I was watching Sports Center this morning. I am not sure who they were interviewing, but I think he is the coach of FSU football. He's an almost 80 year old man. I may not remember his name, but I remember something he said. The interviewer asked him what keeps him so young? What keeps him going. This was his answer:
"Every man must have something to do, someone to love, something to hope for,and something to believe in".
I thought that was very honest and true...so I tried to compare notes and this is what I came up with...
My something to do: Motherhood. There are days when I feel sad for myself. I actually wish that I thought this motherhood thing through. Honestly, when I was carrying my baby, I was also on the therapists couch because I was so angry with myself for letting this happen AGAIN. In hindsight...I know that I am the best me ever because of those boys. I am a better daughter. I can FINALLY understand why my parents did what they did...and I appreciate it. I am a better wife. I try harder to understand my husband. I try to be kinder and gentler. I know that I have little eyes watching me. What I do today will mold how they treat their wives tomorrow. What I do today will mold how they demand respect from their wives tomorrow. I am a better employee. I work harder and put up with the unneccessary because of those boys. Motherhood makes me smile. It makes me thing. And more recently, it makes me cry...but at least it keeps me going
My someone to love: I believe that 60 years from now, I will be yelling at my husband as he walks out the door to go golfing with his boys not to forget my menopause pills from the pharmacy. That man is stuck with me, and I am stuck with him. I like him. He likes me. We are in love. We love each other. We don't understand each other, but he can get past that. He is my someone to love.
My something to hope for: I hope to see my boys do waaaaayyy better than I've done. I want them to be better married folk, better daddies, better businessmen, better better better. That is my hope.
My something to believe in: I believe that there is a God. I believe that my sons will have a Barack to call their President. I believe that there will be a change in this world for the better. I believe that I will be a grandma one day. I believe that I will make it into heaven. I believe that it will get better.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Confused about Obama pillow talk...
So, everyone has been talking about the DNC. Barack's speech was moving. You could feel the love that he has for his wife...and vice versa. I didn't hear the speech...didn't get to feel the love. But, since SOMEONE mentioned how scary Michelle looks, and I was too afraid to say it outloud--although I've been frightened myself--I'm brave enough to mention something else that has been on my mind.
SO...the famous pound or fist bump or dap or whatever you want to call it...that was intimate and sexy to me. That right there let me know that they loved each other. Weird, I know. But...that thought brought me to this one...
What do they talk about in bed?
Like, does Barack push and re-iterate that she should really use the PedEgg that he bought for her? Does Michelle ask Barack to stop kissing her on the face first thing in the morning bc she fears that morning breath will make her break out? Does Barack tell her that he really likes those Hanes hipsters that she has on? Does Michelle tell him that if he makes that fettucine alfredo dish one more time, she will throw him and his dish out of the window? Do they sit and watch nature and wonder how turtles do it without falling off--those shells look heavy you know! Do they look at the kids as they slap fight and body slam each other and place bets on who's going to win? And if so, what's the prize for the bet? When they pray together at night, does he refer to God as Yo? And does he ask Yo what's good before he starts his prayer?
What I'm trying to say is this is the pillow talk in my house. Are Barack and Michelle anything like me and mine? Are they normal like me and mine? Hell, are WE normal?
Just saying...I was just wondering what they talked about in bed.
SO...the famous pound or fist bump or dap or whatever you want to call it...that was intimate and sexy to me. That right there let me know that they loved each other. Weird, I know. But...that thought brought me to this one...
What do they talk about in bed?
Like, does Barack push and re-iterate that she should really use the PedEgg that he bought for her? Does Michelle ask Barack to stop kissing her on the face first thing in the morning bc she fears that morning breath will make her break out? Does Barack tell her that he really likes those Hanes hipsters that she has on? Does Michelle tell him that if he makes that fettucine alfredo dish one more time, she will throw him and his dish out of the window? Do they sit and watch nature and wonder how turtles do it without falling off--those shells look heavy you know! Do they look at the kids as they slap fight and body slam each other and place bets on who's going to win? And if so, what's the prize for the bet? When they pray together at night, does he refer to God as Yo? And does he ask Yo what's good before he starts his prayer?
What I'm trying to say is this is the pillow talk in my house. Are Barack and Michelle anything like me and mine? Are they normal like me and mine? Hell, are WE normal?
Just saying...I was just wondering what they talked about in bed.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Confused about where I went wrong...or right...
So, for the millionth time, I am anxious. First day of school is next week. My baby will be a small fish in a big pond. I am frightened for him.
Today, we go to register for school. He wants to do it. He waits his turn, he hands in all his registration paperwork, his birth certificate, and our check. The receptionist takes it and smiles. She questions him..."Are you ready for a new big boy school?" He beams. "Yes! I am coming here and my brother is going to a new baby school. Mommy is going to a new job." She continues to question him, although I can't hear their conversation because now I'm busy with the baby. She tells him to take a seat.
He sits
He tells me he needs to talk to me. "Mom, when I come to my new school, you can't come with me, ok? You can't come, daddy can't come, Messiah can't come. I don't want you to come in. I want to go to my new school by myself because I am a big boy now. This school is for 4-and-a -half year olds. How old are you?" I tell him my age. He responds "see...you are too big to come here. And Messiah is too little. This school is just for me. Ok?"
I realize that he has flipped the script and is now giving ME the talk that I planned to give him. I'm fighting back tears at this point. In fact, I am fighting back tears as I blog this.
Now, I'm kinda hurt. He's not my baby anymore. I think today, I just realized this. Where did I go wrong? How come he doesn't need me? He's only 4 and a half!
"Can I give you a hug when you go to your big boy school?" I ask, hoping he'd at least let me do that. He said yes. My heart is a little bit lighter. At least I can give my baby a hug...and only ONE kiss but not in front of the other boys--he obviously already knows how to be "cool". I'm saddened, but you know what..."I'll take it!"
Today, we go to register for school. He wants to do it. He waits his turn, he hands in all his registration paperwork, his birth certificate, and our check. The receptionist takes it and smiles. She questions him..."Are you ready for a new big boy school?" He beams. "Yes! I am coming here and my brother is going to a new baby school. Mommy is going to a new job." She continues to question him, although I can't hear their conversation because now I'm busy with the baby. She tells him to take a seat.
He sits
He tells me he needs to talk to me. "Mom, when I come to my new school, you can't come with me, ok? You can't come, daddy can't come, Messiah can't come. I don't want you to come in. I want to go to my new school by myself because I am a big boy now. This school is for 4-and-a -half year olds. How old are you?" I tell him my age. He responds "see...you are too big to come here. And Messiah is too little. This school is just for me. Ok?"
I realize that he has flipped the script and is now giving ME the talk that I planned to give him. I'm fighting back tears at this point. In fact, I am fighting back tears as I blog this.
Now, I'm kinda hurt. He's not my baby anymore. I think today, I just realized this. Where did I go wrong? How come he doesn't need me? He's only 4 and a half!
"Can I give you a hug when you go to your big boy school?" I ask, hoping he'd at least let me do that. He said yes. My heart is a little bit lighter. At least I can give my baby a hug...and only ONE kiss but not in front of the other boys--he obviously already knows how to be "cool". I'm saddened, but you know what..."I'll take it!"
