Songs and Motherhood

This is definitely the long way to get there.  I am writing about parenthood, or more specifically motherhood, but first we have to talk about the band, Chicago.

In high school, I was introduced to the band, Chicago, by my boyfriend.  He was more than a boyfriend – I thought he was the sun, the moon, the stars, my savior.  He loved Chicago.  Colour My World quickly became one of “our songs”.    He would play their songs at home in his room on his guitar.  He would tape it, on his little cassette tape player, remember those? And then bring them to me at school,  to take home and listen to. I would sequester myself in my room, turn on MY little cassette player and listen to his amateur, soulful singing and playing, with little whispered messages to me between songs. 

In college, when I took a HUGE and unbelievable leap to transfer  to another school after my sophomore year the song “Wishing You Were Here” would cause a gripping wave of loneliness and desperation whenever it played on the radio.  My attempt at career development and asserting what tiny speck of independent spirit I could muster, was weighed down by my loneliness and worry that he would stray from what had now become our long distance relationship. 

Fast forward 30 years or so…after our marriage, two children, divorce and remarriage to other people.  Chicago was in town last night for a concert. As I was dressing for work this morning, the radio played one Chicago song after another and the memories they  spawned  were vivid.  I wondered if he had attended the concert. I wondered if Chicago songs brought memories of me to his mind.  I wondered why, all those years ago when “Wishing You Were Here” was my anthem,  sitting in my apartment in a city I was thoroughly enjoying,  taking a new educational and career path, finally asserting a tiny bit of my true self by leaving him and my parents behind for this new adventure…I couldn’t make the break.

You see, the savior part had already started to wear off back then.  I had found his faults and frankly, they drove me crazy.  I was 20 years old, and the rapture I felt at 16 when he first told me he loved me, had worn a bit thin.  Our differences in personality had already caused some friction.  We were 1000 miles apart. He, at our home state university with thousands of co-eds, and me at a small college in a BIG city, with other universities nearby, lots of young single professionals and finally some girlfriends with whom I had much in common.  So the situation was ripe for a break up.  He had even asked my permission to just “go out to dinner and a movie” with others, as he was very lonely.  And I gave him a tearful and panicked “NO!”  But why? Why couldn’t I let go?

One reason I had transferred to this school was to change my career path in the hopes that I could find a great job after graduation and he could go to law school.  We were going to be Ollie and Jenny from Love Story only without the leukemia.

But as I said, our differences were causing some tension.  In addition, I had made some new close girl friends that offered the kind of companionship I had been without in high school and college thus far. I was enjoying the opportunities a larger city offered.  I had met a few boys that were cute and interesting and having only dated ONE guy, I was intrigued with the thought of dating someone else.   But I couldn’t let go.

So standing in my bathroom this morning, getting ready for work, hearing Chicago songs of the radio, reminiscing, it struck me.  It was because of my mother. 

Yes, yes, I know, we blame our mothers for everything.  But I think it was her fault…inadvertently of course.  In fact, she would probably have been DELIGHTED if he and I had broken up.  She would she had been concerned with the intensity of our relationship at 16.  She repeatedly told me she didn’t want me to have to depend on a man.  She wanted me to be independent and have a career.  That is why, when I uncharacteristically, decided to transfer to a different school, far from home and from him, she was surprisingly supportive.  BUT there were the other, more subtle, messages.

My dad was an alcoholic.  Marital tension was a constant in our house.  And many times I had heard her tell her friends or even share with me -when after a huge battle with my Dad, I had asked why didn’t we just leave him – she would say, “ I have no where to go.  What would I do?  I can’t go to my mom and dad’s – they are too old and too poor.  I can’t do it on my own.”

In her effort to cope with my dad’s alcoholism and keep it hidden from the world, she had been vehement about the need to show a “perfect face” to the world around us.  I was to stay clean, wear nice clothes, mind my manners and behave impeccably at all times.  A “B” on my report card was never good enough.  Each achievement was never enough, there had to be a “you should have”, attached to it.    The fact was,  as I achieved and received academic accolades, became a cheerleader, club leader and was always the “good girl”, I rarely heard she was proud of me.  In fact, I can only remember one time, in eighth grade, when I won an academic achievement, that she actually said those words.

 I heard a lot about how much trouble something was going to be.  Dance lessons?  Too much trouble to take me to and from.  The only reason cheerleading was acceptable was that I could walk to home games and ride the bus to away games.  Spend the weekend with girl friends?  No, their mothers might not be as vigilant as she.   I also heard a lot of “be careful”, “don’t do that”, “don’t go there” and “what will the neighbors think?” and I was a GOOD GIRL!!! 

