Dearest basketball,
That is what Tyler so affectionately calls you these days, as he (and I) can still hardly believe that you're actually a tiny human.
No offense, but are you real? It seems easy to imagine you actually being here: growing up, playing, being weird. But it feels impossible to imagine that the you we see playing with us some day is the same you that lives below my ribs.
It's strange to imagine the day we "bring you home" even though you've been home with us this whole time. You've been here watching Netflix and basketball games, having dessert, riding bikes, and slowly snuggling your way in between us.
I feel like if there is something, or someone, growing inside my belly I should know that someone pretty well. But we don't know each other at all. It seems like we like the same foods. And I'm basing this on the fact that I think your signal of agreement or satisfaction from inside there is kicking your legs from one side of my belly to the other. You do this when I eat ice cream and pizza and fries. Although this could be your signal of disgust or disdain. If this is the case, I don't think we'll need to worry about stealing from each other's plates once you can eat solid foods. And if you don't like those foods, I'm not sure we're even related. But we can deal with that later.
That's all for now. See you never, it seems.
-The person you're living inside.
3.15.2017
Dear basketball...
Our story may not seem particularly difficult. But I think that is why it needs to be said. And I'd like to preface this by saying that a lot of torturous things in life seem to feel this way, but I'm using this current torture in my life to try and explain how I think a lot of things must feel.
We've tried to have a baby for what I consider to be a while. And it just hasn't happened. Waiting and trying to have a baby has taught me something about pain. It is painful to want something and to try to have that and to never get that. But it is made more painful by the waiting to feel part.
The discussion around difficulties in life often falls to comparison. "At least you haven't had (insert horrible things that happened to someone else) yet." That and the telling of various heartbreaking stories about other people who have it much worse than you do. And it's something that has been ingrained in me, considering the sentence I used to start this letter.
So that first month or that twenty-second month, when you really want a baby and there is nothing on the ultrasound or the cancer is still there or you still haven't been able to forgive them or you still haven't forgiven yourself you don't know how to feel.
When can I feel sad? When is it okay to weep? When can I throw things across the room in an attempt to channel my rage in some direction? When is that deep, unrelenting ache in my chest valid? 6 months? A year? Five years? That's what you ask yourself day after day, month after month and year after year.
But that isn't fair. Sadness is sadness, whether you've been sad for a month or for years. Emptiness is still emptiness. And aches are always achy. You shouldn't have to tell yourself that it's not your turn to be sad yet. You shouldn't have to pretend that you're fine with feeling like something is tearing up your insides into little tiny pieces. Just because someone hasn't felt pain like you have or another has, doesn't mean that what's happening to them doesn't hurt. If someone hasn't felt the 10 year pain yet, it doesn't mean they're not allowed to feel the 6 month pain.
Maybe instead of saying, "just wait till you get to where I am or where this other person is, then you'll know real pain," we should say, "you know, I remember that part, and it felt really terrible and I'm so sorry you have to experience that...it's awful."
Pain, anguish, sadness, tears, and torture don't have start dates and "only allowed if experienced X amount of time"-type conditions.
It has been some time that we've wanted a baby of our own. As I write this I'm counting down the hours to take our next pregnancy test. I'm hopeful that there will be a little baby growing in there this time. But if there's not, my pain is still pain, regardless of how long I've felt it.
Just because someone doesn't hurt as long as you hurt, doesn't mean they don't hurt. I now understand what it feels like to be told, even unintentionally, that my pain isn't that bad. I'm sorry to those of you who confided your hurt with me and I told you that it could be worse. No one should be told to hush and then be forced to wait and wonder when it's acceptable to feel out loud the despair they've been feeling inside for much, much longer. And I'm tired of waiting and wondering if it's okay to feel.
We've tried to have a baby for what I consider to be a while. And it just hasn't happened. Waiting and trying to have a baby has taught me something about pain. It is painful to want something and to try to have that and to never get that. But it is made more painful by the waiting to feel part.
The discussion around difficulties in life often falls to comparison. "At least you haven't had (insert horrible things that happened to someone else) yet." That and the telling of various heartbreaking stories about other people who have it much worse than you do. And it's something that has been ingrained in me, considering the sentence I used to start this letter.
So that first month or that twenty-second month, when you really want a baby and there is nothing on the ultrasound or the cancer is still there or you still haven't been able to forgive them or you still haven't forgiven yourself you don't know how to feel.
When can I feel sad? When is it okay to weep? When can I throw things across the room in an attempt to channel my rage in some direction? When is that deep, unrelenting ache in my chest valid? 6 months? A year? Five years? That's what you ask yourself day after day, month after month and year after year.
But that isn't fair. Sadness is sadness, whether you've been sad for a month or for years. Emptiness is still emptiness. And aches are always achy. You shouldn't have to tell yourself that it's not your turn to be sad yet. You shouldn't have to pretend that you're fine with feeling like something is tearing up your insides into little tiny pieces. Just because someone hasn't felt pain like you have or another has, doesn't mean that what's happening to them doesn't hurt. If someone hasn't felt the 10 year pain yet, it doesn't mean they're not allowed to feel the 6 month pain.
Maybe instead of saying, "just wait till you get to where I am or where this other person is, then you'll know real pain," we should say, "you know, I remember that part, and it felt really terrible and I'm so sorry you have to experience that...it's awful."
Pain, anguish, sadness, tears, and torture don't have start dates and "only allowed if experienced X amount of time"-type conditions.
It has been some time that we've wanted a baby of our own. As I write this I'm counting down the hours to take our next pregnancy test. I'm hopeful that there will be a little baby growing in there this time. But if there's not, my pain is still pain, regardless of how long I've felt it.