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Confused about Christmas
Anyone who knows me knows that I love to obsess. My intention was to take my baby to Disney for his 5th birthday. now that I have a new job, I won't have the vacation time in January. So, I was thinking to start buying his presents now and go all out. Then, I look over at my baby...and he's playing with a bobby pin. And I mean, sword fighting, ninja style, role-playing, playing with this bobby pin. And it brings me to Christmases of the past...
His first Christmas 2004, I didn't buy him anything bc I was broke and he had no idea about Christmas anyway. However, friends and relatives spoiled him. He played with wrapping paper and the boxes that the gifts came in.
His second Christmas 2005, we went all out. Art set, television, bike, electric powered four wheeler, computer games, DVD's for his car rides, you name it. All he cared about was this set of magic markers. Crayola magic markers. He wouldn't/didn't play with anything else. Half of that stuff is still upstairs in his room...untouched.
His third Christmas 2006...we didn't go too heavy with the gifts because of last year's experience. But, because we were bringing home a new baby on Christmas--literally--we didn't want him to feel ignored. So, he got another bike, more Crayola crayons, a paint set, a power ranger costume--equipped with a rubber sword, a V-Tech, games for the V-Tech, and every Leapfrog learning book you could think of. Again...he chose one toy out of the lot...the power ranger costume and the sword. To this day...he still prefers to play with that sword.
And his fourth Christmas 2007, we didn't go heavy because Zion is not that kind of kid. He got more art stuff, more books, another bike, a robot, clothes, a guitar. He loved the guitar because he could "party like a rockstar"--his words not mine. But after a day, that novelty wore off. He opened the rest of his gifts, but insisted on regifting them to the gift-giver because they were so nice.
So, as Christmas #5 rolls near, I see remnants of his Christmases past in his room. He barely touches his toys. Instead, his toys of choice are a hanger, a comb, or a bobby pin. I'm boggled. Since we can't go on vacation...what do I get for my baby?
As I type this, I think maybe I've come up with something. St. Mary's Hospital is a children's hospital where most of the kids there are wards of the state. They have no one to cuddle, engage, or play with. Maybe that will be my gift to Zion. He's always looking for somewhere new to play. Maybe we can visit the hospital and volunteer on Christmas day. I have baby clothes to donate, and lightly used toys from past Christmases to share...we can bring them and let the boys hang out with St. Mary's children. He won't get what he's really doing...but that's ok. I think my earliest memories are from when I was younger than 5--I was in a highchair at the glass dinner table in the back porch--so this is something that he will probably remember forever.
Blogging helped me figure it out.
I am no longer confused about Christmas.
His first Christmas 2004, I didn't buy him anything bc I was broke and he had no idea about Christmas anyway. However, friends and relatives spoiled him. He played with wrapping paper and the boxes that the gifts came in.
His second Christmas 2005, we went all out. Art set, television, bike, electric powered four wheeler, computer games, DVD's for his car rides, you name it. All he cared about was this set of magic markers. Crayola magic markers. He wouldn't/didn't play with anything else. Half of that stuff is still upstairs in his room...untouched.
His third Christmas 2006...we didn't go too heavy with the gifts because of last year's experience. But, because we were bringing home a new baby on Christmas--literally--we didn't want him to feel ignored. So, he got another bike, more Crayola crayons, a paint set, a power ranger costume--equipped with a rubber sword, a V-Tech, games for the V-Tech, and every Leapfrog learning book you could think of. Again...he chose one toy out of the lot...the power ranger costume and the sword. To this day...he still prefers to play with that sword.
And his fourth Christmas 2007, we didn't go heavy because Zion is not that kind of kid. He got more art stuff, more books, another bike, a robot, clothes, a guitar. He loved the guitar because he could "party like a rockstar"--his words not mine. But after a day, that novelty wore off. He opened the rest of his gifts, but insisted on regifting them to the gift-giver because they were so nice.
So, as Christmas #5 rolls near, I see remnants of his Christmases past in his room. He barely touches his toys. Instead, his toys of choice are a hanger, a comb, or a bobby pin. I'm boggled. Since we can't go on vacation...what do I get for my baby?
As I type this, I think maybe I've come up with something. St. Mary's Hospital is a children's hospital where most of the kids there are wards of the state. They have no one to cuddle, engage, or play with. Maybe that will be my gift to Zion. He's always looking for somewhere new to play. Maybe we can visit the hospital and volunteer on Christmas day. I have baby clothes to donate, and lightly used toys from past Christmases to share...we can bring them and let the boys hang out with St. Mary's children. He won't get what he's really doing...but that's ok. I think my earliest memories are from when I was younger than 5--I was in a highchair at the glass dinner table in the back porch--so this is something that he will probably remember forever.
Blogging helped me figure it out.
I am no longer confused about Christmas.
Confused about the bra thing
This is one of those posts that I've been meaning to write about for a while now...
So when you go on Jamaica Ave., you see a multitude of things. Men with mohawks and tight jeans, women with pink hair and gold teeth, so on, so on, so on, and so forth. But the one thing that amazes me...is the bra thing.
On the Ave., you see it all...but the one thing that you do not see is a woman in a good--not even wonderful--but good bra! The irony is that one of the best bra shops in the area happens to be on the Ave.!
Now, I know...I am a bad bra person. When my mom stopped buying my bras--well, she still buys them, just not all the time--but, when she stopped buying them, Nicole took over. She doesn't fork 0ver the money, but it is imperative that she comes with me and "fits" me...we put the bra on over my clothes, and she tells me if it's the right one or not. Anywho...so, back to what I was saying...I am a bad bra person. All through highschool, P and K were in charge of pulling up my bra strap--I now know that not only my bra didn't fit, but the straps were all wrong. And even now and then, I feel comfortable in my maternity bras, so I'll wear it when I don't need to--usually just around the house OR when it's laundromat time! Again...back to where I was going with this...I AM A BAD BRA PERSON! After I had the 2nd baby, I got fitted at Vicky's Secret. Dumb dumb dumby there tols me that I was a C cup...and I believed her. So...I went to Walmart and got all kinds of C bras. And although they were ill fitted--my cup runneth over--and hurting, I wore them bc the PROFESSIONAL told me that was my size--although Nicole warned me...she's not the professional, so I didn't listen.
It wasn't until Carson, from Queer Eye, came out with that show HOW TO LOOK GOOD NAKED that I realized what a bra was supposed to do. See...I knew that it was supposed to "hold you", as my mother calls it...but, I learned that it is supposed to lift and separate. The band and straps have to be wide enough to support you. You are not supposed to have chicken cutlets...or back fat. Your cup should not runneth over. You should have a one inch separation in between the two to avoid uniboob. See...I've learned all of this from reality tv!
I say all of this to say...HOW COME THE PEOPLE ON THE AVE DON'T WATCH CARSON? I see HUGE women with even HUGER boobs wearing booba tops and no bras. Not only can they hurt small children and animals because their boobs hang so low that they could swing and bop an innocent standby in the head...but it must hurt! And what about those women that are a part of the itty bitty titty committee. JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE AN A CUP, THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT YOU SHOULDN'T COVER UP THOSE GROSS LOOKING BUG BITES! I don't want to see your nibbies swinging in the wind! And women my size...somewhere in the middle...how come your bra band is around the nape of your neck? If it's that high up...then your boobs think they are hammocking on vacation! The hammock look is not cute! Stop it!
Yes...I have my bad days sometimes. Again, that is usually around laundry time. And I can't throw my bras away for some reason. Panties yes, bras no. Dunno why. The underwire comes out and I sew it back in...unless Zion finds it first, then it becomes a sword. But...I still can't throw it away. I make that my night bra...yes, I wear a bra at all times...except for when bathing. Weird, I know...but a habit that I can't break.
