Making friends is so much harder now that I’m an adult. As a kid, it was easy. The conversation went something like this: “Hi I’m Amanda”. “Hi I’m Jenny”. “Wanna play?” “O.K.” Done. Why can’t adults be that way? Why do we care if someone has a higher degree, earns more money, drives a nicer car, lives in a bigger home? When do we lose our ability to see one another as equals?
People are automatically drawn to me. They tell me their life stories (sometimes while nude in the gym locker room). I often wonder if I wear a sign that says “Unload your troubles here”. Meeting people is not the problem. My issue lies in taking the next step, past shooting the breeze and actually getting to know them. I immediately start to wonder if we will have things in common, if we are on the same playing field, if I’m good enough.
Sometimes I wish I could see the world as a child again. To see the big picture, instead of all the compartments, classes, and cliques. From now on, I'm going to try and let my guard down. To get to know others without worrying about their circumstances.
Hi my name is Amanda. Do you want to play?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Bittersweet
Every now I then, I catch glimpses of what my daughters will be like as teenagers. I find those images terrifying. How will I protect them? What if they turn out like me?
It seems like just yesterday I was pregnant with Daysia. Where does the time go? On September11, 2001, Ed and I decided it was time to start trying to get pregnant. We were both confronted with the harsh reality that life is too short and far too precious to wait. A few months later, I was showing signs. I took one test, then two, then sent him out to buy more. They all were positive. I remember feeling thrilled and petrified. What if I miscarried, what if the baby got sick, what if it didn’t? Was I really ready to be a mom?
My pregnancy was pretty routine. Daysia, of course, took her time coming out. Two days after my due date, she was born. I instantly loved her deeply and couldn’t imagine what life was like before she entered it. Ed was instantly smitten. He spoke to her and she turned his way. For months he had talked to my stomach and now she seemed to recognize his voice. Having her was a very proud moment.
Three years later, we had Mariah. Before she was born, I worried that I wouldn’t love her the same way… that I wouldn’t have enough time to give her. Those worries instantly went away when I looked at her. She was so beautiful. At 11.2 pounds, she resembled a 5 month old. She could lift her head clear off of my chest and seemed very curious. I could tell that she was going to give us a run for our money.
Now the girls are 5 and 8. They are so independent and so smart. While I enjoy being able to come and go with ease, I wish I could slow down time a little. I’m already embarrassing when friends are around. Boys are already cute. Back talk is already common place. I never thought I would miss them watching Barney or playing with all those dang little people. Now they are interested in purses, and play makeup, and money.
For now I will cherish every game of hide and seek, every homemade art project, every sticky kiss. I will teach them how to love themselves and how to accept others. I will show them right from wrong. I will love them no matter where life leads them or what path they choose. I want nothing more than for them to be happy and healthy. I hope that someday they will look at their own newborns and feel the power of unconditional love. They bring so much joy and laughter to my life and are truly my greatest accomplishments.
It seems like just yesterday I was pregnant with Daysia. Where does the time go? On September11, 2001, Ed and I decided it was time to start trying to get pregnant. We were both confronted with the harsh reality that life is too short and far too precious to wait. A few months later, I was showing signs. I took one test, then two, then sent him out to buy more. They all were positive. I remember feeling thrilled and petrified. What if I miscarried, what if the baby got sick, what if it didn’t? Was I really ready to be a mom?
My pregnancy was pretty routine. Daysia, of course, took her time coming out. Two days after my due date, she was born. I instantly loved her deeply and couldn’t imagine what life was like before she entered it. Ed was instantly smitten. He spoke to her and she turned his way. For months he had talked to my stomach and now she seemed to recognize his voice. Having her was a very proud moment.
Three years later, we had Mariah. Before she was born, I worried that I wouldn’t love her the same way… that I wouldn’t have enough time to give her. Those worries instantly went away when I looked at her. She was so beautiful. At 11.2 pounds, she resembled a 5 month old. She could lift her head clear off of my chest and seemed very curious. I could tell that she was going to give us a run for our money.
Now the girls are 5 and 8. They are so independent and so smart. While I enjoy being able to come and go with ease, I wish I could slow down time a little. I’m already embarrassing when friends are around. Boys are already cute. Back talk is already common place. I never thought I would miss them watching Barney or playing with all those dang little people. Now they are interested in purses, and play makeup, and money.
