Ian is so cute. (Not that I'm biased or anything...) He doesn't really get into the door-to-door trick-or-treating thing. Last year we only went to about 5 houses; this year we went to about 20. He got his little pumpkin half full of candy and said, "Mommy, I have enough. Can we go home now?" Amazing. That will probably change when he gets older.
I have got to get me a half-way decent camera. I'd have loved to catch the look of delighted suprise on his face, which showed each time someone gave him candy. He was so excited at all the different kinds! He's a great kid.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Unintended Lessons
Sometimes I feel compelled to write. The words come out of me with the force of hurricane winds and, heart pounding, I in turn find myself pounding on the keyboard, unable to type fast enough, not being able to stop, desperate to get the feelings out of me, out of me, faster, faster, and onto cyberpaper where it belongs, like the words are poison that must be quickly and forcefully expelled.
And then I am relieved. The storm is over, and I can find calm.
My first English Composition paper was to write a descriptive narrative about someone that had influenced us, either positively or negatively. I started to write about my relationship with my mother, and I couldn’t stop.
Oh, it’s not a pretty essay. Be forewarned. But it was cathartic, and I feel better, calmer.
I’m going to be fine. And also as importantly, so is my brother. And because we are going to be okay, so will my son.
My relationship with my mother effectively ended on my 18th birthday. The road to its destruction began in my early childhood, a rough and windy path commencing in some of my earliest memories. I did, however, learn many good lessons from these negative experiences.
I was born into a religion that never made sense to me. My parents were strict to the point of being unreasonable, insisting that my siblings and I walk a religious line that was incomprehensible to two of us.
One of the first religious principles I learned was, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.’ (Proverbs 13:24) This came right on the heels of, “Children, be obedient to your parents in union with the Lord.” (Ephesians 6:1) I remember it as if it were yesterday.
I was three years old. We were living in an upstairs apartment on the west side of Buffalo, behind Grover Cleveland High School, during the period that race riots sometimes occurred during dismissal. I was small enough to be able to walk under the dining room table without ducking. My favorite piece of furniture was a little wooden blue chair, just the perfect size to fit between the two desks my parents had sitting in the dining room. It was the perfect place to hide.
My brother, seven years my senior, asked too many questions. In the spirit of ‘spare the rod’, my mom beat him with a wooden paddle, bruising him about his back, buttocks and thighs. The voice in my head was screaming, “Noooo!” as my brother stoically took what he was deemed to have deserved. I hid, crouched in that little wooden blue chair, between the two desks in the dining room, long brown hair covering my tear-filled blue eyes, eternally hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. I learned not to ask questions. I must be quiet.
While growing up, I was not permitted to socialize with any of my classmates or to join in any extracurricular activities. I was not permitted to read any material but those the religious society produced. When I wrote book reports, I wrote them concerning various religious materials my mother chose for me to read. The voice in my head continually asked questions, screaming in frustration at my inability to voice them. I, however, was well-taught. I must be quiet.
I graduated from high school as class valedictorian at age 16. I won scholarships and may have been able to call my own shots. I was not permitted to attend college. I am a female. It was my Christian Duty to become a missionary for a few years, preach the “Good News in Foreign Lands”, then marry, have children, and care for my household. A career was not necessary – no, a career was forbidden. I must be quiet.
My eighteenth birthday finally arrived, and with the age of majority, I left the religion. I told my parents I wanted no more part of it. They, in turn, accused me of promiscuity and drug abuse. I was directed to leave their home almost immediately.
I felt like a complete failure, unloved and unable to be what my mom wanted me to be. I was completely crushed, and the voice in my head became silent, not for lack of questions, but for a black cloud of depression. I felt I deserved the hard times I received, the “wages of sin”. I married because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do, and I divorced after my husband, while ‘teaching me a lesson’, cracked my ribs.
As difficult as it may be to believe, I have learned many good lessons from these negative experiences. After leaving the religion and getting divorced, my life education began.
I have learned that religion doesn’t have to be a straight-jacket. I can ask questions. I can embrace science and concepts that make sense to me. I have no ‘religion’, and that’s okay. I no longer have to tow an incomprehensible line. I no longer have to be quiet.
I have learned that the way I was reared is no way to treat a child. My son asks questions; I encourage him to ask questions. He gets loud. That’s okay; he’s five. It’ll be okay when he’s ten, and fifteen, and twenty. He will never be beaten. He will know that he is loved by my hugs, kisses and praise. I support him. I am proud of him. I let him raise the rafters with his joie de vivre! LOUDLY!
I have learned that the way I was brought up is not the way a female should be treated. I am an intelligent human deserving of opportunity and accomplishment. I am neither a baby factory nor a whipping post. I am a single mother, I support my family, and I am finally getting my education. I am still sometimes quiet, but the voice in my head no longer screams. I can scream aloud if I need to.
I have learned I don’t want my son to have feelings of incompleteness when I pass on. I wish that my mother and I had resolved our issues, that she would have accepted my adult choices, that we could have conversed honestly, but I have learned that will never be possible.
My mother died June 18, 2006, culminating the end of the relationship that began to die on November 23, 1982. My brother and I spoke at length about how her passing brought relief, but with it a tremendous sense of loss. We still speak about our feelings of loss, but in our conversations and our writings, we find comfort. We are no longer subjected to physical or verbal poison arrows. I no longer must be quiet.
Michael said...
>… stoically took what he was deemed to have deserved...
Nope. I was full of rage and hate, because it was a contest of wills – (internally) “No matter how hard or how long you do this I will not cry. I will not give you the satisfaction of winning.”
Serena said...
