Thank You, Candy

I got to do a really satisfying thing recently; I got to deliver a long overdue thank you to a friend.

All the way back in tenth grade, Candy and I got into a fight.  I remember arguing in front of my locker.  I remember being stubbornly angry.  I remember us defiantly parting ways.  I have no recollection the reason for any of it.  I do know after that day, it was the end of our friendship in the joined-at-the-hip way we'd been accustomed to; it was always superficial after that.  And I missed her constantly.

A little background:
A couple years earlier, eighth grade started a rough stretch in my life.  Amongst my many turmoils, I gave the rumor mill its first tiny seed, and it blossomed into a beautiful nightmare.  The blatantly false tales of my promiscuous behavior grew to fantastical proportions.  I was challenged to fights by girls who'd heard I was trying to force oral sex on their boyfriends.  There was no shortage of guys willing to say they'd seen or participated with me in public orgies.  Several friends joined the chorus of jokes and jabs.  I was a 13 year-old pariah.

Ninth grade had just begun when I received a visitor who'd heard my place equaled action.  I had the misfortune of being home alone (but spared the full act).  My attacker wasted no time the next Monday bragging he had firsthand knowledge that the rumors were all true.  A friend told the school counselor, the police were called, and my circle of friends shrunk.

More humiliating than having the bruised bite marks photographed, or turning over torn clothes and the vulgar recordings left on my answering machine, was facing my peers at school.  Everyday I was tormented with questions like, "how can you do that to him? He has a girlfriend, and you're a slut." Ouch.

Important Aside:
I don't tell the story to garner sympathy, but to give context for my thank you.  The scars from that time are barely visible now, even to me, but I do know where to look for them.  It is the reason I take great care with the secrets people entrust to me, but live my own life like a wide-open book.  It is also the reason I do my level best to never lead with judgement, and bristle when people speak in absolutes.

When I testified in court, my mother and brother were considered witnesses and could not sit with me.  But I did have one person by my side, holding my hand and encouraging me-Candy.  I remember what all of us were wearing that day.  I remember the questions I was asked.  I remember the answers he gave.  And I remember Candy's voice.

At the time of our fight I was 15, and only in the infancy of my mental recovery.  I didn't yet understand how the events of those years would inform so many decisions and sacrifices I would make.  But I always felt the loss of Candy's friendship.

When I roll around the events of my life, I inevitably come back to those years, and that incident.  I occasionally search the sex offender registry (he's on it for subsequent crimes), but he's not really the point.  I think about Candy.  It has always been deeply meaningful to me that she stood by me during a time it was incredibly unpopular do so.  Candy was a friend when I needed her most.

More than once over the years, Candy and I crossed paths, and I wanted to hug her and tell her I miss her.  And thank you.  But I just couldn't help wonder if we were still fighting?  And what the hell were we fighting about?  (We've since determined that neither of us have any idea.)  My timing was impetuous and odd, but I finally got my chance.

So I told her.  And we hugged and I cried.  And then we relived all sorts of happy memories.  And a gigantic weight was lifted.

Thank you, Candy.

My First Time

This year our family decided, for the first time, to host a foreign teacher for our children's Spanish immersion school.  We were fortunate to be matched with Sarahy from Honduras, and even more fortunate to be a part of many firsts for her as well.  Her first plane ride brought her to Minnesota.  Since living with us she has experienced her first snowfall, her first bowling alley, first roller coaster, first hockey game, and first time internet shopping.  And then there is this one other first for both of us that is near and dear to my heart uterus.

When Sarahy arrived, it was with great excitement that we showed her around our home and introduced ourselves.  When acquainting Sarahy with her space, I had pointed out a drawer in the bathroom with several feminine hygiene items: tampons, panty liners, razors, etc.  A few weeks after her arrival, I learned she'd had someone bring her to the store for sanitary napkins.  She explained she was unfamiliar with tampons, and needed something she understood.  I felt bad I hadn't thought to stock pads, and was perplexed by the idea that she hadn't had experience with tampons.
I thought only people who lived in small, remote villages around the world hadn't used tampons.  Who knew?

*About a month* later when she came home with a box of tampons I was curious, and more than a little surprised. She explained that a woman had purchased boxes for the teaching assistants and her peers were encouraging her to try them.  She didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea, but bravely asked me if I could help her understand how to use them.  No one had ever asked me the tampon question before.
I live for this kind of thing. I got this!