Gina Shaw, author of an article called “Our Mothers, Ourselves: Mother-Daughter Relationships” says “No relationship is quite as primal as the one between a mother and her daughter”.  So  what must a mother do to make her daughter strong?  Surely my mother wanted me to be strong and independent.  But why wasn’t I? 

One article I read suggested that the strong, African American mothers who often face poverty, unemployment and racism raise stronger daughters than their middle class white counterparts. A website I visited listed several tips for raising strong daughters. One tip was “teach your daughter to speak her mind and make it a safe place in your home for her to do so. It is perfectly healthy for her to have her own opinion. There is a big difference between being opinionated and being disrespectful.”

Ha, tell my mother that.  One of my most abhorrent flaws as her daughter had been my “smart mouth”.  Many a time, a quick back hand, put me back in my place of good girl, striving to be perfect and keeping my feelings and my opinions to myself. 

So could it be then, that by TELLING me to be strong, but not allowing any opinions, or feelings or sharing of such, I had been sabotaged?  Another tip I found on the internet list was “be an empowered smart and strong woman yourself. You are the best role model for your daughter. She will emulate herself after you.”

Hmmm, so maybe the mantra “do as I say not as I do, does not work very well”.

I realize my mother had her own demons to battle. Her father had been an alcoholic and then she was married to one.   The times were different.  Divorce was not the readily available option it is now.  But more than her example, she could have used more words.   What if she had asked me about my feelings? What if she had asked me what I wanted for my future?  What if she had talked to me as though I were a person and not just a possession.  What if she had told me I was a good girl, instead of always admonishing me to be one?  Another song runs thought my head….this one by Kelly Clarkson of American Idol fame,

 I lose my way
And it’s not too long before you point it out
I cannot cry
Because I know that’s weakness in your eyes
I’m forced to fake
A smile, a laugh everyday of my life
My heart can’t possibly break
When it wasn’t even whole to start with.

 

Then I had a brilliant idea. I decided to ask my own daughter – the daughter who continually amazes me.   As I have struggled with my own demons and then was divorced from her father, I always felt a horrid dread deep in my gut.  What was I doing to her as I struggled?  How was I dooming her to demons of her own?  Yet, she consistently amazes me, not only with her beauty, but with her grace and strength.  So I asked her and she answered,  “You always opened up the path for me.  In other words, if I wanted to pursue something you helped to remove the obstacles. You didn’t make it easy, but you helped make it possible.  And if it didn’t work out you were there to support me.  And I knew you always had my back”

I helped to remove obstacles and I always had her back.  That’s not too hard.  It’s pretty simple really.  And while I don’t want to fall into that psychological game of “blame mother”, we mothers do hold some very valuable clay in our hands – that precious life we bring into this world.  A couple of simple things – seems to make a huge difference. 

  Another song comes to mind.  John Maher, in “Daughters”  focuses on the example a father sets for his daughter.  He does mention mothers – sort of as an after thought – that they should be good to their daughters too.   But are we mothers just an after thought?  I think not.  I think we are the key, the rock, the spirit and most importantly, the example. 

 I think the most important thing we can ever do…no matter our wealth or our education or our demons, is to tell our little girls we love them and that we are proud of them.  I think we must allow them to have opinions and thoughts and feelings and we must listen to those thoughts and feelings.  I can only imagine what my life might have been like had I been able to share my true self with my mother.  If I had been allowed to shed the shroud of perfection and just be me – scared, unsure, desperate to be loved –desperate to be told I was ok, desperate for someone to take charge and bring the chaos of our family to a place of peace.

 So, back to the songs of Chicago.   I think if I knew my mother would have had my back, I could have let go.  Ah, but then I would not have the glorious privilege of knowing my own daughter – the product of that ill fated relationship.   And I would not have known the blessings she bestows and the song she brings to my heart.

 “So mothers, be good to your daughters too.”

Worth

Worth, value.  What is it?    One source defines worth as the quality that renders something desirable, useful, or valuable. 

Value is defined as a fair or proper equivalent in money, commodities, etc. 

So what am I worth?  What makes me useful, desirable, valuable? What is my fair or proper equivalent in money or commodities? 

What prompted these questions? 

Each year, in January, my husband updates a spreadsheet he has been keeping since we married, on our assets and liabilities. I realize he does this for tax purposes as well as in planning for retirement. But he always has a seperate spread sheet with just my name on it.  And the bottom number on that spread sheet is pretty low.  He showed it to me this morning – this gray, cold, rainy January morning.  Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s my hormones ( I have been experiencing those pesky hot flashes lately,when I thought  I had those under control.)  But it just hit me hard.  Jane…and move to the right, look at the  the columns and then take in the bottom line.  $79,000 and some change. That is my worth.