Anywho...can someone, anyone please tell the ladies on The Ave to get it together? Literally. I don't want to see it!
So when you go on Jamaica Ave., you see a multitude of things. Men with mohawks and tight jeans, women with pink hair and gold teeth, so on, so on, so on, and so forth. But the one thing that amazes me...is the bra thing.
On the Ave., you see it all...but the one thing that you do not see is a woman in a good--not even wonderful--but good bra! The irony is that one of the best bra shops in the area happens to be on the Ave.!
Now, I know...I am a bad bra person. When my mom stopped buying my bras--well, she still buys them, just not all the time--but, when she stopped buying them, Nicole took over. She doesn't fork 0ver the money, but it is imperative that she comes with me and "fits" me...we put the bra on over my clothes, and she tells me if it's the right one or not. Anywho...so, back to what I was saying...I am a bad bra person. All through highschool, P and K were in charge of pulling up my bra strap--I now know that not only my bra didn't fit, but the straps were all wrong. And even now and then, I feel comfortable in my maternity bras, so I'll wear it when I don't need to--usually just around the house OR when it's laundromat time! Again...back to where I was going with this...I AM A BAD BRA PERSON! After I had the 2nd baby, I got fitted at Vicky's Secret. Dumb dumb dumby there tols me that I was a C cup...and I believed her. So...I went to Walmart and got all kinds of C bras. And although they were ill fitted--my cup runneth over--and hurting, I wore them bc the PROFESSIONAL told me that was my size--although Nicole warned me...she's not the professional, so I didn't listen.
It wasn't until Carson, from Queer Eye, came out with that show HOW TO LOOK GOOD NAKED that I realized what a bra was supposed to do. See...I knew that it was supposed to "hold you", as my mother calls it...but, I learned that it is supposed to lift and separate. The band and straps have to be wide enough to support you. You are not supposed to have chicken cutlets...or back fat. Your cup should not runneth over. You should have a one inch separation in between the two to avoid uniboob. See...I've learned all of this from reality tv!
I say all of this to say...HOW COME THE PEOPLE ON THE AVE DON'T WATCH CARSON? I see HUGE women with even HUGER boobs wearing booba tops and no bras. Not only can they hurt small children and animals because their boobs hang so low that they could swing and bop an innocent standby in the head...but it must hurt! And what about those women that are a part of the itty bitty titty committee. JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE AN A CUP, THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT YOU SHOULDN'T COVER UP THOSE GROSS LOOKING BUG BITES! I don't want to see your nibbies swinging in the wind! And women my size...somewhere in the middle...how come your bra band is around the nape of your neck? If it's that high up...then your boobs think they are hammocking on vacation! The hammock look is not cute! Stop it!
Yes...I have my bad days sometimes. Again, that is usually around laundry time. And I can't throw my bras away for some reason. Panties yes, bras no. Dunno why. The underwire comes out and I sew it back in...unless Zion finds it first, then it becomes a sword. But...I still can't throw it away. I make that my night bra...yes, I wear a bra at all times...except for when bathing. Weird, I know...but a habit that I can't break.
Anywho...can someone, anyone please tell the ladies on The Ave to get it together? Literally. I don't want to see it!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Confused as hell about last night
OK...so I'm back. And I'm back to complaining. It only took a date night to make me regress, huh? And date night was a hot mess. My date nights are usually a hot mess. Especially when he plans it. So...here goes.
First, let me preface it by saying this...I usually hate date nights. I am the get rid of the boys and stay home kinda girl. Why? Because date night usually means that all the preparation falls on me. I have to find a sitter, get the boys all packed up, give them their we are not abandoning talk, get all dolled up, make the reservations, double check the reservations...and all he has to do is show up. But...not this time. This time, he made the plans, and no reservations.
I get dressed...dangly earrings, make up, and heels. Now, yall know I don't do heels--not after the boys came along. But, for date night, I did it. After all, I thought we were celebrating. Anyway...I get dressed, get in the car, and head to Brooklyn. We drop the kids off, and I walk to the car. He goes...we are taking the train. I screw up my face. Not only do I hate the train, but these heels were not meant for walking! They are meant for sitting in the car on the way to the restaurant, and then sitting in the restaurant. Either way, I do not let him see me screw my face up...I smile and try to enjoy the night out.
We take the train to Brooklyn Heights. And now, it's time to walk to the restaurant from the station. Of course, the walk is like 30 blocks away from the train station. But...I do not complain. We get the restaurant...it's not where he told me that we were going...it's a sushi spot. Now, yall know I love sushi. But not necessarily the real kind. I mean, I love the sushi that they have at Stop and Shop! But...I smile and look at the menu. I do not know half of what is on there, so…I suggest we get the LoveBoat...a sampling of rolls and delicacies made for two. We get our food, and talk about it. So far, ok.
Then, it’s time to go to the movies. I get up to walk away from the restaurant. And now, I notice that the bottom of my foot is raw from having those damn shoes. Still, I don’t complain. Instead, on the way to walking to the movies—another 30 blocks away—I suggest that we get a cab home because my feet are killing me. He laughs at me. I am hurt that he laughs at my raw feet…but whatever. So, I say, I really wish you would have told me where we were going—because by the way, he told me that we were going to one place, and we ended up at another…which is what helped me to decide to wear damn heels. I explain that had I known we were going to this lil sushi spot, and were taking the train, I would have dressed appropriately. No shade in my delivery—and yall know I can throw shade—just a plain and simple next time, I would appreciate it if you did xyz. He laughs at me. So now, we walk in silence.
On the escalator to the theater, he leans in for a kiss. Instead of leaning in, I tell him that he hurt my feelings. I do not like to be laughed at…especially if I am hurting and serious. More silence. We sit down. During the commercials, I notice shade coming from him. No arm around the shoulder. No leaning in. Just shade. I ask what’s wrong. He’s mad that I didn’t give him a kiss. ARE YOU FRIGGIN SERIOUS? So, I say—requesting in a calm loving matter…just ask Dr. Chapman says—If I am mature enough to tell you that you did something that hurt me, can you be mature enough to say sorry?
SIDEBAR: Yall know I don’t do well with expressing my feelings. I either cuss you out, or say nothing and let it stew. So this time, will I am regressing by complaining, I am also progressing by trying to lead by example. I don’t share my feelings well WITH HIM, and he doesn’t share his feelings well WITH ME…although we both seem to be able to tell everyone else how we feel. Weird. Anywho…back to the blog…
So I request that he say sorry. Silence. Movie comes on. We laugh. I lean on his shoulder whether he embraces me or not. Movie over. We chit chat about the movie. We walk to the train…he attempted to hail two cabs and that was fruitless. Standing in the train station at 2:45am…A train takes 45 minutes to come. We wait in silence. For some reason, he is not speaking to me. Whatever. What a way to end the night of my “celebration”…right? Since we are waiting in silence, what else is there for me to do but stew. So…I stew. I think about how much my feet hurt. Because now, not only the bottoms are raw, but now that my feet and ankles are swollen, the strap around my ankles are digging into my skin. Still, no complaints. I just stew. How come I had to marry such an ass. Why can’t he grow up? Why isn’t he speaking to me? Did I do something wrong? Well, since you are mad at me, now I will be petty and childish and be mad at you! And now, I will think about how unsupportive you are. To hell with Dr. Chapman. Not once have you asked me how I felt about this new move. You’ve heard me say I was overwhelmed…not once have you asked how you could help. Not once have you offered to pick up immunization records, or uniforms, or to drop the applications off. Not once, although I said I was concerned about money, have you offered to have a sit down with me to figure it out. All of these thoughts are in me…and so now, I’m angry. Instead of being in a festive WE ARE CELEBRATING MY NEW JOB mood…I am angry. Thanks. We go to bed in silence. I am still angry.
