Semi Christmas

When I was a little girl, I thought semi trucks decorated themselves for Christmas.

I rarely saw semis, especially at night, because they stuck to the highways and we never went anywhere on the highway at night. Except for once a year. Christmas Eve.

Every Christmas Eve, we traveled to my grandparents' farm a little over an hour away from where we lived. Tables were loaded with food, the aunts and uncles played pinochle while the cousins all ran around in the upstairs bedrooms, and we sang Stille Nacht in German around the aluminum Christmas tree.

After our gifts (each cousin got a $5 bill, which really adds up when there are 25 of you), my family would pile back into the car and head home. In the dark, I pressed my face to the window to look for Rudolph. Even though my mom said they were planes, I was frequently convinced that I was really seeing Rudolph's nose blinking in the sky. I was sure that was the year I would finally see Santa.

And that was the only time I saw semis at night. At no other time of the year did I see them with all their lights around the perimeter of the back. So every Christmas Eve, I saw the decorated trucks and wished we could decorate our car with lights around the back. I don't remember how old I was when I finally saw a night-time semi at a time other than Christmas Eve, but I do remember asking my mom why the truck driver hadn't taken the lights down yet.

Now that I'm an adult, I see semis at night, all year round. And every time, I think of Christmas. And today, on the way home from work, on the interstate and surrounded by semis all lit up with red lights, I was pretty sure I saw Rudolph up in the sky, too.

Nostalgia

As anyone who’s looked at my blog lately knows, I've been feeling a bit melancholy and nostalgic. Much in my life is in flux. The most transformative experience in my life—becoming a mother—is heading into a new phase as my babies all prepare to fly away from the nest I built for them.

Part of my nostalgia is because I am grieving. I’m taking hold of my most treasured mama moments and grabbing onto them to help me further etch them into my heart.

• I have many memories of my oldest son, because every experience with him was brand new. I remember nursing him, and I remember rocking him and singing to him one night when he just wouldn't sleep. But my most treasured memory with him was when he was ten years old and fell asleep on my lap while we were watching TV. I remember thinking, “Oh, this is nice. I don’t remember the last time he fell asleep on me.” And then I realized that this would most likely be the last time he ever fell asleep on me. A few years later, when my son was in high school, he fell asleep with his head on my lap when he was sick. I was so grateful to experience that moment. Is it wrong when  a mom is glad when her kids are just a little bit sick because they want her around to take care of them? He is working on a certificate that will prepare him to pursue an engineering degree. At 20, he still lives at home—but as his friends move out on their own and his siblings are getting ready to leave, he is talking about moving out as well and I don't expect him to be here much longer.
• With my younger son, I most remember when we lived in the St. Louis area. We had a split-level house, with a deck facing east, toward a farm field. Every morning, I would get up at 5, brew coffee, and then go sit on the deck to watch the sunrise, with me wrapped in a blanket and drinking my coffee. At some point, my early-rising son started to join me. Every morning, he and I would be bundled up together, cuddling and watching the birth of the day. This child nearly died at birth, and then again when he was ten days old. Both times, I felt God’s hand holding him through the crisis. Every morning as the sun rose, I thought about how my son almost didn't live, and I was so grateful to have him there on my lap. He is wrapping up his senior year in high school and preparing to enter the Air Force. Once again, I will wear the burden of worrying about him, wondering if he will still be alive when I wake up in the morning.
• I don’t have as many specific moments with my daughter—probably because there are so very many of them. We are very close, and we are better friends than I ever hoped we could be. Mostly, I think about our monthly chocolate shopping outings on the first day of her period. That has become such a treasured outing. She isn't sure where she will go to college, but she is working hard and getting ready to move out and forward. She is a strong young woman with an incredible sense of social justice, but I’m not quite ready for her to go. Her departure will probably be the hardest for me to bear.

Part of my nostalgia has also been about reminding myself of who I was before I had children. I need to latch on to those pillars of my life if I am to keep from falling apart when my babies leave. I've been thinking more about the things that shaped me in high school and college, and I've been spending more time and effort tending to my marriage. I need all those things to be stronger as I head into this new phase. It’s sort of like pregnancy and labor pains, in that I’m preparing for the birthing of my children into adulthood.

