Pride — Part 1
The Eskimos have a couple dozen distinct words for snow. Isn’t that what they say? They see so much of it, they have recognized many subtle variations that escape the rest of us.
I’ve come to believe we do not have enough distinctions for the word “pride” in our language.
During a recent time of marital trouble, a very good and very Christian friend was attempting some gentle correction when she said, “You have more pride than any woman I know!”
I checked her face because I knew what pride is in Christian tradition. Bad, bad, bad stuff just before you fall, fall fall.
I could see she wasn’t trying to wound me. She didn’t appear to even be rebuking me for the pride part. It was, rather, an illustration of how I might not be the easiest person with which to live. A point which I ended up granting her.
As un-self-aware as I often am, I think I know what she’s talking about. There’s something in my dad’s gene pool that has been slowly diluting over the generations, but remains a clan trademark. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess pride is close.
I can still remember a rare day when I played a video game with my dad. He is not a gamer. I think it was Mario. You know the deal. The guys knick you up as you attempt to pass the level, but if you are alive at the end, you win. On my first knick my dad was incredulous.
“You aren’t made quite the way I am. You aren’t going to go back and get that guy that just hit you?”
Well…no. Because you put yourself at increased risk and end up losing the level proving a point to a colored mass of pixels. I watched him on his turn. He turned all ‘Chuck Norris Retributive Vigilante’ on most of his minor attackers and lost the overall game.
No wonder he’s not a gamer.
My friends’ words were still ringing in my ears when my husband threw the same charge at me last week.
I was outlining a radical (but theoretical) plan whereby I would leave my job before they had the chance to squeeze me out.
He was incredulous.
“You would uproot and potentially take less money…for what? Pride?! That’s kind of stupid.”
I let my tears do the talking, because there was nothing to say.
YES! Yes, I absolutely would!
If you find yourself in a situation where you feel diminished, how long do you stay before you have allowed yourself to–in fact–be diminished? We can change our budget and I can get the money back, but if I lose a bit of myself, is that even something you can recover?
I guess the question I keep turning over in my mind is, “Is this the kind of pride that is bad?” Is knowing you can make it despite the circumstances you’re given–or even TO spite the circumstances–strength or sin?
Because it doesn’t feel even a little bit bad. A lot of times, it feels like the only thing you can count on.
Pride – Part 2
My new boss is trying to rehabilitate me politically within our company. It’s a futile gesture, but it’s nice to know he cares.
The problem is that I don’t.
Step one in the Kinder, Gentler Me process was to forgo six hours of work and two hours of family time to attend a meeting for which I used to tele-conference. One hour versus eight.
As we were preparing the first half of the five-hour drive to attend the 3-hour meeting the boss says, “I understand this may seem inconvenient, but it is a good move politically.”
I raised my eyebrows and said, “Really? That’s funny. I’ve never been very good at politics.”
He laughed and said he hadn’t either…a calculated, good-natured, politically aware response.
Today I played ball, as requested, and was met with the same futile diminishing of measurable progress I have come to expect from the Game Changer with whom my new boss wants to make me over for.
The boss saw it. He knew it didn’t go well.
“Give me some time. I’ll get him off your back.”
“Don’t bother. If you clear up this issue, there will be another. There always has been.”
He assured me I was a victim of the old politics and vowed to clean up the mess if I would trust him.
I responded in my characteristically ill-advised way, “I really prefer you not to raise a stink over this, because I can take it. I don’t want to have to drive five hours for these public floggings, but it’s not something I can’t handle.”
It doesn’t bother me at my core, because I have examined and found a clear conscience. I represented the smallest newspaper at the table and brought the largest revenue project for the idea exchange. What’s going to make the Game Changer like my revenue project more than the one that brought in half as much? Ass kissing. Or at least some measurable bend of deference in me.
I won’t. It just won’t happen.
They have purchased my time and my talents. I’ve given way more of the former than what I owe and they get all I have to offer of the latter.
They get not one iota more.
Long after we have all forgotten I was ever an employee of that company, I will know I gave it my best without throwing away the invaluable for temporary benefit. Letting others extract from you what you are unwilling–and is unnecessary–to give changes your character. Mine may not the kind that is prone to much more advancement, but…it. is. mine.
Confessions of a Farmer’s Daughter
***Written for a different purpose, in a different voice, nearly a year ago…Published today with a ‘why not?’
Ten ccs of penicillin looked like an awful lot for one sow.
Granted, I was more accustomed to taking care of the tiny, days old piglets and there was quite a bit of weight difference. But still, I had to double-check. I was given the okay and gave momma her medicine.
The next morning I saw my dad and cousin dragging her out of the Farrowinghouse.
“Oh my gosh, Jody, how much did you give her?!”