I proudly unwrap the tampon and describe how to the hold the plastic applicator at it's neck with your right thumb and middle finger.  With the right pointer finger, I push the thin tube into the top tube, grasping the tampon as it exits the plastic.  I hold up both parts, pull the collapsed applicator beyond the string, and voila, tampon insertion complete!
"Make sense?"
I can tell by her expression that my explanation had fallen short of effective.  Damn.
I say it only once in my head, and then quickly aloud so I don't lose the nerve.
"Put your hands together like this to make a vagina. Vagina (vaheena) manos."
I ask her to kneel down so I can stand beside her to demonstrate the correct angle.  Tampon cued up, applicator inserted into the vagina hands, tampon ejected, success!  Her eyes and mouth turn up into a smile, and I know we've connected the dots.
I'm so good at this!
"Now you try it."
She faces me and fumbles with the applicator with both hands.
"No, no, you'll need to stand next to me.  You won't have that kind of angle when you're doing this to yourself.  And you need to practice using one hand."
That felt weird to say.  Maybe it wasn't that bad. Other people must have said that. 
"I have to use one hand? What do you do with the other hand?"
"Well the other hand kind of clears. the. area."  I'm turning my left hand slowly down to make an upside down peace sign.
Okay, it's weird. I feel weird.
She stands beside me to prepare for her first attempt.
If anyone walks in right now to see me kneeling down making praying hands into vagina hands, I'll die.
Sarahy practices putting a tampon into my vagina hands a few times until she feels confident.
Mission accomplished! I'm an excellent teacher.
I advise her of proper disposal, we discuss frequency for changing them, and when to use super versus regular.
The world is a more educated place. Yeah me! 

I was experiencing a sense of pride and walking away, onto the next thing, when her question comes.
"Carrie, so what happens to the string?"
"The string?"
"When you go pee, what happens to the string?"
Because English is her second language, I often speak with purposeful diction when explaining something unfamiliar, but now I'm in awkward slow motion.
"Well. Sometimes the string. Is already. Curled. Up. In. Your. Vaginal opening. Then it's not very necessary. To do anything."
I feel feverish.
More quickly now. "Sometimes, you do nothing.  It gets wet, and then you can just blot it dry when you're wiping."
I may need to lay down. 
"And sometimes *motions for her to follow me into the bathroom* you can move it out of the way."
Shut up, Carrie.  Stop talking. Some things are meant to be self-taught. 
Nope, I'm doing it.  I'm actually walking into the bathroom to give a full demonstration of how to move the string out of the way.  God, help me. 
I squat over the toilet and reach behind me to show how one might go about pulling the tampon string to the side.
Rock bottom.  I just hit rock bottom. 
She doesn't seem convinced that scenario will ever come up, and I'm not sure it will either, but now the cat's out of the bag that I sometimes move my tampon string.
Does anyone else do that? No one taught me that. I don't know. I don't want to know. 

The learning is complete, and I'm now really happy to be done.  Until I stop, and go back.
"Oh, I just remembered one more thing."
Do I have to say it?  I don't want to say.  I can't help myself because I feel compelled to see this whole lesson through.  I travel out of body to watch the words fall out of my mouth.
"When you take the tampon out, *deep breath* sometimes it will pop out quickly, and swing like a pendulum."
I'm miming a swinging tampon with my forearm.  
I need a drink.
Her expression tells me she wonders why this is significant. 
Well, I'll tell you. 
"If you aren't prepared, it may drop into the toilet water, then wrapping it up to throw it away becomes a horrible mess."  In fairness to my awkward need to relay this information, it is true.  Unless you don't care about causing a plumbing back up, but I do.
"Sometimes it will crash into the side of the toilet and leave blood on the rim.  It would be nice to clean that kind of thing up."
Okay, super gross, but I don't want to clean it up.  
"At this point, I trust you can practice on your own."
 I officially feel faint, and must now remove myself from the kitchen.  The lesson is really done this time.  I will have to assess my teaching skills when I come to.

Tampon tutorial (long version) is complete.
No additional Q &; A at this time. :)

Mom Job

I don't want to start right off discounting dads, but around my house "mom" is a much more popular word.  I've challenged my boys to try "dad" once in awhile.  They sometimes walk right up to me, understand my expression, hold my gaze, and yell, "Daaad!"  It's refreshing.
But there are times when they are distressed, sick, or hurting, that there is only one person for the job.  And that's when I do my most thankless, exhausting and satisfying work.

Job Skill: Know Your Customer
I awoke several weeks ago to my youngest, Dane, climbing in between my husband and I, carrying the cat with him.  He has a fear of tornadoes, and a storm had his mind racing.
"Mom, Hannah and I have to sleep with you so we feel safe."
"Climb in sweets."  We review conditions necessary for a tornado and the statistically low fatality rates until he is satisfied that no danger exists and drops off to sleep.