Funny how our viewpoints were so different then. I had no idea what was going on in your head. I'm so glad it's over.
And then I am relieved. The storm is over, and I can find calm.
My first English Composition paper was to write a descriptive narrative about someone that had influenced us, either positively or negatively. I started to write about my relationship with my mother, and I couldn’t stop.
Oh, it’s not a pretty essay. Be forewarned. But it was cathartic, and I feel better, calmer.
I’m going to be fine. And also as importantly, so is my brother. And because we are going to be okay, so will my son.
My relationship with my mother effectively ended on my 18th birthday. The road to its destruction began in my early childhood, a rough and windy path commencing in some of my earliest memories. I did, however, learn many good lessons from these negative experiences.
I was born into a religion that never made sense to me. My parents were strict to the point of being unreasonable, insisting that my siblings and I walk a religious line that was incomprehensible to two of us.
One of the first religious principles I learned was, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.’ (Proverbs 13:24) This came right on the heels of, “Children, be obedient to your parents in union with the Lord.” (Ephesians 6:1) I remember it as if it were yesterday.
I was three years old. We were living in an upstairs apartment on the west side of Buffalo, behind Grover Cleveland High School, during the period that race riots sometimes occurred during dismissal. I was small enough to be able to walk under the dining room table without ducking. My favorite piece of furniture was a little wooden blue chair, just the perfect size to fit between the two desks my parents had sitting in the dining room. It was the perfect place to hide.
My brother, seven years my senior, asked too many questions. In the spirit of ‘spare the rod’, my mom beat him with a wooden paddle, bruising him about his back, buttocks and thighs. The voice in my head was screaming, “Noooo!” as my brother stoically took what he was deemed to have deserved. I hid, crouched in that little wooden blue chair, between the two desks in the dining room, long brown hair covering my tear-filled blue eyes, eternally hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. I learned not to ask questions. I must be quiet.
While growing up, I was not permitted to socialize with any of my classmates or to join in any extracurricular activities. I was not permitted to read any material but those the religious society produced. When I wrote book reports, I wrote them concerning various religious materials my mother chose for me to read. The voice in my head continually asked questions, screaming in frustration at my inability to voice them. I, however, was well-taught. I must be quiet.
I graduated from high school as class valedictorian at age 16. I won scholarships and may have been able to call my own shots. I was not permitted to attend college. I am a female. It was my Christian Duty to become a missionary for a few years, preach the “Good News in Foreign Lands”, then marry, have children, and care for my household. A career was not necessary – no, a career was forbidden. I must be quiet.
My eighteenth birthday finally arrived, and with the age of majority, I left the religion. I told my parents I wanted no more part of it. They, in turn, accused me of promiscuity and drug abuse. I was directed to leave their home almost immediately.
I felt like a complete failure, unloved and unable to be what my mom wanted me to be. I was completely crushed, and the voice in my head became silent, not for lack of questions, but for a black cloud of depression. I felt I deserved the hard times I received, the “wages of sin”. I married because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do, and I divorced after my husband, while ‘teaching me a lesson’, cracked my ribs.
As difficult as it may be to believe, I have learned many good lessons from these negative experiences. After leaving the religion and getting divorced, my life education began.
I have learned that religion doesn’t have to be a straight-jacket. I can ask questions. I can embrace science and concepts that make sense to me. I have no ‘religion’, and that’s okay. I no longer have to tow an incomprehensible line. I no longer have to be quiet.
I have learned that the way I was reared is no way to treat a child. My son asks questions; I encourage him to ask questions. He gets loud. That’s okay; he’s five. It’ll be okay when he’s ten, and fifteen, and twenty. He will never be beaten. He will know that he is loved by my hugs, kisses and praise. I support him. I am proud of him. I let him raise the rafters with his joie de vivre! LOUDLY!
I have learned that the way I was brought up is not the way a female should be treated. I am an intelligent human deserving of opportunity and accomplishment. I am neither a baby factory nor a whipping post. I am a single mother, I support my family, and I am finally getting my education. I am still sometimes quiet, but the voice in my head no longer screams. I can scream aloud if I need to.
I have learned I don’t want my son to have feelings of incompleteness when I pass on. I wish that my mother and I had resolved our issues, that she would have accepted my adult choices, that we could have conversed honestly, but I have learned that will never be possible.
My mother died June 18, 2006, culminating the end of the relationship that began to die on November 23, 1982. My brother and I spoke at length about how her passing brought relief, but with it a tremendous sense of loss. We still speak about our feelings of loss, but in our conversations and our writings, we find comfort. We are no longer subjected to physical or verbal poison arrows. I no longer must be quiet.
Michael said...
>… stoically took what he was deemed to have deserved...
Nope. I was full of rage and hate, because it was a contest of wills – (internally) “No matter how hard or how long you do this I will not cry. I will not give you the satisfaction of winning.”
Serena said...
Funny how our viewpoints were so different then. I had no idea what was going on in your head. I'm so glad it's over.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Oh, The Weather Outside is Frightful…
We broke records in the Buffalo, New York area on, yes, Friday the 13th. We were the lucky recipients of 6 inches to 2 feet of snow, depending on where your house was, from the time the snow started falling on Thursday to when it finally quit on Friday. Here are a few pictures from Reuters:
Buffalo, New York
Clarence, New York (a suburb of Buffalo)
My neck of the woods, Tonawanda, New York
They have recommended that we stay indoors because of the falling trees and downed power lines. Ian wants to go outside and play. He just sees the snow, which means fun. I get the Mean Mommy award again.
I do have to say that the strangest part of this time of year, other than freak storms, is having mittens and shorts in the same load of laundry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)