I ran.  Those Nike shorts I envisioned myself in?  That never happened.

I tried really hard to be happy with the fitness goals I had met, but it was hard not to feel disappointed that externally, I looked the same.  I was a bit comforted when a group of us who had all run the race went to the hot-tub that evening.  We had all trained and completed the race, but we all had very different body types.  Some of my friends had finished the full marathon.  Some hadn’t run at all.  And yet, by looking at us, one certainly couldn’t have determined who was in the best running shape by the ways our bodies looked.  I tried to remind myself that not everyone looks like an athlete . . . and that I should just be satisfied with what fit looks like for me.  But the truth is, I wasn’t satisfied at all.



The day after that half-marathon, a couple of us flew down to Haiti.  An earthquake happened.  Our adopted son came home.  Life was rearranged and I failed to maintain the fitness I had worked so hard for.  In part, because there was stress and transition and PTSD to deal with. But if I’m honest, in part because a part of me didn’t really feel like trying if the results weren’t going to be visible.
Fast-forward a year and a half, and at the beginning of this summer I decided it was time to take care of my body again.  Life with four small kids was taking a toll on me, and I knew that I needed to exercise to help with my anxiety and my declining energy levels.   For the month of June, I went on The Fresh Diet, a delivery system of healthy, low-calorie food.  I also signed up for a P90x class at my gym. I was excited about how the healthy food and daily workouts would make me feel, but that wasn’t enough.  Once again, I began projecting into the future about how my body would look.  I imagined myself wearing shorts again.  I envisioned being more comfortable in my skin at our annual fourth of July party.  I pictured myself comfortable in a swimsuit, wearing a smaller size in my jeans, buying a sleeveless dress for the BlogHer conference . . .  again, I was finding motivation in the external benefits.

I’m six weeks into my P90x program.  I was faithful on the diet for 30 days, and then continued healthy eating.  I’ve been working out like crazy in the program in my gym.  I can do pull-ups.  I can make it through the Plyo routine without stopping.  I have endurance and energy, and I feel great.
But the scale?  That number is the same.  My BMI?  Still in the overweight category.  My jeans?  Same size.  That muffin-top?  Still securely in place.

I was having a particularly discouraging night about these facts last week, when the P90x program I’m in took our most recent weights and measurements.  My trainers were surprised by my results (or lack thereof), and I was pretty down about it.  I logged into Pinterest that evening, and saw this picture on our Curvy Girl Guide inspiration board:

Each one of these women is an Olympic athlete. Let's challenge the notion that thinness is the only indicator of health and fitness. Unless you have the build for it, exercise won't magically make you a size 2, but it will make you stronger and feel amazing no matter what your size.

THIS.  I needed this.

Oh, how I would love this story to end with me, running up a flight of stairs to the Rocky theme song, obvious to how I look and basking in the glory of how fit I truly am.  Unfortunately, I’m not there yet.  But I’m working on accepting what fit looks like for me

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surviving carmageddon (and other first world problems)

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Thanks to everyone who was fervently praying . . . we’ve survived Carmageddon. You take us off the prayer-chain for now.

It was a rough weekend, though.  Sure, the news stories may be telling you that Carmageddon was mainly an overgrown panic perpetuated by a bunch of paranoid, traffic-weary SoCal residents.  And for the most part, it was.  But this weekend we found ourselves in the midst of a perfect traffic storm, being that our home is situated in the middle of the closed-down 405, a different freeway that leads to the beach, and a road in between the two freeways that intersects with the Orange County Fair.  Which opened this weekend.  Which meant on Saturday it took me an hour to go four blocks on Fair Drive.

Here, I’ve drawn a map for responsibility-avoiding illustration purposes.  (This map is not drawn to scale, FYI, in case you are a psycho-killer who thinks I’ve just drawn a map to my house and put it on the internet.  Also, I am horrible with directions and pretty sure that none of this is accurate except for the part about OMG TRAFFIC).

Speaking of the fair, now that it is open, I’m feeling a lot of pressure to go, and to report back with some humorous and awful stories about it like I did the last several years in a row (i.e. here and here).  But what if nothing mortifying happens?  What if everyone is dressed sensibly?  What if there is no ridiculous concoction of foods like a Baby Ruth deep-friend inside a jalapeno?  What if all of the ride operators look like upstanding citizens instead of meth dealers?

Hahahaha.  Who am I kidding?  It will be awful, I will hate it, and the presence of four small children will assure that something goes awry, most likely something targeting my dignity.  So stay tuned for that.

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this week in iphone photos

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I'm gonna take a cue from my friend Julie and post the week's instagram photos on the blog. Gratuitous cute kid photos ahead . . .

Our family from Seattle was out this week.  The kids loved hanging with their cousins.

Strawberry/Kale/Almond Milk Smoothie.  It tastes better than it looks.

The cousins camped at the beach for a few nights, so we joined them in the evenings.

India took a marker to her hair.  I tried to scold her, but I had to give her props for color choice and placement,

Los Angeles, B.C. (Before Carmageddon)

Our anniversary date night

On Thursday Jafta had "crazy hair day" at robot camp, so the girls insisted they get to paint their hair, too.  (I think this may be my favorite picture of them, ever).