I’m remembering my pregnancies, filled with excitement about the future and wonder about the new lives I was carrying. I’m drawing on that now, as I think about the wonderful young adults my children have become and the journey of life that is still ahead of them. I treasure the fact that I get to witness this new phase of my children’s lives. But that isn't going to keep me from wanting to hold onto my babies for just a little bit longer.

Heartscape

I have no artistic talent. When I was a child, everything I attempted to draw had the same backdrop: gently rolling hills, a round yellow ball of sun with yellow lines spoking out from it, and one cloud. The central image would vary. It was usually a tree with some flowers at the base, although sometimes it would be a princess. When I was feeling especially creative, I would draw a castle with a flag flying from each of the four turrets. But always, the rolling hills were the backdrop against which all else was drawn. Always.

Yesterday, I headed home to northwestern Illinois for what will probably be the last Thanksgiving at the home of my youth. My parents have bought a house in the UP (Upper Peninsula of Michigan) so they can be closer to their cabin, and although they may buy a small home in town so they can stay closer to friends and family, their plan is to sell the house they built and have lived in for thirty-five years. With the exception of four Thanksgivings (one while I was finishing up my master’s thesis, one when I was on pregnancy bedrest and could barely even travel to my own living room , one a couple years later when we went to Chicago to try the holiday with my husband’s family, and one when my sister-in-law was pregnant and two of my children had a virus that can be dangerous for pregnant women to encounter), I have spent Thanksgiving Day with my family of origin. We always do Easter with my in-laws, and we always do Thanksgiving with my family.

I really needed this Thanksgiving. My children will no longer live with me by this time next year. My older son is looking to move into an apartment with some friends, my daughter will be away at college and will come to us for the holiday as a visitor, and my other son will be doing whatever the government requires of its military personnel. Not only would yesterday be the last Thanksgiving in the home I grew up, it would be the last Thanksgiving with the family I've raised while they are still part of my household. My heart was aching, even while it was full.

The foods at my mom's Thanksgiving table are familiar, of course, and even though my siblings and their families bring contributions to the banquet, we always have scalloped corn, green bean casserole, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, Mom’s stuffing, and apple and pumpkin pies. Always. And there is always a walk in the afternoon to help grown-ups walk off the meal-induced lethargy and to help children and dogs work off some of the energy that has accumulated while being inside and attempting to behave. Always.

And that “always” is what I've valued most about Thanksgiving. Every year, whether I've traveled from far enough away that I needed to pack and stay for several days or from a short enough distance that it is just a day trip, I've gone home for the day. Although I always think of the home I've made with my husband and children as my home, my parents’ home has deeper roots in my heart , and, with a small handful of exceptions, the fourth Thursday in November always pulls me back home. Home is stability. It is comfort. It is constancy. It is the backdrop of my heart and life.

As we got off the fast-paced highways and traveled along Illinois Route 75, I glanced at the landscape around me as I always do. I saw the rolling hills—the same ones that were the backdrop of my childhood drawings—and I knew I was home. And my heart was glad.

Vacation Days

I'm sitting here on a day off, sipping my coffee and enjoying the dense fog from inside my house (and, thankfully, not from inside my car). I guess that's a good start to a vacation day, but I've realized that I will never fully "get" vacation days.

I was a college teacher for twenty-four years, and before that I was a student. I had wonderful, long breaks, but I never had a vacation day. Every year, I had a month in December/January, three months in the summer (even when I taught summer classes, I had more days off than on), and a week in the spring. The rhythms of my life were driven by my profession. Even when I had a part-time administrative appointment and had work to do during those times, I had plenty of down time. Now, to be fair, I always worked during those breaks. The difference was that it was unscheduled time when I could do my work from home and in my jammies rather than have to go be in front of a classroom or grade papers. (Trust me, the actual teaching is the smallest part of a teacher's job.) I frequently used this time to get caught up on real life things that had been set aside during very intense work seasons. The experience of the last two weeks of the semester and then final exam week is not for sissies.

When Wisconsin politics went crazy and my paycheck as a state employee was being affected, I began to contemplate what life would be like if I changed jobs. One of my biggest worries was how I would manage going from having good chunks of time each a year of unscheduled time to only two weeks.

I was very fortunate to find a job that was still in higher education and that gives a quite large amount of vacation time. Between my four weeks of vacation, the week we have off between Christmas and New Year's, and the various holidays throughout the year, it amounts to just over six weeks. Last year, I ended up losing half my vacation days because I didn't use them.