We wake up…I am still angry, but whatever. The old Valerie, when she woke up angry…and she knew that he was oversleeping, she’d let him continue to sleep out of spite. However, new Valerie wakes him up…Good Morning, it’s 7 already. You getting up. He continues to sleep. Oh well, I go about my business. Start ironing. He comes downstairs to wash the dishes. That’s our ritual. But…a part of that ritual is to have conversation. He says nothing. No good morning, not you’re ugly, no nothing. OK…whatever. I assume he’s not speaking to me. I’m not playing that game…I’ve got to go to work and I am late. I go about my business.
Weird thing is this…in my room, we have a dry erase message board. We write notes for each other on it. Sometimes, the note will say DON’T FORGET TO TAKE THE BOYS TO THEIR 6PM APPOINTMENT WITH THE PEDIATRICIAN. Other times, the note will say something funny like YOUR BREATH WAS EXTRA TART LAST NIGHT...DON’T FORGET TO FLOSS THIS MORNING. Just to keep the lines of communication open. Yesterday, there was a note from me that said TO MY HEART…I LOVE YOU MORE TODAY THAN I DID YESTERDAY—LOVE YOUR WIFE. That note had been there for a few days. This morning, as I was combing my hair, I notice that the note had been changed. It read TO MY TUNKA…THANK YOU FOR HOLDING ME DOWN. I APPRECIATE YOU. Nice note. But, I can’t help to think…why couldn’t he just talk to me this morning? Why did last night have to be last night? Why couldn’t he just grow up? We both have maturing to do. I know that. I am reading about it. But…love languages are useless if it’s a foreign language. All I wanted was some nice conversation. Quality time. Acts of service. Words of affirmation. Physical Touch. Instead, I got the cold shoulder. That was my celebration.
First, let me preface it by saying this...I usually hate date nights. I am the get rid of the boys and stay home kinda girl. Why? Because date night usually means that all the preparation falls on me. I have to find a sitter, get the boys all packed up, give them their we are not abandoning talk, get all dolled up, make the reservations, double check the reservations...and all he has to do is show up. But...not this time. This time, he made the plans, and no reservations.
I get dressed...dangly earrings, make up, and heels. Now, yall know I don't do heels--not after the boys came along. But, for date night, I did it. After all, I thought we were celebrating. Anyway...I get dressed, get in the car, and head to Brooklyn. We drop the kids off, and I walk to the car. He goes...we are taking the train. I screw up my face. Not only do I hate the train, but these heels were not meant for walking! They are meant for sitting in the car on the way to the restaurant, and then sitting in the restaurant. Either way, I do not let him see me screw my face up...I smile and try to enjoy the night out.
We take the train to Brooklyn Heights. And now, it's time to walk to the restaurant from the station. Of course, the walk is like 30 blocks away from the train station. But...I do not complain. We get the restaurant...it's not where he told me that we were going...it's a sushi spot. Now, yall know I love sushi. But not necessarily the real kind. I mean, I love the sushi that they have at Stop and Shop! But...I smile and look at the menu. I do not know half of what is on there, so…I suggest we get the LoveBoat...a sampling of rolls and delicacies made for two. We get our food, and talk about it. So far, ok.
Then, it’s time to go to the movies. I get up to walk away from the restaurant. And now, I notice that the bottom of my foot is raw from having those damn shoes. Still, I don’t complain. Instead, on the way to walking to the movies—another 30 blocks away—I suggest that we get a cab home because my feet are killing me. He laughs at me. I am hurt that he laughs at my raw feet…but whatever. So, I say, I really wish you would have told me where we were going—because by the way, he told me that we were going to one place, and we ended up at another…which is what helped me to decide to wear damn heels. I explain that had I known we were going to this lil sushi spot, and were taking the train, I would have dressed appropriately. No shade in my delivery—and yall know I can throw shade—just a plain and simple next time, I would appreciate it if you did xyz. He laughs at me. So now, we walk in silence.
On the escalator to the theater, he leans in for a kiss. Instead of leaning in, I tell him that he hurt my feelings. I do not like to be laughed at…especially if I am hurting and serious. More silence. We sit down. During the commercials, I notice shade coming from him. No arm around the shoulder. No leaning in. Just shade. I ask what’s wrong. He’s mad that I didn’t give him a kiss. ARE YOU FRIGGIN SERIOUS? So, I say—requesting in a calm loving matter…just ask Dr. Chapman says—If I am mature enough to tell you that you did something that hurt me, can you be mature enough to say sorry?
SIDEBAR: Yall know I don’t do well with expressing my feelings. I either cuss you out, or say nothing and let it stew. So this time, will I am regressing by complaining, I am also progressing by trying to lead by example. I don’t share my feelings well WITH HIM, and he doesn’t share his feelings well WITH ME…although we both seem to be able to tell everyone else how we feel. Weird. Anywho…back to the blog…
So I request that he say sorry. Silence. Movie comes on. We laugh. I lean on his shoulder whether he embraces me or not. Movie over. We chit chat about the movie. We walk to the train…he attempted to hail two cabs and that was fruitless. Standing in the train station at 2:45am…A train takes 45 minutes to come. We wait in silence. For some reason, he is not speaking to me. Whatever. What a way to end the night of my “celebration”…right? Since we are waiting in silence, what else is there for me to do but stew. So…I stew. I think about how much my feet hurt. Because now, not only the bottoms are raw, but now that my feet and ankles are swollen, the strap around my ankles are digging into my skin. Still, no complaints. I just stew. How come I had to marry such an ass. Why can’t he grow up? Why isn’t he speaking to me? Did I do something wrong? Well, since you are mad at me, now I will be petty and childish and be mad at you! And now, I will think about how unsupportive you are. To hell with Dr. Chapman. Not once have you asked me how I felt about this new move. You’ve heard me say I was overwhelmed…not once have you asked how you could help. Not once have you offered to pick up immunization records, or uniforms, or to drop the applications off. Not once, although I said I was concerned about money, have you offered to have a sit down with me to figure it out. All of these thoughts are in me…and so now, I’m angry. Instead of being in a festive WE ARE CELEBRATING MY NEW JOB mood…I am angry. Thanks. We go to bed in silence. I am still angry.
We wake up…I am still angry, but whatever. The old Valerie, when she woke up angry…and she knew that he was oversleeping, she’d let him continue to sleep out of spite. However, new Valerie wakes him up…Good Morning, it’s 7 already. You getting up. He continues to sleep. Oh well, I go about my business. Start ironing. He comes downstairs to wash the dishes. That’s our ritual. But…a part of that ritual is to have conversation. He says nothing. No good morning, not you’re ugly, no nothing. OK…whatever. I assume he’s not speaking to me. I’m not playing that game…I’ve got to go to work and I am late. I go about my business.