Just because someone doesn't hurt as long as you hurt, doesn't mean they don't hurt. I now understand what it feels like to be told, even unintentionally, that my pain isn't that bad. I'm sorry to those of you who confided your hurt with me and I told you that it could be worse. No one should be told to hush and then be forced to wait and wonder when it's acceptable to feel out loud the despair they've been feeling inside for much, much longer. And I'm tired of waiting and wondering if it's okay to feel.
10.22.2016
Un-planning
I think it starts around the time you become incredibly self-aware. All you see is you and your problems and you also think you can see how everyone else can see you.
And with that self-awareness comes your awareness of everyone else around you. You compare and barter with yourself deciding what pieces of other people you want to pick up and what pieces you want to leave behind.
Eventually, you get to an age where you start saying things to yourself, mostly in your head, but sometimes out loud about how "you would do it."
It may not seem like you're planning, but you are. You subconsciously start to plan your life. How you'll "do" college, how you'll "do" relationships and friendships. You make mental notes of things you will definitely buy when "that time" comes. How you'll decorate or build when you have "your home." Everyone does this, for a certain amount of time in their lives. I'm sure some people do it until the day they die.
But when your plans are rejected by something you don't control or can't adjust, your mind starts to shift.
All of those times you would have automatically said to yourself "When I..." and filled in the blank with your subconscious plans, instead of filling in the blank you stop yourself. Because what you thought would never be your reality, is currently your reality. The possibility doors close one at a time and as those doors close the light that once lit your perceived future progressively dims.
And with that self-awareness comes your awareness of everyone else around you. You compare and barter with yourself deciding what pieces of other people you want to pick up and what pieces you want to leave behind.
Eventually, you get to an age where you start saying things to yourself, mostly in your head, but sometimes out loud about how "you would do it."
It may not seem like you're planning, but you are. You subconsciously start to plan your life. How you'll "do" college, how you'll "do" relationships and friendships. You make mental notes of things you will definitely buy when "that time" comes. How you'll decorate or build when you have "your home." Everyone does this, for a certain amount of time in their lives. I'm sure some people do it until the day they die.
But when your plans are rejected by something you don't control or can't adjust, your mind starts to shift.
All of those times you would have automatically said to yourself "When I..." and filled in the blank with your subconscious plans, instead of filling in the blank you stop yourself. Because what you thought would never be your reality, is currently your reality. The possibility doors close one at a time and as those doors close the light that once lit your perceived future progressively dims.
6.20.2016
Strawberry Days
Maybe it's because strawberries are our favorite fruit. Maybe it's because you can't beat that mountain view. And maybe it's because it's on our "where we fell in love" list. Or maybe we're too lazy to find a new rodeo.
Whatever it is, we haven't missed Strawberry days since we've been together and now we'll be missing it for the next three years. But I'm sure there are other rodeos out there that we will grow to love--maybe. Here's to our last Rodeo, in Utah at least.
Whatever it is, we haven't missed Strawberry days since we've been together and now we'll be missing it for the next three years. But I'm sure there are other rodeos out there that we will grow to love--maybe. Here's to our last Rodeo, in Utah at least.
6.16.2016
Smoothie Pants
This is a story I tell my students in order to encourage them and make them feel better about all of the terrible things that happen to you when you're a teenager. And all the terrible things that still happen to you when you're an adult, despite your efforts to prevent them.
And it goes like this.
Generally on a school morning, I zombie myself to the bathroom to get ready while Tyler hits snooze several times. Then as I dress by the light of my phone flashlight, Tyler zombies out of bed and goes upstairs to make my breakfast and lunch. I know what you're thinking--that is so sweet of him. And the worst of me, because how lazy am I that I can't make my own meals? The answer is v lazy. It is v sweet of him, but it's also because if he didn't I would legitimately waste away slowly and be shriveled into nothing by graduation.
Generally, lunch is one of three: oatmeal, PB&J, granola bar.
Breakfast is also one of three: toast, cereal, smoothie.
On this particular morning, Tyler made me PB&J for lunch and a smoothie for breakfast. He was especially tired so I sent him back to bed with a kiss and a spank.
I sat at the table drinking my smoothie. I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to grab chapstick (it's a necessity and an addiction). I promptly stood up from the table and as I sidestepped out of the bench my pants caught the tablecloth and began to rip it from it's resting place on the table. I foresaw the disaster with my psychic-like abilities and froze in just enough time so that the smoothie glass didn't move.
"That was close, self," I told myself as I made a mental note not to do that again.
And it goes like this.
Generally on a school morning, I zombie myself to the bathroom to get ready while Tyler hits snooze several times. Then as I dress by the light of my phone flashlight, Tyler zombies out of bed and goes upstairs to make my breakfast and lunch. I know what you're thinking--that is so sweet of him. And the worst of me, because how lazy am I that I can't make my own meals? The answer is v lazy. It is v sweet of him, but it's also because if he didn't I would legitimately waste away slowly and be shriveled into nothing by graduation.
Generally, lunch is one of three: oatmeal, PB&J, granola bar.
Breakfast is also one of three: toast, cereal, smoothie.
On this particular morning, Tyler made me PB&J for lunch and a smoothie for breakfast. He was especially tired so I sent him back to bed with a kiss and a spank.
I sat at the table drinking my smoothie. I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to grab chapstick (it's a necessity and an addiction). I promptly stood up from the table and as I sidestepped out of the bench my pants caught the tablecloth and began to rip it from it's resting place on the table. I foresaw the disaster with my psychic-like abilities and froze in just enough time so that the smoothie glass didn't move.
"That was close, self," I told myself as I made a mental note not to do that again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