Wow.  That is not a lot.  And certainly not compared to the number on his spread sheet.  So, after 55 years of hard work, lots of effort and energy and tears and TRYING TO ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING, I am worth $79,000…and some change.

I worked so hard as  a kid to be “ok”. I wanted my parents’ approval. I wanted to make our home calm and settled and normal. I wanted to do something to counter the turmoil of my dad’s alcoholism, to bring peace to my fighting parents, to bring pride to the family who was always trying to hide the flaws. I made straight A’s, I won the spelling bee’s, and  the science fairs.  I achieved and acheived and achieved.

I tried to be a good wife.  I cleaned, I cooked, I kept the vows, I had the children, I decorated the home, I kept us on the budget, and then he left.

I raised two children, who are beautiful and good human beings.

I have saved numerous dogs from the jaws of death and loved them and cared for them!  I have given great love and care to a handicapped horse!!

I created a non profit to reach out to kids who needed help.  Since, then, I have expanded my career, always in the non profit, social service area.

I have always tried to be a good friend, a loving sibling and a caring child.  Although in our Sunday phone call today, my mother apparently thinks otherwise!

I found a new love, gained a new husband.  But I often disappoint him. I see it in his eyes and I hear it in his voice and I feel it in his emotional distance.

And then the spread sheet.  My worth – $79,000 and some change.  It’s raining and the fog is rolling in. It has not been the best day ever.

A Moment of Revenge

I received an email today, from a “sister”.   Her divorce was final about a month ago.  In return for a large cash payment to her ex, she kept the house.  She is now deeply in debt, is desperately trying to refinance said house , then needs to find money for some repairs so she can sell said house. Her ex makes their daughter cry each Friday night when he comes to pick her up for his weekly fatherly time.  My friend is frustrated, worried, angry, and says she is not sure if she will make it through this ordeal.  Then she apologized for venting to me. 

Of course, I said “No, no, NO. No apology necessary. You are one of the sisterhood!  You can vent to me, cry on my shoulder and ask for my advice if you want! I am here for you and you WILL get through this.” 

Coincidentally, my daughter was married this past weekend.   I understood why she wanted her father there.  I understand that on this special day she  hoped to have both her parents there to share the event and wish her well.   I also understood she wanted peace during her wedding weekend.  I was filled with both joy for her and her special day, and dread that I would have to share that with her father.   I vowed to simply grit my teeth, hold my tongue, and avoid him as much as possible.

 As her something old, I gave my daughter a diamond bracelet her father had given me years before.   At the reception,he came up to me and said “She told me about the bracelet you gave her.” 

I said, “Hmmm.” 

 He said, “Well, I gave that jewelry to you, it is yours to do with whatever you choose.” 

Did he think  I somehow needed his permission or affirmation?????????I had a quick flash back.  I, for only the briefest moment, recalled the pain, the grief and the fear I felt all those years ago. I remembered the sleepless nights wondering how I would get us through it. I recalled my panic over finances. I recalled the embarassment of having to ask my mother and my sister for a loan when I just couldn’t make ends meet.  I remembered the excruciating embarassment of going into a pawn shop with some jewerly.  I remembered how rudely the pawn broker spoke to me. 

 I WANTED to say “Yes, fat BUTT, I know it is mine to do with whatever I choose. In fact, I tried to hock it right after the divorce when your child support was late and I had nothing.”  But instead I said “Yes, it is.” And I turned and walked away.

The good news is, this man no longer rules my life. The good news is, I did not hock that bracelet and my daughter was pleased and touched to receive my gift.  The good news is  my daughter recalls exactly what she and her brother and I endured all those years ago.   She knows what her father did and didn’t do.  I did not have to say anything abut it.  She saw it and lived it and remembers it.  She knows who had her back during the divorce and was looking out for both her and her brother.  Once we got past the chasm of  the teenage years unscathed, she told  me  I was her best friend.   She and I have a wonderful bond. 

And THAT, my sisters, is my revenge.

A senior what???

I was traveling this week.  I planned the outfit I would wear on the plane. Casual, summery, comfortable. I had a new haircut. I looked quite cute. 

I have noticed recently, when I walk a distance, I feel a little pain in my right hip. As I was walking through the airport, feeling good, looking good, confident and at ease, I noticed the little pain. Damn, I thought. I keep noticing all these little pains, occasional joint stiffness. In fact, sometimes I have one knee that gives me a little twinge.  And then I had the thought.