Weird thing is this…in my room, we have a dry erase message board. We write notes for each other on it. Sometimes, the note will say DON’T FORGET TO TAKE THE BOYS TO THEIR 6PM APPOINTMENT WITH THE PEDIATRICIAN. Other times, the note will say something funny like YOUR BREATH WAS EXTRA TART LAST NIGHT...DON’T FORGET TO FLOSS THIS MORNING. Just to keep the lines of communication open. Yesterday, there was a note from me that said TO MY HEART…I LOVE YOU MORE TODAY THAN I DID YESTERDAY—LOVE YOUR WIFE. That note had been there for a few days. This morning, as I was combing my hair, I notice that the note had been changed. It read TO MY TUNKA…THANK YOU FOR HOLDING ME DOWN. I APPRECIATE YOU. Nice note. But, I can’t help to think…why couldn’t he just talk to me this morning? Why did last night have to be last night? Why couldn’t he just grow up? We both have maturing to do. I know that. I am reading about it. But…love languages are useless if it’s a foreign language. All I wanted was some nice conversation. Quality time. Acts of service. Words of affirmation. Physical Touch. Instead, I got the cold shoulder. That was my celebration.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Unconfused about what I've learned
Yesterday, my sister gave me a book about the love languages and marriage. While she is always excited about things like this, I was happy that she was excited about something, but in my head...I was like, if there are no pictures in this book, I'm not really interested. But...out of curiosity, I read it. And so far, here's what I've learned.
Let me preface with the scenario...so I got this new job. I call my mom first. Then my sister. Then Doreen. Then, I tell the daycare, my support sisters, my manager, and THEN my husband. Why in that order? Because he doesn't know how to support me the way that I need it. I knew if I told him first, he'd deflate my high. And as expected...when I told him, he deflated my high. Not on purpose. He would never hurt me on purpose. Never. But, he did steal a little bit of my joy. I said," husband...I got the job!" And he said, "Oh word? Good. How much they pay?" Not, I am so happy for you, I am so happy for us, this is a long time coming, I am so proud of you, we've worked really hard for this...none of that. Of course, I was hurt by his words, and in the back of my mind, I knew not to hold it against him. He doesn't know. When I came home that night, he was full of hugs and kisses and then, he told me that he was happy for me.
See...we all have languages of love. There are five of them. Acts of service, quality time, words of affirmation, receiving gifts, and physical touch. By telling me that he was happy for me, he was sharing words of affirmation, and my hugging and kissing me, he was sharing physical touch. The problem is…those are his love languages. Mine happen to be Acts of service and quality time. What would have been nice would have been a celebratory dinner…even if it was at home eating spaghetti and meatballs with sparkling cider with the kids. THAT would have made me feel special. Act of service. Or maybe a nice sit-down on the couch while he listened as I blubbered about how scared I am. THAT would have made me feel special. Quality Time.
Instead, he communicated with me in the way he would have liked me to communicated with him…in his love language. Had I said, husband, I really would like to just sit and talk about this, he would have been game. I now know what and how to request what I need from him, instead of demanding that he “just know what to do”. He did support me. In the way that he knows how. All we need to do is learn each other’s love language, and we’ll be just fine.
Needless to say…I am halfway through the book. I started reading it yesterday. And tonight, we are dropping the boys of with the sitter and will have a nice date. Just us two. To celebrate a new chapter in our lives. Thank you sister.
Let me preface with the scenario...so I got this new job. I call my mom first. Then my sister. Then Doreen. Then, I tell the daycare, my support sisters, my manager, and THEN my husband. Why in that order? Because he doesn't know how to support me the way that I need it. I knew if I told him first, he'd deflate my high. And as expected...when I told him, he deflated my high. Not on purpose. He would never hurt me on purpose. Never. But, he did steal a little bit of my joy. I said," husband...I got the job!" And he said, "Oh word? Good. How much they pay?" Not, I am so happy for you, I am so happy for us, this is a long time coming, I am so proud of you, we've worked really hard for this...none of that. Of course, I was hurt by his words, and in the back of my mind, I knew not to hold it against him. He doesn't know. When I came home that night, he was full of hugs and kisses and then, he told me that he was happy for me.
See...we all have languages of love. There are five of them. Acts of service, quality time, words of affirmation, receiving gifts, and physical touch. By telling me that he was happy for me, he was sharing words of affirmation, and my hugging and kissing me, he was sharing physical touch. The problem is…those are his love languages. Mine happen to be Acts of service and quality time. What would have been nice would have been a celebratory dinner…even if it was at home eating spaghetti and meatballs with sparkling cider with the kids. THAT would have made me feel special. Act of service. Or maybe a nice sit-down on the couch while he listened as I blubbered about how scared I am. THAT would have made me feel special. Quality Time.
Instead, he communicated with me in the way he would have liked me to communicated with him…in his love language. Had I said, husband, I really would like to just sit and talk about this, he would have been game. I now know what and how to request what I need from him, instead of demanding that he “just know what to do”. He did support me. In the way that he knows how. All we need to do is learn each other’s love language, and we’ll be just fine.
Needless to say…I am halfway through the book. I started reading it yesterday. And tonight, we are dropping the boys of with the sitter and will have a nice date. Just us two. To celebrate a new chapter in our lives. Thank you sister.
Confused about the new...
Ok party people...I'm back. And confused again. Why is it that I found a job, and a school for the kids, and yet...I am sooooooo scared? Trembling, frozen, crying, headache scared? I know that this is all a blessing, and I am not allowed to block my blessings, but yall...I'm scared. I thought that I was just overwhelmed, but yall...I am overwhelmed AND scared.
There is so much that I do not know about this situation. Yes...this IS what I asked for. As the preacher on the BET show Baldwin Hills said..."I signed up for this." I know Incarnation is a wonderful school. But, will the teachers love my baby? Will they make him comfortable. Will they get to know him? Will he be happy there. Are his teachers safe? Are they non-criminals? And Messiah, will his providers love him? Will they help him with his speech, or will they ignore him because he has issues? And for me, is this job what I really need? Am I making a mistake? Did I fall for the usual because I was desperate to leave my current situation? Will I learn fast enough? Can I afford this change? Will it reall make me a better wife and mom?
I ask God to calm me. Give me peace. Settle my nerves. Give me the serenity to accept the things that I can not change. The courage to change the things that I can. And the knowledge to know the difference. BUT...I AM STILL SCARED!
There is so much that I do not know about this situation. Yes...this IS what I asked for. As the preacher on the BET show Baldwin Hills said..."I signed up for this." I know Incarnation is a wonderful school. But, will the teachers love my baby? Will they make him comfortable. Will they get to know him? Will he be happy there. Are his teachers safe? Are they non-criminals? And Messiah, will his providers love him? Will they help him with his speech, or will they ignore him because he has issues? And for me, is this job what I really need? Am I making a mistake? Did I fall for the usual because I was desperate to leave my current situation? Will I learn fast enough? Can I afford this change? Will it reall make me a better wife and mom?
I ask God to calm me. Give me peace. Settle my nerves. Give me the serenity to accept the things that I can not change. The courage to change the things that I can. And the knowledge to know the difference. BUT...I AM STILL SCARED!
Friday, August 15, 2008
Confused about Weight Loss...