For now I will cherish every game of hide and seek, every homemade art project, every sticky kiss. I will teach them how to love themselves and how to accept others. I will show them right from wrong. I will love them no matter where life leads them or what path they choose. I want nothing more than for them to be happy and healthy. I hope that someday they will look at their own newborns and feel the power of unconditional love. They bring so much joy and laughter to my life and are truly my greatest accomplishments.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Skin deep
It still amazes me how close minded some people can be. How they can judge someone solely on physical characteristics. How anyone who’s been in love can’t understand how a person could love someone physically different than themselves. Why is there so much fear in the unknown? Do hair texture, eye color, body shape, and skin color really make us different?
I am Irish/Italian, but grew up Italian. From very early on, I was taught that there were “us” and “them”. “Them” was made up of anyone who wasn’t Italian. Stereotypes were factual. Blacks were crooks, Jews were cheap, Polacks were dumb, Asians couldn’t drive, and the list goes on. We stuck to our own kind and rarely ventured into unfamiliar neighborhoods. When we did, car doors were locked and purses were clutched. When my grandma was mad at my grandpa, she would call him “Black”. That was the biggest insult there was. This is how they were raised and they were teaching me what they knew. It just never sat right with me. I would look at a kid and see a kid. We liked the same toys, had the same hobbies, and played the same games. They just happened to look different than me.
Growing up in a middle class suburb, there weren’t many minorities. It wasn’t until college that I started to hang around with kids of all different cultural and ethnic backgrounds. There was so much to learn about….so many stereotypes to disprove. I based my opinions of people on who they really were. If I liked you, I liked you. If I thought you were an asshole, you knew it.
People have asked me if I’m with my husband solely because he’s Black. That question is odd to me. Are they with their spouse solely because they are fat, or bald, or tall, or blond? Sure people are attracted to a certain type, but physical characteristics aren’t the reason they fall in love. There is more to it than that. Ed and I had alcoholic fathers, were raised by single moms, have older siblings, grew up Catholic, enjoy the same things, laugh at the same jokes, dream the same dreams……….oh and we just happen to have different skin colors. Why is that so hard to understand?
At least once a week, someone will ask me if my kids are mine. Look past the skin color asshole. Do you see how much they look like me? The big eyes, the freckles, the red streaks in their hair. I can’t begin to tell you how much that pisses me off. If I see dark haired parents who have a blond child, I would never ask if they are related. So why do people feel the need to call us out? Why don’t we fit the mold?
I will never regret my decision to follow my heart. It hasn’t been an easy rode. I’ve definitely been reminded that my lifestyle literally disgusts a lot of people. Fortunately those people aren’t anyone I would want in my life. They don’t deserve to be. My kids are being raised to judge people for who they are and not what they look like. It’s a small step in the right direction.
I am Irish/Italian, but grew up Italian. From very early on, I was taught that there were “us” and “them”. “Them” was made up of anyone who wasn’t Italian. Stereotypes were factual. Blacks were crooks, Jews were cheap, Polacks were dumb, Asians couldn’t drive, and the list goes on. We stuck to our own kind and rarely ventured into unfamiliar neighborhoods. When we did, car doors were locked and purses were clutched. When my grandma was mad at my grandpa, she would call him “Black”. That was the biggest insult there was. This is how they were raised and they were teaching me what they knew. It just never sat right with me. I would look at a kid and see a kid. We liked the same toys, had the same hobbies, and played the same games. They just happened to look different than me.
Growing up in a middle class suburb, there weren’t many minorities. It wasn’t until college that I started to hang around with kids of all different cultural and ethnic backgrounds. There was so much to learn about….so many stereotypes to disprove. I based my opinions of people on who they really were. If I liked you, I liked you. If I thought you were an asshole, you knew it.
People have asked me if I’m with my husband solely because he’s Black. That question is odd to me. Are they with their spouse solely because they are fat, or bald, or tall, or blond? Sure people are attracted to a certain type, but physical characteristics aren’t the reason they fall in love. There is more to it than that. Ed and I had alcoholic fathers, were raised by single moms, have older siblings, grew up Catholic, enjoy the same things, laugh at the same jokes, dream the same dreams……….oh and we just happen to have different skin colors. Why is that so hard to understand?