Another night at the beach with the cousins.

Keep Off Tower.

Making s'mores.

Jafta's homemade robot dominated in the robot war.  As you can see, he was really humble and quiet about it.

I dusted off the juicer this week.  Beet + carrot = pink juice!

We found these eating through our tomatoes.  So gross!  Jafta was very sad we did not allow him to keep them as pets.

Juicing gives you superpowers!

Every morning, Karis sneaks out of her room and into the living room to pilfer through my purse and play with my makeup.  More often than not, she has applied mascara to her lips.  She's channeling Robert Smith.

Our first zuccini!  With a robot photobomb.  Too bad that robot doesn't kill caterpillars.

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that’s what she said: mid-summer night’s edition

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Some good reads on the web this week.  Click on the title to read the whole thing.

Getting Past a “Mom Funk” from The Happiest Mom

When I fall into one of these mom funks, I somehow manage to feel two conflicting emotions simultaneously. I feel anxious, like there’s something I’m supposed to be doing, but I can’t put my finger on just what. At the same time I have a hard time getting moving on any of the things I know I really need or want to do. I feel stuck, paralyzed, and fretful. (The Mom Funk also tends to result in my making poor decisions, like getting embroiled in Twitter drama, going off half-cocked in a blog post or not really thinking that email through before I hit “send.”)

Clothes Minded from Metalia

When J and I were first married, and I was a lot more, uh, spendy, there came a point where he was all, "you do not need more shoes. Please stop buying shoes. Also, we are basically poor now because of the shoes." So, I swore up and down that I would stop buying shoes, so that we could afford things such as food, and electricity.

Happy by Example from Sarah Markley

I’m frustrated. I’m looking in my rearview mirror at my girls who have just misbehaved in front of a bunch of other moms. We’re driving away from church.
Did I mention I’m frustrated? I’m shaking my head and wondering how I turned out to be such a bad mother.
“I just need us to be HAPPY!” I repeat.
Someone whispers from the back of the van. I glance back. It’s my nine-year-old.
“But YOU’RE not happy, Mama.” Ouch.

Mishandled from All & Sundry

I don’t know how to help him past these fears, and maybe part of what is so maddening is that we can’t help him, we can’t convince him that it’s okay, we can’t calm him down, and that feels like a failure on top of a failure. I don’t know how to pull aside the muddying issue of caring about what other people think, when these things happen in public. I don’t know if it’s better to hold our ground on certain things or back off completely.

B+ Parenting Update from Whoorl

My mother’s Type A behavior falls into the “time-conscious” realm. For instance, during my childhood years, if we weren’t at the airport 4-5 hours in advance of our departing flight, the SHIT HIT THE FAN. How I remember those long hours once we arrived at the airport….staring off into space, being asked if I needed to use the potty 3,679 times, eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner, writing a lengthy novel, growing an inch or two…those were the days. As for my mother’s day-to-day grind, being on time means arriving 20-30 minutes early and sitting in the parking lot, the possibility of traffic or weather-related delays is hand-wringing, and being 5 minutes late is coronary infarction-inducing. This woman is on a Prompt Mission, and is not to be messed with in any way, shape or form.

Reaching from Livesay (Haiti) Web Log

The young women at the Harbor House are doing something almost unheard of, they are reaching for bigger and better things for their children. They are refusing to give their babies to an orphanage, an auntie, or a friend. They are breaking cultural norms in many ways and are committing to nurture their children themselves. The bonding between these babies and their mothers is beautiful to see and it gives them (and us) great hope.  We're more than 50% of the way to receiving the 15K matching grant.  Will you consider helping us get there by months end? 

Fable's First Day from Girl's Gone Child

"Should I go?" I kept asking the teachers. "Are you sure I shouldn't stay a few minutes more? An hour? Until lunch?"
"If you want to," they said.
I did want to. But I left.
I left because she didn't need me to be there. I left because she was fine without me and in the end, that's what I wanted. That's what we all want, right? For our kids to sit confidently at the picnic table, suck the juice from their orange slices without looking back. To grow up the kind of people who seldom, if ever, look back. Who move forward through their lives, open and eager to learn and change and be.

Vignette #1: Race/Ethnicity/Place: a dialogue in many parts) from Mama C and the Boys

After parenting transracially for almost seven years, I can now count on three hands the adult Black and Biracial friends that we see on a very regular basis--to share a meal, a baseball game, or family celebration.  This translates to almost every few days that my kids are spending time with an adult or young adult person of color in addition to the children of some of these friends who are also Black or Biracial. In this list I include African American families, African families, Muslim and Christian families, American and foreign born Black families. In addition we meet on a semi regular basis with other transracial adoptive families, which meets many other needs, and will be talked about in future vignettes.

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what I want you to know: the humbling of a breastfeeding snob

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s post is by Abbie Rumbach, who blogs at The Kids Made Me Fat.