So...I have been battling the weight thing for a while. Yes...I have two babies and have gained weight as a result. But they are not the reason why almost two years later, I still can't shed this weight. I have no discipline...I know. I know how to make healthy food choices...and for the most part, I do. I make sure to have a healthy breakfast every day...I make sure to drink plenty of water and have plenty of leafy greens daily. I try to have something in my stomach every three hours to keep my metabolism going. Diet is a bad word...I know. So, I don't diet. Eat what you want in moderation...I know. So, instead of having a whole half a pan of brownies after I've licked the left over batter from the bowl, I made mini brownie cupcakes--think Reese’s cup sized. You have to stay active...I know. Even though I haven't been to Bally's in a few days, I still remain active--somewhat. I walk the stairs, park far, make many trips carrying the groceries, I walked Jamaica Ave., I jumped rope, and I run around the house--literally--chasing after the boys. So...while I'm not in the gym pumping iron...I'm also not on my behind all day watching TV.
So...why on Sam Hill can't I lose this weight? Before having Zion, I was a chubby girl. I don't think I can remember a time before Zion that I weighed less than 150 lbs. And even then, a doctor told me that I was obese, and wanted me to weigh 120lbs. For me, that was a joke. I never want to weigh that little. But…even at 150 lbs., I still wasn’t happy with my body. I had friends that were tall and thin with flat bellies…and I was the short thick one with the gut. Still, I opted to eat and do what I wanted. At that time, I taught tap dance every Saturday for hours on end…so while I was the thick one…I was never flabby. Then…I went on to college…still at 150 lbs., I ate and did what I wanted. But, when I wasn’t pledging alpha angel and doing calisthenics, I was in the dance troupe that met daily for hours on end. Then…after college, came Zion. Three months into my pregnancy, I was told that I’d have to go on complete bed/pelvic rest. The only time I was allowed out of my bed was to go to doctor visits and to bathe daily. My only exercise for the next 6 months was that once a week trip to the doc, getting in and out of the shower…and I would sneak and make my bed and sit up in a chair—I wasn’t even supposed to do that much. On the day that I delivered, I walked into the hospital 202 lbs. On the day that I walked out of the hospital after having my baby…I weighed 187lbs. What the hell? I couldn’t even fit in my coming home outfit because I thought that once the baby was born, I’d be back in action. What put that thought into my head…who knows? My friend brought me some jeans from the Gap…they were a size 16, and they fit!
After struggling with my weight for years after Zion was born, I joined Weight Watchers and got back to 150 lbs! Now, it wasn’t so bad to be 150 lbs. In fact, I celebrated by purchasing two pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap. Two weeks after I went to the Gap to buy my size 10 jeans, my husband and I went on a weekend getaway. I wore those size 10 jeans. Three weeks after that, I found out that I was pregnant again. Needless to say, I have not been able to fit into those jeans again.
The second pregnancy was better. I was not bedridden at all. I was able to work and gallivant the world. And so, I did. Me and my cut buddy went somewhere dam near every day…so while I was getting my exercise in by walking the malls…our gallivanting usually ALWAYS ended up at Applebee’s, Olive Garden, IHOP, or Outback Steakhouse. The week before I delivered, I was 180 lbs. After delivery, I was 170. All that baby and water…and I only lost 10 lbs. during childbirth? WHAT THE F? Soon after, I went back to Weight Watchers…I lost some, and then gained it back. But…I got back down to 155lbs., eventually. To me, this meant that I could try on my size 10 Gap jeans…why did I do that? I can pull them on…but they won’t get past my thighs!
See the significance of the Gap jeans is that they are cut for girls with no body. My actual size in every other jean is a size 10…but those a jeans that are cut for women with guts and butts. Gap jeans are a whole other thing.
So…fast forward to present time. My oldest is almost 5 and my baby is almost 2. I am at 157lbs. today. Last week, I was 151…and today, I am 157. I watch what I eat, practice portion control, I have my daily dose of chocolate in moderation—mini snack size bars—but I’ve also changed to whole grains and added more leafy greens. And as said before…I’ve started to move more. Is this my destined size? Will I ever get back into those Gap jeans? Will I ever get my Beyonce on?
I look at my husband and oldest son. They eat and drink what they want. They play hard…but they eat even harder. And the both of them…the 30 year old AND the 5 year old…have cuts in their stomach. I’m not asking for all that. I just want to be in shape…and would prefer that my shape not be ROUND.
What the F?
So...why on Sam Hill can't I lose this weight? Before having Zion, I was a chubby girl. I don't think I can remember a time before Zion that I weighed less than 150 lbs. And even then, a doctor told me that I was obese, and wanted me to weigh 120lbs. For me, that was a joke. I never want to weigh that little. But…even at 150 lbs., I still wasn’t happy with my body. I had friends that were tall and thin with flat bellies…and I was the short thick one with the gut. Still, I opted to eat and do what I wanted. At that time, I taught tap dance every Saturday for hours on end…so while I was the thick one…I was never flabby. Then…I went on to college…still at 150 lbs., I ate and did what I wanted. But, when I wasn’t pledging alpha angel and doing calisthenics, I was in the dance troupe that met daily for hours on end. Then…after college, came Zion. Three months into my pregnancy, I was told that I’d have to go on complete bed/pelvic rest. The only time I was allowed out of my bed was to go to doctor visits and to bathe daily. My only exercise for the next 6 months was that once a week trip to the doc, getting in and out of the shower…and I would sneak and make my bed and sit up in a chair—I wasn’t even supposed to do that much. On the day that I delivered, I walked into the hospital 202 lbs. On the day that I walked out of the hospital after having my baby…I weighed 187lbs. What the hell? I couldn’t even fit in my coming home outfit because I thought that once the baby was born, I’d be back in action. What put that thought into my head…who knows? My friend brought me some jeans from the Gap…they were a size 16, and they fit!
After struggling with my weight for years after Zion was born, I joined Weight Watchers and got back to 150 lbs! Now, it wasn’t so bad to be 150 lbs. In fact, I celebrated by purchasing two pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap. Two weeks after I went to the Gap to buy my size 10 jeans, my husband and I went on a weekend getaway. I wore those size 10 jeans. Three weeks after that, I found out that I was pregnant again. Needless to say, I have not been able to fit into those jeans again.
The second pregnancy was better. I was not bedridden at all. I was able to work and gallivant the world. And so, I did. Me and my cut buddy went somewhere dam near every day…so while I was getting my exercise in by walking the malls…our gallivanting usually ALWAYS ended up at Applebee’s, Olive Garden, IHOP, or Outback Steakhouse. The week before I delivered, I was 180 lbs. After delivery, I was 170. All that baby and water…and I only lost 10 lbs. during childbirth? WHAT THE F? Soon after, I went back to Weight Watchers…I lost some, and then gained it back. But…I got back down to 155lbs., eventually. To me, this meant that I could try on my size 10 Gap jeans…why did I do that? I can pull them on…but they won’t get past my thighs!
See the significance of the Gap jeans is that they are cut for girls with no body. My actual size in every other jean is a size 10…but those a jeans that are cut for women with guts and butts. Gap jeans are a whole other thing.
So…fast forward to present time. My oldest is almost 5 and my baby is almost 2. I am at 157lbs. today. Last week, I was 151…and today, I am 157. I watch what I eat, practice portion control, I have my daily dose of chocolate in moderation—mini snack size bars—but I’ve also changed to whole grains and added more leafy greens. And as said before…I’ve started to move more. Is this my destined size? Will I ever get back into those Gap jeans? Will I ever get my Beyonce on?
I look at my husband and oldest son. They eat and drink what they want. They play hard…but they eat even harder. And the both of them…the 30 year old AND the 5 year old…have cuts in their stomach. I’m not asking for all that. I just want to be in shape…and would prefer that my shape not be ROUND.