“Ten ccs! You said 10 ccs, right?!” I panicked. I couldn’t believe I had killed an animal.
Then I heard the laughter. Dustin knew I had been nervous about playing veterinarian and he had gotten me. Good.
There are just certain qualities you have to have to be a farmer. Book smarts don’t hurt, but they are not enough. What always escaped me was the ability to apply existing knowledge to a new problem.
Plus I was a ‘breaker.’ My dad said you’re born a breaker, or you’re not. It’s pretty expensive to be a ‘breaker’ in the farming world. This may be the reason I landed in the relatively safe profession of advertising.
The ‘breaking’ wasn’t intentional. I even did it when I was attempting extreme caution. One particularly icy day, I was traveling so slowly down a hill that the feed grinder I was pulling passed my tractor and pulled everything into the fence. The tractor stayed up, which was good. The fence, of course, was a project added to the family’s ‘to do’ list.
Another time, I looked behind me just in time to see I was headed toward the grain bins with an auger arm swung out 90 degrees and just feet away from being separated from the brand new (expensive) feed grinder. I think this public confession may be the first time the family has heard about that one.
Hands down, my worst mistakes were the times I would let my mind wander during my dreaded duty of cutting boar piglets. Twice, I unmanned a litter of ‘cornerstone genetics.’ I condemned the half of the litter that were boars to a mere 280 days on this earth when they were destined to a pretty cushy future, courtesy of their mail-ordered (expensive) genetics. I have a terrible memory of realizing my mistake and looking down at the aftermath. Those were mistakes I could not fix.
Working with my dad helped me see how I was never successful in my attempts to convince him I was too sick to go to school. I would walk into a finishing house and treat 15-20% of hogs just in case, and somehow miss every actually ill animal. I just didn’t have the eye. My dad could do it in an instant. He tried to show me the signs, but they all just looked like pigs to me.
Despite my failure as a farmer, I do now appreciate the extent to which I was blessed to have been raised in that endangered lifestyle. When I grew up, I thought every little girl had all the acres she wanted to run, play and explore. Growing up has shown me how amazing was my childhood privilege. I also appreciate what it takes to get supper on the table. As far as the farming community goes, I’ve never seen a group of people work harder or smarter.
2011…Was The Year That:
- Pinterest began telling me what to do. I don’t eat, drink or decorate (*cough*…I still don’t decorate) without it
- The tooth fairy left our house. I believe Santa held on for his last season
- I discovered I could be really good at my job…and that it may not matter
- Vanilla vodka overtook rum as my drink of choice
- I was forced into the realization that you can be as independent as you damn well please, but you cannot pick nits off the back of your own head
- I went with a short cut for the first time in several years
- I spent the first six months of the year feeling invincible in my marriage…and the last six wondering where the hell I had been when it threatened to collapse at the next careless glance or intonation
- It became clear that just because you trust someone with your entire being doesn’t mean they won’t be careless with it
- I discovered I would drink anything as long as it had “-tini” as a suffix
- I felt as alone in moments as I ever have
- I learned I can drink anything, actually
- I learned unexpected kindness can hit much harder than cruelty
- I learned what a duvet was
- I witnessed a tragedy that hit the national news. I found it disorienting how the news cycle moved onto the next story well before I was able
- My beloved Colts threatened to go 0 for 16 in the season. They corrected, but remained historically bad.
- I developed an unhealthy fascination with Polygamy
- Logan became the child with the most one-liners
- Jake became an athlete I saw willing and able to work and earn his way past politics–and one I learned I need to balance my praise with concern for his humility
- Jesse took on Jujitsu and gained the respect and awe of all who watch her go it alone in the class of boys
- I made rediscovery of my connection with the outdoors and the peace it brings a priority
- I prioritized other things that make me happy and I paid the costs. I WILL choose this over the path of martyrdom in 2012
- My mother’s caution against ever depending on another person for anything refused to leave my head
- I hit my heaviest weight
- I found I might actually love Yoga–even though I would never have considered myself a Yoga kind of person
- I discovered Amos Lee, Sugarland, Pitbull, Duffy and rediscovered Otis Redding–all of whom helped me through what I can’t help but classify as a very trying year
- The struggle took some of the weight and left…something in its place
Protected: Earned It
Protected: Idiot
Farewell Tooth Fairy
Logan: Mom, I’m going to ask you something, and I really, really, really want you to tell me the truth.
Me: Okaaaayyyy.
Logan: Is the tooth fairy real?
Me: What do you think?
Logan: Well, I know it’s not you, because you wouldn’t just give us money unless we did chores.
Me: Well, that’s a good point.
Logan: But, I really, really want the truth.
I couldn’t bear to verbalize the end of this childhood chapter, so I told her with my smile.
Logan: I knew it! I knew no one had the job of being a tooth fairy!