I was never very good at pregnancy. Sure, I guess it all turned out all right.  The pregnancies always achieved the desired results - a baby. But, I never really felt at home housing a child. My own mother claims that she always loved being pregnant - that she never felt better. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah old woman - time and quite possibly the hell I put you through in my adolescence has crippled your mind. Pregnancy sucks.  Especially the second and third time around when you have other children who depend on you to actively participate in life rather than mold your body into the couch and take up permanent residence there for 9 months. They expect you to feed them, bathe them & all of that other mommy bs. Okay, put down the phone - no need to call Child Protective Services - I’m KIDDING. Kind of.

I have, however, always been good at breastfeeding. I can’t say that its always come easy but I’ve always felt proud that I breastfed the girls for over a year.  I firmly believed that breast milk was the only suitable nutrition for my children and I likened formula to pet food. I thought women who complained of supply problems, latching problems or any other sort of breastfeeding hurdle were simply not committed to the cause. Of course, publicly, I would never say these things. In the many titillating (pun intended) conversations I’ve had with friends regarding feeding their young, I’ve always recited a politically correct mantra that went something like, “You just have to do what works for you. Every mother and baby is different.” Really I wanted to call them out as lazy or a selfish-quitter. I could not fathom feeding my baby out of a can when I had the perfect food provided for him.

Then I had Jack.

Jack is my third child and my first son.  While pregnant with Jack, I was anxious about adjusting our lives to accommodate a third child. I worried about how the girls would handle a new baby. I worried about finances and readying the nursery. Pretty common concerns of an expecting mother. I never worried about breastfeeding. Why would I? It was never a question that I would breastfeed my third as I had the previous two.
 

When Jack was born he latched on soon after birth and we were in baby-mommy bonding bliss. He was a great eater. My milk came in quickly and all was well in Boobville. Then it all fell apart.

When Jack was about 2 or 3 weeks old, he started screeching in pain a few minutes after he began to eat. He would go red in the face and hold his breath. His cries were heartbreaking, and I had no idea what was wrong with him. He would cry quite awhile and when I was finally able to calm him, he would refuse to breastfeed. No matter how many times I offered, he wouldn’t latch on. My husband finally convinced me to pump and give him a bottle. He took it with no problem and I made plans to take Jack to the doctor to find out what was wrong.

In the interim, Jack would either refuse to latch on or scream a few minutes into feeding and would have to be settled down and then fed with a bottle. I pumped in an effort to keep up my milk supply but I could tell it was dwindling as I never produced much milk for a pump.

Jack was diagnosed with heartburn and put on an antacid. But now, I had  a big breastfeeding problem as Jack would still cry every time he was put to the breast. He had gotten used to a bottle, and to my dismay, preferred the faster flow of a plastic nipple to me, his own mother. Yes, I was taking it quite personally.  I decided, however, to stay the course and keep at it.  I told myself that he would eventually come around. I tried for weeks to breastfeed with the same results - tears. Lots from him and a few, or course, from me. We were both miserable. Instead of enjoying my new baby, I was frustrated and stressed. He was too. So, I finally admitted defeat and slowly started giving him the bottle. I continued to pump but eventually my supply ran out and Jack became exclusively formula-fed.

I, a total breast-feeding snob, had been humbled. All of the “lazy, quitters” needed to move on over and make room for company, after of course, I extend to you my apologies.

I was sad. I felt like a failure. I felt like I had been forced to give up my baby too soon. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to bond with the baby if he was bottle-fed. However, my sadness faded and revealed that both Jack and I were much happier. Feedings were now enjoyable and the entire family seemed more at peace.

I still wish things had turned out differently but in the end it really didn’t matter. My son was happy, and I learned a good Mommy lesson. You can’t always parent every child the same way, and you can’t always do for one what you did for the other, but, of course, it doesn’t mean you love them any less.

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fifteen years

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We celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary on Wednesday.

FIFTEEN YEARS.

You know, I'm not surprised that we are still married.  I just can't believe I'm old enough to have been married that long.

Fifteen years seems old, right?  Gah.

We spent our evening in LA, taking our chances on the 405 with the impending Carmageddon this weekend (roads were clear!)  We ate at a darling little restaurant called Cafe Gratitude.  The vibe was soooo LA.  All of the food was organic and vegan.  All of the boobs were fake.  But I must say, our meal was fantastic.

We also got the chance to see Jillian Lauren's performance piece called Mother Tongue.  I'm not even sure how to adequately describe how awesome this was.  Jillian wrote the show herself, and it followed her journey from being adopted as an infant leading up to the adopting of her son from Ethiopia.  But the whole thing was interspersed with the story of three character- a fiery young black man who was adopted as a child, an enthusiastic adoptive mom trying to help her traumatized child, and a birthmom struggling to keep her child . . . all expertly played by Jillian.  It was emotional and amazing and if somehow you are a broadway producer YOU NEED TO CALL HER.  Jillian is a rock-star. (I can't wait to read her next novel). 

Dinner and a play - a great way to spend our anniversary.  And we're getting away in a few days, too, for a couple nights of lounging by the pool in the dessert.  BY OURSELVES.  I can't wait.

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