What the F?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Confused about Religion
So...today is Monday. I missed my date at church yesterday. I live very close to one of the larger cathedrals in the city. So, on my way to doing my Sunday morning chores, I saw people walking in droves walking toward the church. I felt a little bad...but not really. ootherwise, I would have saved my chores for later and gone on to church.
A little background on me...
I grew up in church. But not like how it sounds. From what I remember, I went to Sunday school every Sunday. And it wasn't like I went with my bible toting family. It was one of those things were my neighbors went to church every day of the week...and they would bring me with them on Sundays, and that was my chance to but candy, jarred pickels and beefsticks with my tithe money. It was also my mom's time to have piece and quiet without a nagging child in the house for a couple hours. I couldn't tell you anything about the Bible to this day. But...I can tell you who would get the holy ghost first, and who held the ghost the longest, who mastered the language of tongues the best, and who could catch the ghost AND still keep on her floppy hat and wig without missing a beat. That, was my religion back then.
Fast forward to today...
I know that I am Christian. I know that there is a God. I know that he diesd to save us all. I know that I've been baptisted in college. I know that at the very end of the day, all I have is my God. But...what does that really mean?
I am a skeptic because I am my father's child. And since he always taught me not to believe everything that I am told, then I have trouble with reading and believing a book written and interpreted by man. Do I believe in God? Yes. Do I believe in church...the verdict is still out on that one. Am I supposed to visit God at his house? I guess...that is what I am told. Amd I supposed to tithe? I guess...that is what I am told. Am I supposed to pray? I guess...that is what I am told.
I've heard many serious, yet hilarious conversations over the past year. At a dinner party, we were discussing what the devil wants. Is it our soul, or is it our spirit? One side of the room had their answer...and one adamant woman had her answer. When it was all said and done, she was taught to believe one thing because of her religion...and the other side of the room was taught to believe something else...because of their religion. And that caused her to ask...'WHAT ARE WE DOING IF WE ARE ALL LEARNING DIFFERENT THINGS?'...My sentiments exactly. Needless to say, I did not participate in that convo because, as I told you...I couldn't tell you what was in the Bible.
A few weeks ago...I sat in on a conversation that one christian had with another. She wanted to know how could you have a party and play secular/non-christian music and still call yourself saved? wtf? It's this kind of thinking that steers me away from church. Does God strike thee down if you get your Beyonce on? If so...I've been dancing with the devil all my life.
I don't know much about religion...but this is what I know. God knows your heart. If your heart is into serving God and passing ont he legacy of God...then you are all good. If you live a good life and understand how to open your heart to God, and listen to His word during those intimate conversations that you have with God...then you are all good. I don't believe that you will be turned away from heaven because you are a Jay-Z fan, or because you didn't dress in your Sunday best to get your holy ghost on every Sunday. Church to me, is in my heart. I've had church in the laundromat one day...just me and God was there. He spoke to me, and I spoke back...and it was beautiful, and I cried. That was my church.
A little background on me...
I grew up in church. But not like how it sounds. From what I remember, I went to Sunday school every Sunday. And it wasn't like I went with my bible toting family. It was one of those things were my neighbors went to church every day of the week...and they would bring me with them on Sundays, and that was my chance to but candy, jarred pickels and beefsticks with my tithe money. It was also my mom's time to have piece and quiet without a nagging child in the house for a couple hours. I couldn't tell you anything about the Bible to this day. But...I can tell you who would get the holy ghost first, and who held the ghost the longest, who mastered the language of tongues the best, and who could catch the ghost AND still keep on her floppy hat and wig without missing a beat. That, was my religion back then.
Fast forward to today...
I know that I am Christian. I know that there is a God. I know that he diesd to save us all. I know that I've been baptisted in college. I know that at the very end of the day, all I have is my God. But...what does that really mean?
I am a skeptic because I am my father's child. And since he always taught me not to believe everything that I am told, then I have trouble with reading and believing a book written and interpreted by man. Do I believe in God? Yes. Do I believe in church...the verdict is still out on that one. Am I supposed to visit God at his house? I guess...that is what I am told. Amd I supposed to tithe? I guess...that is what I am told. Am I supposed to pray? I guess...that is what I am told.
I've heard many serious, yet hilarious conversations over the past year. At a dinner party, we were discussing what the devil wants. Is it our soul, or is it our spirit? One side of the room had their answer...and one adamant woman had her answer. When it was all said and done, she was taught to believe one thing because of her religion...and the other side of the room was taught to believe something else...because of their religion. And that caused her to ask...'WHAT ARE WE DOING IF WE ARE ALL LEARNING DIFFERENT THINGS?'...My sentiments exactly. Needless to say, I did not participate in that convo because, as I told you...I couldn't tell you what was in the Bible.
A few weeks ago...I sat in on a conversation that one christian had with another. She wanted to know how could you have a party and play secular/non-christian music and still call yourself saved? wtf? It's this kind of thinking that steers me away from church. Does God strike thee down if you get your Beyonce on? If so...I've been dancing with the devil all my life.
I don't know much about religion...but this is what I know. God knows your heart. If your heart is into serving God and passing ont he legacy of God...then you are all good. If you live a good life and understand how to open your heart to God, and listen to His word during those intimate conversations that you have with God...then you are all good. I don't believe that you will be turned away from heaven because you are a Jay-Z fan, or because you didn't dress in your Sunday best to get your holy ghost on every Sunday. Church to me, is in my heart. I've had church in the laundromat one day...just me and God was there. He spoke to me, and I spoke back...and it was beautiful, and I cried. That was my church.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Confused about Master's
So...in my quest to finish off my 20's with a big...and in an effort to being my 30's less confused...my husband and I had a lengthy talk last night. We are both interested in going for our Master's.
Now, my husband and I went to the same college. He graduated with a BA in Criminal Justice, and I graduated with a BS--sidebar:at LU, if you took advance spanish, that qualified you for a BS...and I don't speak a lick of Spanish, but I got my BS--in Business Administration. He is in the criminal justice field...and I am in the Business Admin., field--sorta, except I wouldn't call this charade of a place a busines...but that's another blog for another day. ANYWHO...
So, my husband asked me what I thought about him going for his Masters. Well, he'd always wanted to go for his masters. But, his original plan was him to stay as a social worker and eventually open a home for wayward boys. Today...he is a peace officer. And the way to excel in that field is to take tests and rub elbows. So...my question to him was...what are you going to do with it? I don't think he thought that answer through. At the end of the convo...I told him that I'm happy for him if he goes back to school if that's what he wants, and if he will use it for progression. But I will not be happy with his decision if he's just doing it to impress the masses.
I asked him the same question about me going to school. And he's always wanted me to go back to school. But he wanted to know my reasons for wanting to go back. Well...to be honest...because I'm confused! I know that I belong somewhere owning my own business. And while I am learning plenty about what NOT to do while in business in this charade place of business...I still want to learn the right way to do things. And I am not sure that I was properly armed in undergrad. Yes, I learned all about C++ and international law, and how to win a case in small claims court in my business law class...I don't think I really learned the sticks and bones of picking an organization up and getting it off the ground. So...in my confusion, I feel like perhaps, I can get that from obtaining my Master's.
Is that what a Master's degree is for, or would I be wasting my time? Is there a such thing as a waste of an education?
Your thoughts?