My colleagues would be puzzled when I would say I didn't know how to think in terms of vacation days, that it was outside my experience--but that's what it was. I can tell when I need a day off for mental health recuperation or for a personal issue that needs to be attended to--but I'm not especially good at taking them. My institution is full of one-person departments, and although I have staff who can pick up certain responsibilities while I'm gone, there is much that only I do--so when I take a day off, I usually have to make special arrangements for getting certain tasks done. Today was a no-brainer. We have no classes today, and very few students will be around--so today I not only have a day off, I also didn't have to do much advance preparation for being away today. I feel giddy!

When I was teaching, I would usually have one or two days during the year when I called in sick when I needed a mental health day. For me, stress manifests itself physically, so it wasn't far from the truth--but I always felt guilty about doing this. I would  email my students to let them know class was canceled, but many of them would show up for class anyway. And it meant that I wasn't available in my office for them to talk to, either. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Taking a day off was something that was guilt-ridden and therefore not particularly pleasurable for me.

I'm worried that I won't use all my vacation days again this year. Our financial situation doesn't allow us to take an actual vacation, or even to take a day off and go anywhere local that charges admission. I need to learn to attend to my self and know that it's okay to just be home and do nothing. Taking a day to recharge--even in the middle of the week--is not only okay, it's expected. Two weeks ago, I was talking with my supervisor about a couple stresses I was feeling at work, and she very gently said, "You know, it's okay for you to take time for yourself." Oh, yeah, I guess I can do that. I forgot.

So here I am, home when many of my colleagues are at work, having a completely guilt-free day off. Maybe I'll get used to it some day, but twenty-four years of a habit is going to take me a while to break.

Breaking the Silence

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a couple years now. Every time I’ve gotten closer to it, I’ve chickened out. I will hurt people I love. It will define how people identify me. It will piss some people off. And mostly, I don’t really have a point…just some rambling related to one experience I had years ago. For some reason, though, I feel like the time has come, so here goes….

Twenty-five years ago, I was raped.

I never told my parents. I didn’t tell my friends until years later. I never told the cops. In fact, it took several days for me to even be able to say it to myself.

I had been drinking and hitting on a couple guys at a party and bragging about being on the pill and bemoaning the lack of a boyfriend. Not one of my finest moments, for sure. I passed out, and when I woke up, one of the guys was inside me. I was screaming. Then I passed out again, only to wake up in the morning to the same thing. While he was in the shower, I found my purse and drove myself home, despite the fact that I was still under the influence of alcohol. At home (I still lived with my parents), I stumbled up the stairs and cried myself to sleep in my bedroom with the girly pink walls.

There are things I can be grateful for. It was not my first sexual experience, so it didn’t take something physical away from me that I’d been saving for someone. Because I was so drunk and passed out, I barely even experienced my own rape. Truly, it could’ve been worse.

I dealt with it in a way that makes no sense to me and truly no longer even matters. I found a way to feel like I was in control of something, and then I manipulated things to get the guy fired from his job. Although it wasn’t all he deserved for what he did, it was enough to help me feel better.

So I can tell myself that it was okay, that it wasn’t as bad a rape as it could’ve been, that I could’ve had it worse, and that I deserved it. Even now, I have to own the fact that my own behavior set the stage for the guy to do this to me. That doesn’t mean I think it’s my fault, but I know about guys and I know how much temptation I was dumping on him. I wanted him to make a pass at me. So that’s on me. But he shouldn’t have taken me without my consent. Twice.

Years passed. I told some friends in college, when it seemed relevant. I really didn’t think of myself as a rape victim or rape survivor most of the time. I’d done some other stupid things that seemed to be a bigger part of my identity at the time. Still, for several years, I thought about the experience at some point every day. It was part of my subconscious even when I wasn’t actively thinking about it.

When I met my husband, I told him. Eventually, I went to graduate school, married, and had children, and my identity was overwhelmed by whole new sets of experiences. At one point, I realized I hadn’t thought about being raped for years. As much as possible, I was over it.