At least once a week, someone will ask me if my kids are mine. Look past the skin color asshole. Do you see how much they look like me? The big eyes, the freckles, the red streaks in their hair. I can’t begin to tell you how much that pisses me off. If I see dark haired parents who have a blond child, I would never ask if they are related. So why do people feel the need to call us out? Why don’t we fit the mold?
I will never regret my decision to follow my heart. It hasn’t been an easy rode. I’ve definitely been reminded that my lifestyle literally disgusts a lot of people. Fortunately those people aren’t anyone I would want in my life. They don’t deserve to be. My kids are being raised to judge people for who they are and not what they look like. It’s a small step in the right direction.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Don't lose sight
They say that 50% of marriages end in divorce. I would like to hope that mine falls in the 50% that won't.
I'll never forget meeting my husband Ed. It was during my sophomore year at UB and he was best friends with my male RA. Initially I thought they were more than best friends (not that there's anything wrong with that). I soon realized that wasn't the case.
Before meeting Ed, I had sworn off marriage. Marriage was for suckers. I had been with asshole after asshole and had no hope of finding Mr. Right. That all changed when I saw Ed. He wasn't like guys I normally went for. He was a "nice" guy. The kind of guy I would routinely pass over for a douche bag. I remember telling my best friend that I was going to marry him someday. She of course thought I was nuts because we had never spoken. One night I saw him sitting in the dorm lounge studying. I decided to join him. He struck up a conversation and helped me with my Spanish homework. We started hanging out and the rest is history.
This past March marked the 13th year since he captured my heart. It was also when he told me that he wants to leave me. To say I was devastated doesn't even come close to the pain I felt. All sorts of questions crept in my head. Why? What did I do? How would I tell my kids? How would I go on? Over the past 6 months, we have somehow managed to stay together. I have hit my lowest point. The rollercoaster of emotions is never-ending. They say you never realize what you have until you are about to lose it. That couldn't be truer.
I no longer dwell on the socks Ed throws on the floor (next to the hamper) or the dish he may leave in the sink. Somehow those things bring me comfort....comfort in knowing that he's still around. I have no idea what tomorrow brings. I've stopped planning for the future. For now, I'm thankful for another day spent with him.
There are no guarantees in life. No magic wands to make things all better. If you love someone, you have to be willing to fight for them. Fight for what you believe in... for what you love. It's so easy to get wrapped up in the mundane daily tasks. To argue over who does more, makes more, appreciates more. Life is too short to dwell on petty shit. Cherish the time you have together and appreciate one another. Never lose sight of what brought you together and keep the love alive.
I'll never forget meeting my husband Ed. It was during my sophomore year at UB and he was best friends with my male RA. Initially I thought they were more than best friends (not that there's anything wrong with that). I soon realized that wasn't the case.
Before meeting Ed, I had sworn off marriage. Marriage was for suckers. I had been with asshole after asshole and had no hope of finding Mr. Right. That all changed when I saw Ed. He wasn't like guys I normally went for. He was a "nice" guy. The kind of guy I would routinely pass over for a douche bag. I remember telling my best friend that I was going to marry him someday. She of course thought I was nuts because we had never spoken. One night I saw him sitting in the dorm lounge studying. I decided to join him. He struck up a conversation and helped me with my Spanish homework. We started hanging out and the rest is history.
This past March marked the 13th year since he captured my heart. It was also when he told me that he wants to leave me. To say I was devastated doesn't even come close to the pain I felt. All sorts of questions crept in my head. Why? What did I do? How would I tell my kids? How would I go on? Over the past 6 months, we have somehow managed to stay together. I have hit my lowest point. The rollercoaster of emotions is never-ending. They say you never realize what you have until you are about to lose it. That couldn't be truer.
I no longer dwell on the socks Ed throws on the floor (next to the hamper) or the dish he may leave in the sink. Somehow those things bring me comfort....comfort in knowing that he's still around. I have no idea what tomorrow brings. I've stopped planning for the future. For now, I'm thankful for another day spent with him.
There are no guarantees in life. No magic wands to make things all better. If you love someone, you have to be willing to fight for them. Fight for what you believe in... for what you love. It's so easy to get wrapped up in the mundane daily tasks. To argue over who does more, makes more, appreciates more. Life is too short to dwell on petty shit. Cherish the time you have together and appreciate one another. Never lose sight of what brought you together and keep the love alive.
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