Job Skill: Tireless Effort
A short time later my oldest, Jude, whispers to me, "Mom, I need you.  I can't breathe."
I always hate those words.  I move to his room so we can do the ritual that is breathing treatments for asthmatics.  My need to constantly put my ear to his chest kept me up the rest of the night.
The next day he felt well enough to go to school, but later ended up at the clinic.  While my husband sat through testing into the evening, it was my job to complete chores at home, prepare myself for an overnight at the hospital, and try to rest. Yeah, that resting part...

Job Skill: Be Resourceful
Sarahy, the teaching assistant we are hosting from Honduras, had come home early from school that day.  She sought me out after sleeping most of the evening, face swollen and feverish.  The language barrier made deciphering the problem difficult, but I understood it was a dental issue.  Combing through her documents, we learned that she had medical, but not dental coverage during her visit.  So well into the night I left voicemails and sent emails, searching for a reasonable and expeditious option.
With the much-appreciated help of my cousin Leona and a woman supporting the teaching program, we were able to get her into the University of Minnesota dental school.  I got regular updates on the exams, costs and care.  She is a capable, intelligent adult, but was in need of help to find resources.

That mom title gets a little elastic at times.

Job Skill: Perform Under Pressure
Two weeks ago, my husband stayed in isolation for days with a cold.  My youngest was helping with dinner.  He opened a can.  I could hear the screams then saw the blood.  A large flap of his thumb hung down.  I called out to orders to Leona, Jude and Sarahy for gauze, clothes for Dane, the car, my purse.  I pinched his thumb tightly while rifling through his files to confirm immunizations.  I carried him to the car and then into the ER.

Job Security
Several hours later, we arrived home.  I crawled up next to my husband to assure him everything was fine. "I'm sorry, what? Did you go somewhere?"  I told him I will never have the bliss that is ignorance around this place.  Good thing I'm the boss.

Privacy Please

Truly a day in the life...


"Juuuuude! Get out!  I do not need an audience while I'm using the bathroom."

"And now ladies and gentleman, my mother is about to attempt an amazing feat!"

"Seriously! You can brush your teeth in any other bathroom.  I don't want an audience."

"Mother, it occurs to me that you are confused about my role here.  I'm not part of the audience, I'm the announcer."

"Get out!"

"Now mom, you are a grown woman.  Is it correct that you know how to lock a door, yet chose not to?  Do you understand that by locking the door you could delay us?  We would definitely pick the lock, but by the time we got in you might actually be done."

"Point taken.  Get out."

"Is it? I feel like we play this game a lot.  I don't want to be here any more than you want me here, yet here I am and we're both suffering."

Enter second child.

"Dane, mom says she doesn't want an audience while she's using the bathroom.  I'm actually the announcer.  What do you want to be?"

Shrugging, "I guess I'll be the animal trainer."



 

The Notebook

When I was in my early twenties, I went out with a guy that kept a journal of women he'd dated.  It catalogued their pros and cons, and sometimes there were additional notes describing how these traits had the potential to switch columns and under what circumstances.  He took care to summarize each woman, what he had learned from the relationship, what traits he would now avoid, and what adjustments he would make to his own behavior in the future.  He was an organized thinker and a model of over-preparedness.  He did not care to be idle, and I found him entirely too serious.    

Some women might have been offended by the notebook, or insecure about the story their own entry would tell.  Not me.  I found the whole idea fascinating.  Everyone I know has hoped for love and navigated the ethereal and confusing feelings that come with it.  I had just never seen a system designed so objectively to manage it.

I'm quite certain I ended up in that notebook.  I never wondered what my list looked like though.  Maybe because I wasn't that invested, but maybe because I know the things I like and love about myself, my favorite memories and proudest accomplishments.  I also know my failures, flaws, and regrets.  I hadn't thought of that notebook in more than a decade.

Right now I'm getting to know a new coworker, someone I work closely with and must depend upon.  It struck me the other day that what we know about one another has come from sharing our own perspective of ourselves.  It's different than knowing someone through common acquaintance-it's what you give of yourself.  While we are building a professional relationship, we are sharing personal stories: first good, many funny, and now, some sorrowful.  And it got me to thinking about that notebook.

I feel certain people experience me the same way regardless of what capacity they know me.  I have a sense of balance and a deep appreciation for my life's rewards.  I really love to laugh.  I think those themes are consistent, but I've wondered lately if the pros and cons I would list for myself would have anything in common with a list anyone else would make of me.

I won't be passing out papers with columns drawn in and instructions at the top or anything.  I won't be giving people examples like "admitted lesbian" or "big boobs" to form their lists. (yes, he had those as a pro and con for one woman).  I won't be asking anyone to share their bullet points in front of a group.

I will do what I often do when I find myself in a phase of deep thought and self-reflection.  I will stop to look around at my life.  I will cry and laugh and remember.  I will acknowledge my pros and cons, but I won't put them in a notebook to be stored away.  I will travel with them each day.