But during the past year, I’ve begun thinking about it again. Perhaps it’s because I have a teenage daughter who is preparing to go to college herself. Or maybe it’s because I now work at a women’s college and am simply more tuned in to issues of women and powerlessness. Maybe it’s because I am approaching the age of 50 and have begun to reflect on my life’s experiences and the many things that shaped me into who I am now. So I’ve been thinking about it.

I’m not completely sure why I’m breaking the silence now. In part, it’s because too many of us keep silent. For several years in my life, I was quite close to three women. Every single one of us had experienced some form of being sexually violated—by a neighbor, a relative, a family friend—and not a single one of us told an adult, not for years. Even now, only one of us has been to counseling to deal with the experience.

I have to wonder how many other women have experienced some kind of sexual assault or sexual powerlessness. How many wounded women are walking around us and working with us every day? How does a shared experience that is never discussed affect us? And how different would it be if it were okay to talk about it? How differently would I be able to support other women if it were okay to talk about this?

Too often, we don’t yet know how to talk about it. I do know that there are a lot of women who will be angry at me for saying that I set the stage for this to happen. Slut Walkers will want to walk right over me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I wish I had behaved differently and that I had dressed more respectfully of myself. The value of me is in more than my breasts, yet I dressed to draw a man’s attention to them that night. I didn’t invite the act, but I did invite the interest. Yes, men need to control themselves—no means no, and lack of consciousness means no, no matter what the woman has done or how she has dressed or acted. But had the young woman I was had more self confidence in her worth aside from her breasts, I doubt this would’ve happened. But it did happen, and I healed alone. And it needs to be okay for women to share their feelings about their experiences, even if it upsets other women. Even one voice telling me I am wrong to feel what I feel is another violation of my sense of self and the choices I have as a woman.

We have done so much to destigmatize mental illness and domestic violence. But what are we doing to make it easier for young women to find support for experiences of sexual violation? Posting a rape hotline number or a website on a flyer isn’t enough. Asking them to talk to a total stranger after they’ve already experienced a violation isn’t enough. A piece in the NewYork Times a year ago reported that out of every five women, one has experienced rape or attempted rape—that is 1.3 million American women every year.

If this were to happen to me now, I know absolutely that I would seek and find good support and understanding. But at the age of 22, I had no one. I didn’t tell anyone at all until I had worked through most of it myself—but if I had known even one grown-up woman in my life who I’d known had been raped, I would’ve gone to her. But because it’s still so hard to talk about, even to say, “This happened to me,” I doubt that most women in my life now would know they would find an understanding heart in me.

I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe there isn’t one. This has been the experience of women for eons, right? And men will be men with their own issues of sex and power.  I doubt that we can put an end to rape, but we can at least make it simpler to surround rape victims with the love and support needed to help them become survivors.

So, for what it’s worth, after twenty-five years, I’ve just broken my silence. One more voice to say to other women, “You aren’t alone. I do understand. You can heal.” Because truly, we can heal.  The greatest thing I’ve seen about women is our ability to work together to support and nurture. I’m willing to do my part now.

The Consequence of Raising Children: They Grow Up

Having twins, everyone says, is double the trouble, double the fun. True--but it is also double the joy, double the sorrow. My babies, the ones who kept me sleep deprived throughout 1995, when I was also trying to keep up with their 3-year-old brother, will turn 18 next month.

Every day brings a new college recruitment letter for my daughter. My son is waiting for me to track down some medical records so he can go forward with his military enlistment process. Next year, the holidays will be so different, and it has hit me that this might be the last Thanksgiving, the last Christmas, when we are all together. Next year, my daughter will be starting the process where she transitions from coming home to visiting home to visiting parents. And my son will answer to the military's need for him, not to his mother's.

How did time get so far away from me? I have finally figured out what kind of mother I want to be, and I have run out of time to become her. I want a chance to make up for all my parenting mistakes and make sure my kids are fully equipped for what comes next. My guess is that they are far more ready than I realize. They certainly are more ready than their mother is.

The fact (I hope) that their older brother will be sticking around for a while helps me some, but I find that I am grieving and raw as I try to steel myself for the inevitable consequence of raising children.  I am excited for my kids, but I had no idea it would be as hard as it is--and it is still months away for me.

Please bear with me, world, as I try to figure out how to do this without crying a gallon of tears every day. I know I will be okay, eventually. My kids are going to be wonderful adults, and I know they will always be my babies. But for a little while yet, their mama is going to be just a little sad.