In some circles, by some standards, I am a senior citizen.  I have been receiving mail from AARP since a few birthdays ago. I ignore them.  I am not THAT old.

But I am.  My daughter is 31.  I ain’t no kid anymore.  When did that HAPPEN?? 

I am now the oldest person in my workplace.  I am the “martiarch.”.  I just hired a woman that I was sure was older than me…oh no, turns out she is at least 11 years younger than me!!

The good news is, I have good genes. I don’t LOOK my age, and other than the little twinges and pains, I don’t feel my age.  And I certainly don’t “think” my age.  But when does one? I mean, when does one begin to “think old”? 

I noticed many years ago, that suddenly my mother thought her bowel movements were a common topic of conversation. I never talk about my bowel movements, none of my friends do either. So I wondered, when is it that we do begin to talk about our bowel movements.  When do we move from being just “us”, to being “old us”?

In the past five years, I have become my best self – internally at least. I am smart, quick thinking, have accumulated good experience and wisdom. I am FUNNY, and clever and I like myself a lot. Why is it that when we reach THAT point in our lives, it is the same point when the creaking and twinges and little pains start? Not to mention the gray hair that more stubbornly resists more and more each time I color it. 

Inside my mind, I am still just me.  But when will that change? When will the switch flip?  But I can’t ponder this anymore. I need to go have a bowel movement.

Time

Why do women never have enough time?? I have a job, I have pets, I have a husband, I have a home and I NEVER have enough time to properly take care of each of those. Never mind taking care of ME> How does this happen?  I don’t have children at home anymore, even when I did I only had two.  It seems to me that this is a symptom of our society.  We go, go, go and never have time to keep our lives in order,  our homes in order, our selves in order. So there is chaos.  We grit our teeth, plan to do better but the chaos eats away and causes frustration, overeating , snapping at those we care about the most , loss of sleep. CRAP life is tough

I want to quit.

 

I want to quit.

 

 I wanted to quit my first marriage shortly after I was married. But I didn’t.  I had taken vows before God.  If only he would change a little then we would be ok.  Or if only I could change a little, or learn to accept some things, we would be ok.  If only he would read the books on marriage I was reading, we would be ok.  If only he would take the advice the counselor was giving, we’d be ok.  And maybe I would never find anyone else. And maybe I wouldn’t make it with out him.  Leaving might make other think less of me.    So I kept trying, I didn’t quit.  But then HE ended it, suddenly, cruelly, brutally.  Turns out it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Even my kids tell me they were RELEIVED when it was all over.  So why hadn’t I given up sooner?  Why did I let him be the one to quit?

 

I have wanted to quit jobs before. But I don’t because….maybe I wouldn’t find another one. Or maybe the new one wouldn’t be as good as this one.  Or maybe my co workers would be mad at me. Or maybe I would look back and regret the decision.  Maybe I would find out I had made a huge mistake. 

 

And we are not supposed to be quitters.  Don’t we hear that as kids? ” No one likes a quitter”.  Why not?

 

When is it ok to quit?  Yes, smoking will kill you, so at least there is a good reason to quit.   The guy hits you. Easy to understand why you should “quit” the relationship.   You are the only one in the company that didn’t get a bonus. Maybe that’s the hint that you should quit.   But what if the only reason to quit something is that you are tired of it, or bored?  When and how do you decide to quit?

 

I read an article recently that asserts that maybe we all need more practice at quitting.  What does that mean???  I pray about “quitting”.  I dream about quitting.  I threaten to quit all the time.  I find reason, after reason to quit, and yet I can’t bring myself to do it.  Something has to FORCE me to quit, or I won’t. 

 

That same article suggests that trying not to quit actually helps you to quit. You know, like New Year’s Resolutions. If you, each January, vow to quit eating too much, only to fail in few weeks or even a few days, QUIT vowing to quit and it makes it easier.  Oh pulllease. 

 

What keeps me from quitting?  What is the worst that could happen? I will be unhappy? But I am unhappy now.

 

So, this story has no great ending. I want your thoughts, your suggestions, your philosophy on when it is ok to just quit.   

I’m watching it happen again.  A woman I know – attractive, bright and a great mother – sinks to the bottom as her husband leaves her for his office manager.  This woman has a masters degree, teaches at a local university and is raising two accomplished daughters, yet she feels flawed, unlovable, defective and desperate.