Lesson Applied

My family saw Jackie Robinson at the Minneapolis Children's Theatre last season.  The play conveyed Jackie's roadblocks entering Major League Baseball, and used a lot of bigoted language to stay true to the storied struggle.  My then six year-old Dane asked during intermission, "why does that kid keep saying boy like that to Jackie when he's a man and that kid is a kid?"

My sons heard a lot of words they hadn't heard before that night, and a lot of derogatory language that was confusing to them.  I knew before we went to the play that I should be prepared to talk about it afterward, and I was.  The theater parking lot had recently installed new pay machines, and, as a result, the lines to exit were long and so began our discussion.

During that season, Minnesotans were preparing to vote on legislation to define marriage as one man, one woman, and so there was plenty of propaganda on the topic-some of it spirited to say the least.  The mini-van waiting to exit ahead of us was covered in not just "pro-marriage," but also, anti-gay bumper stickers.  As I spoke to my boys, I wondered how the conversation in that car might be fundamentally different than the one we were having.  I also noticed my then eight year-old Jude reading all the text in front of him.  And then came his thoughtful questions.

"Hey, mom?  Do you think the way people used to discriminate against black people is the same way some people discriminate against gay people now?  Do you think those parents ahead of us realize that gay people are the same as everyone else?"  My husband knew what he'd see when he looked over at me.  Silent, proud tears.

I was careful to explain that racial discrimination wasn't exactly a "used to" although we've come a long way.  I told him I thought he nailed it though-a parallel that child's mind drew all on it's own.  Jude then starting listing for us all his friends with interracial parents, two dads, two moms, foreign-adopted, and even traditional families that were all pretty great.  He summarized his point by stating that we are all "different, but the same."

This was one of my best moments as a parent.  It reinforced to me that I'm getting it right more than I getting it wrong.

I believe education goes a long way in the path to tolerance.  I believe having empathy seals the deal.  I try to give my boys context when I'm making an important point about any life lesson.  I try to show them common threads between their experiences and those of others so they understand the importance of being open-minded and kind.  I believe empathy is the gift that grows your heart and mind.  





  

Unsolved Mystery

I did something last night that I've done a thousand times over the last five years.  I woke up with an idea where to find my lost wedding ring, then I got out of bed to look before the thought dissipated.  Maybe I'd been wearing an apron that day and dropped it into the pocket.  It wasn't there, so I went back to bed.  Of course it wasn't there though, that wasn't the first time I'd had that idea.

The "it" is really a "them."  My wedding and engagement rings were not soldered-a purposeful decision because I wanted to travel without wearing my diamond.  I'm a person frequently prone to removing my rings for one reason or another: digging in dirt, exercising, bathing the kids.  I'm also a person of habit though: put them together and slide them to the corner furthest from the edge of a nearby countertop.

We were having our first barbecue in the new house.  I was preparing food and frequently washing my hands.  I remember my agitation at repeatedly drying around my rings, so I took them off.  My last positive memory is using a blue Christmas towel hanging on the stove to dry my hands and the rings I was holding. (Yes it was August, but we hadn't fully unpacked and I could only find holiday-theme towels).  Within 15 minutes I knew they were misplaced, but soon after guests had begun arriving, so the search would be delayed until they'd all departed.

Every corner of every counter, every piece of trash or recycling, every drain catch, every kitchen drawer was searched for the missing rings.  My oldest hadn't come into the house at all, and my youngest was barely two and not yet countertop height, so involvement from both could be ruled out.  And how odd that they would both be missing.  If I had mistakenly knocked them off the counter, what are the odds they would have landed in the exact same mysterious location?

That fateful day our office had a desk and two chairs, and stacks of boxes yet to be unpacked.  I thought possibly I'd thrown everything I'd cleaned up into that black hole, and my rings were hidden amongst the piles.  But after all these years, each box has been meticulously sorted through, all pants pockets checked, heating ducts searched, appliances moved, and couch cushions upended.  No sign of the rings.

The more time that passes, the less clear my memory of the scene becomes.  Sometimes I wake up to check places that didn't even exist when my rings were lost, like the pantry shelves or my bookcases.  Sometimes I'm motivated to remodel my kitchen, because I'm sure the demolition will reveal the rings.  Sometimes I wonder if I should try hypnotism to jog my memory.

I have not given up hope.  I hear stories all the time about lost treasures found.  I can't bring myself to buy a replacement, because I already have a ring, I just don't know where it is.  Friends and family have taken apart my home sure they know a spot I haven't checked. If only.  It's an unsolved mystery for now, but I just know one night I'll awaken suddenly with the clue I've been missing.