Now, my husband and I went to the same college. He graduated with a BA in Criminal Justice, and I graduated with a BS--sidebar:at LU, if you took advance spanish, that qualified you for a BS...and I don't speak a lick of Spanish, but I got my BS--in Business Administration. He is in the criminal justice field...and I am in the Business Admin., field--sorta, except I wouldn't call this charade of a place a busines...but that's another blog for another day. ANYWHO...
So, my husband asked me what I thought about him going for his Masters. Well, he'd always wanted to go for his masters. But, his original plan was him to stay as a social worker and eventually open a home for wayward boys. Today...he is a peace officer. And the way to excel in that field is to take tests and rub elbows. So...my question to him was...what are you going to do with it? I don't think he thought that answer through. At the end of the convo...I told him that I'm happy for him if he goes back to school if that's what he wants, and if he will use it for progression. But I will not be happy with his decision if he's just doing it to impress the masses.
I asked him the same question about me going to school. And he's always wanted me to go back to school. But he wanted to know my reasons for wanting to go back. Well...to be honest...because I'm confused! I know that I belong somewhere owning my own business. And while I am learning plenty about what NOT to do while in business in this charade place of business...I still want to learn the right way to do things. And I am not sure that I was properly armed in undergrad. Yes, I learned all about C++ and international law, and how to win a case in small claims court in my business law class...I don't think I really learned the sticks and bones of picking an organization up and getting it off the ground. So...in my confusion, I feel like perhaps, I can get that from obtaining my Master's.
Is that what a Master's degree is for, or would I be wasting my time? Is there a such thing as a waste of an education?
Your thoughts?
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Confused about Excuse Me
Here is something that has been confusing me for a while now. And I am VERY vocal about it...meaning, I will cuss a b*tch out for real. And it is such a simple thing. Has the phrase EXCUSE ME died down? I've noticed that no one really uses it any more. Was it a fad to once say EXCUSE ME?
Case in point, I caused a HUGE scene once at the daycare center one day, all because an ADULT woman, moved my child out of the way so that she could get past him.
a) Don't touch my child
b) Don't touch my child in lieu of saying EXCUSE ME
I don't know what it is about this simple thing that makes me so angry when it's not said. I especially get angry when adults walk around as if my children are invisible. They are little...but they are people too!
The other day, we were in Sesame Place getting our things from the locker. The locker was on the top tier of three lockers. So we had to reach high above our heads to get our things. A woman and her family came soon after we did. She needed to get her things from her locker, which was on the bottom tier of the three lockers in our column. SO...instead of either waiting until we were done, or saying EXCUSE ME...she chose to scoot her body in between my Zion and the locker so that she could get to her things. Kids...I went bizerk. I didn't curse her out perse...but I did LOUDLY VOCALIZE what a stupid b*tch she was. My husband had to remove me from the area--because he must have known that I was making matters worse.
TODAY...I was walking on the sidewalk with my kids. A woman needed to get to her car which was beside where we were walking. Instead of being a lady and waiting until the two toddlers passed. She pushed scooted my baby along...
...BUT...I'm proud to say...I didn't react as i normally would have. I just told my boys that she was a rude person and maybe her mommy didn't teach her to say EXCUSE ME.
So...I've learned and exercised a lesson in controlling my emotions in regards to my pet peeve--especially in front of my boys...and my boys learned a lesson on the phrase EXCUSE ME.
Case in point, I caused a HUGE scene once at the daycare center one day, all because an ADULT woman, moved my child out of the way so that she could get past him.
a) Don't touch my child
b) Don't touch my child in lieu of saying EXCUSE ME
I don't know what it is about this simple thing that makes me so angry when it's not said. I especially get angry when adults walk around as if my children are invisible. They are little...but they are people too!
The other day, we were in Sesame Place getting our things from the locker. The locker was on the top tier of three lockers. So we had to reach high above our heads to get our things. A woman and her family came soon after we did. She needed to get her things from her locker, which was on the bottom tier of the three lockers in our column. SO...instead of either waiting until we were done, or saying EXCUSE ME...she chose to scoot her body in between my Zion and the locker so that she could get to her things. Kids...I went bizerk. I didn't curse her out perse...but I did LOUDLY VOCALIZE what a stupid b*tch she was. My husband had to remove me from the area--because he must have known that I was making matters worse.
TODAY...I was walking on the sidewalk with my kids. A woman needed to get to her car which was beside where we were walking. Instead of being a lady and waiting until the two toddlers passed. She pushed scooted my baby along...
...BUT...I'm proud to say...I didn't react as i normally would have. I just told my boys that she was a rude person and maybe her mommy didn't teach her to say EXCUSE ME.
So...I've learned and exercised a lesson in controlling my emotions in regards to my pet peeve--especially in front of my boys...and my boys learned a lesson on the phrase EXCUSE ME.
Unconfused about what I know...
Well...I was thinking about what to talk about today...and I realize that I complain a lot. So...I will get rid of some of my confusion by talking about what I am happy and sure about. So...here goes.
- I am happy that I have a job that allows me to feed and clothe my children and send them to a good school.
- I am happy to have a wonderful husband that would give me the world on a silver platter if he could.
- I am happy to have my health and that my boys have their health.
- I am happy to know how to pray, and that it is real.
- I am happy to know that there is a God, and He is real.
- I am happy to have my girls.
- I am happy to be debt free in 6 months...woo hoo!
- I am happy to have the understanding that I am confused--knowing and admitting that you have a problem is the first step, right?
- I am happy to have my Beyonce!
- I am happy to have my Shawn!
- I am happy that I just got a lil scratch in my car considering the fact that I was hit by a tractor trailor.
- I am happy that my boys know how to smile and show love.
- I am happy to have had the negative experiences that I've had in the past. They make for a better me.
- I am happy to know that change is good.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Quarter Life Crisis
So...everyone knows that I am in the process of trying to figure things out. I need a new school for the boys, I need a new job place to call home, I'm learning how to be married, I'm learning how to be a friend...I'm 27 and still learning.
The other day, I was driving home and I was thinking..."Heifer...you are so confused!" I realize that I am so discontent with so many things because I do not really know what I want out of life. I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I know, I know...I should have thought of that before the baby carriage and the marriage--in that order--but, I haven't...so now what?
My resume is so bare. And I don't mean my professional resume. I mean...I haven't traveled the world, or owned my own anything--aside from a ragged Corolla, or burned my bra in the name of a specific cause, or walked into my bosses office and told him/her to kiss my black fill in the blank...these are all things that need to go on my personal resume in order to make my life honestly well rounded, I think.
But...first things first...where do I start? Do I go back to school? Do I open my own business? Do I throw caution to the wind and pack my babies up and run to Trinidad on holiday? Ugh...why am I so confused?
The other day, I was driving home and I was thinking..."Heifer...you are so confused!" I realize that I am so discontent with so many things because I do not really know what I want out of life. I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I know, I know...I should have thought of that before the baby carriage and the marriage--in that order--but, I haven't...so now what?
My resume is so bare. And I don't mean my professional resume. I mean...I haven't traveled the world, or owned my own anything--aside from a ragged Corolla, or burned my bra in the name of a specific cause, or walked into my bosses office and told him/her to kiss my black fill in the blank...these are all things that need to go on my personal resume in order to make my life honestly well rounded, I think.
But...first things first...where do I start? Do I go back to school? Do I open my own business? Do I throw caution to the wind and pack my babies up and run to Trinidad on holiday? Ugh...why am I so confused?
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