 

That was me several years ago.   I don’t have a masters degree, and it wasn’t the office manager.  Yet, suddenly I was worthless, flawed, and so defective I couldn’t think of a reason to live. The “Hood Ornament Syndrome” strikes again. 

 

“Hood Ornament Syndrome,” as I have coined it, is my own take on the stereotypical “trophy wife” concept.   Not necessarily young, blonde and buxom, the Hood Ornament wife can be anything “shiny” that gives status to the man (who claims her as his) just like that thing on the front of an expensive car that men find so fascinating.   

 

A Hood Ornament has many forms.  It may include the fact that you are a gourmet cook, have a successful career, or decorate a beautiful home;  perhaps you bring home a sizable paycheck, make great dinner conversation with clients, or you raise good children.  Whatever it is that makes us his Hood Ornament, when the man (a.k.a. the fool) leaves us, we immediately see ourselves as tarnished, broken, defective, and no longer the preferred status symbol we once were. 

 

And why is that?  Why do we feel worthless once stripped of our Hood Ornament title when we are still a gourmet cook, still have a career or still decorate beautifully? We can no longer blame it on the generation,  the Donna Reed age of the little woman at home vacuuming in heels and pearls solely dependant on her ‘better’ male half. Nope, we are the generation of surgeons, astronauts, senators, and CEOs.  Country Star Trisha Yearwood sings a song about the American girl that says “She can be anything she wants to be…”.  We can, and we do.  So then there must be another reason why we are left feeling tarnished and worthless when a man leaves us.

 

Some experts tell us that a father’s love is critically important to our well being both as children and as grown women.  The theory is that a father can show us what it is to be loved such that we don’t seek false validation elsewhere.  But you know,  things happen.  Fathers are less than stellar sometimes, or sometimes they die.  What are we to do if that is our situation? 

 

If our own father is unavailable, some say that the secret to finding love within ourselves – and not within the grantor of Hood Ornament status – is to establish a healthy relationship with another  “father figure”.  According to this theory, a teacher, a mentor, an uncle or grandfather can help to instill that self-love and self- esteem we need.   Along this same line of thinking, others believe the secret lies in God’s love. Since He is our ultimate “Father”, His love should be enough for us. 

 

Or, in the absence of one or all of those, is the answer something that we, as mothers, should be instilling in our daughters?   Is that something our mothers neglected to instill in us and something that we in turn are neglecting as we raise this new “American girl”? 

 

 

After pondering this for a while, I wonder…perhaps the real cause of the problem isn’t the men with whom we’ve risen and fallen from Hood Ornament status.  Maybe it is not our father, or a dependence on God, or a lack of either of those.  Maybe the answer lies with in us.  

 

Should the real question  be, ‘what can we, as women, do to believe in ourselves, love ourselves, polish ourselves  without the crutch of  Hood Ornament status even – and especially – if  we are alone?’ Maybe the “ah-ha” moment only happens – maybe it’s only truly possible – when we find ourselves alone.  At least, alone in some sense – having faced a battle, having come face-to-face with adversity, and to have survived.  Maybe it is the surviving that teaches us that basic truth – that we are worthy. We must be the ones to acknowledge our worth and our accomplishments, no matter what they are…to polish ourselves so that we shine and soar.  It may be in reaching the depths of despair and digging deep inside that we learn we have worth.  We are not perfect, but we are NOT defective and unworthy of love. 

 

There is another song, the one that Whitney sings that goes like this, “learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.”  Could it be that she hit the bottom, sunk to the depths, learned to believe and feel pride in her own song, and that is why she found the courage to leave her husband?  Who knows, but maybe. 

 

I have come to the conclusion that we, as women, should tell ourselves the truth rather than waiting  on or seeking anyone else to tell us.  I can guarantee you that our own truth is much more meaningful, powerful and dependable than any superficial truth which so gratuitously propelled us to Hood Ornament status.   When we have found our own truth, we will not settle for Hood Ornament ‘status,’ nor will any man with whom we may choose to share our lives dare to ‘award’ us such an ‘honor.’ We can be whole and lovable and accomplished and worthy with AND without a man in our lives. 

 

So, if you are in the depths of despair, if you are alone, if you are feeling like a tarnished, broken, defective, no-longer-popular model reflected by that Hood Ornament – then dig deep.  Then learn now, what I learned from hitting rock bottom and what I plan to share with the woman I have been observing.  Know that there are others who have been where you are, who have felt the hurt and the loneliness and the despair; and we have survived.  You can too.  You will survive to be better than before, you will survive to know that you have worth , you will survive to sing your own song, and most importantly, you will survive to believe in YOU