Me: Are you disappointed? You probably were hoping you would end up with the tooth fairy’s job.
Logan: No. I wouldn’t want to be the tooth fairy because teeths are gross. What about Santa Claus?
At this point, I played a little cagier. These are my babies. Childhoods shouldn’t be this easily relinquished. Logan finally settled on a version of reality where Santa was real, but there was no way there were any flying deer. Jesse’s quote? “You don’t have to tell me, but I still have questions about Santa Claus.”
I relayed this to my son, who coincidentally lost a tooth late last night. His response?
“I held them off as long as I could. They’ve been bugging me about it for a long time.”
I love those kids.
Cold
We all weather storms. It’s a cliché. But it’s a cliché because it’s such a good analogy. I don’t care. It’s my blog. I’m using it.
Saturday night I weathered one, but five people in the crowd with me did not get the opportunity.
It doesn’t feel right writing about my fear in this experience when I got to leave that concert and they didn’t. But since it is all I can think about lately, I can write of nothing else. Since I feel so lost and muddled, I can do nothing but write. It feels crass. But I guess I don’t care about that either.
We were not in direct danger. We were stuck up high behind thousands of people. It was absolutely no big deal if you felt you could trust the weather that had just taken lives right in front of you. I looked for exits. I estimated my luck in getting through the crowd. I used logic and reason that was proven insufficient. I sat down and knew it wasn’t my call.
That was a big deal. I think everything is my call. It’s hard to know for a cold, hard fact that you either will or will not be spared by the terrible, swift sword of a capricious storm.
My brain kicked in to protect me from this fact. It was so enormous that I could not take it in within the few minutes that I either did or did not have. I felt a stillness and coolness in my center that is foreign to my makeup. And it has not left me yet.
My husband wants me to be fun and perky again and I have no doubt that someday I will be. But it won’t be today.
People at work don’t take Saturday seriously. They are going about their lives. It feels offensive. That’s illogical, but, I don’t care.
I would have thought I would have hugged my kids tighter and felt everything more intensely. That would have made more sense and would have made for better writing. But I am holding everything more loosely. I feel apathy and numbness down to my newly, cool center.
I understand enough to know that it won’t be long. I thought after I was given a second chance to live after cancer that I would always carry that gratitude with me. But I’m not sure I made it a year.
Regardless, I feel at this moment that that horrible, cold, dirt and terror-filled gust blew something into me that just won’t go.
My Wild and Wonderful Grandma
Now, when I tell you I got to have yet another great conversation with a family member over my latest domestic disturbance, you will, as I would, think to yourself that I have told the whole county.
What I would tell you in my defense is that when you have three kids, you can’t just not come home (or pull a reasonable bluff) without a little help.
Which is where my amazing, caring, bossy, no-nonsense grandma comes into play.
She had my kids for the day. I gave her enough details on the phone to get an overnight extension. During this conversation, she did a great job of calming me down, minimizing the infractions as I saw them, and helping me to find perspective when all I felt was stupid.
But when I went to pick the kids up this morning, and she had had a little time to think about things, she had stories for me. Again, it seems there are more wives that at least come close enough to this territory to see the horrible border than don’t. It’s just that most of you don’t run your mouth as much as I do.
My grandma told me she found herself well within the enemy lines of infidelity courtesy of her second (family legend has it this was her third, but no admissions from the matriarch) husband. The ‘other woman,’ along with her mother, rang my grandma’s door to let her know she had just as well divorce her high-powered phone-company-executive husband sooner than later, because said husband was fixing to pull the switch eventually anyway. (Clearly it wasn’t soon enough to satisfy either Miss Antsy Pants or her mother…thus the tacky, classless visit.)
My grandma, who always and maddeningly councils reason and cheek-turning, called ol’ Bob up at work and told him all of the expensive business suits in his closet would be the foundation for a hellacious bonfire if he wasn’t home immediately to make an accounting of himself. I’m not sure why she changed tactics, but in the very short time it took Bob to get home, all of his expensive suit pants had been turned into shorts.
Grandma was furious, wounded, etc. But she also had no income of her own and two school-age daughters. I’m not sure if she knew it at this point, but she was soon to have her first granddaughter, as well.
They lived in a tiny little town. She went to a neighboring, slightly less tiny, town to get advice from a judge.
“It’s not illegal if you don’t have a case pending.”
She laid out all of the sordid details and the judge told her to go back, smile, play nice, and get all of the financial information she could until she was ready to fight back hard and smart.
So she did. She lived that way for two months. She found records of bonuses, hidden assets and other things a squirrel is known to squirrel away in such situations.
Bob lawyered up to the hilt, using the phone company’s Indianapolis attorney. I’m not sure what kind of attorney grandma could afford, but I know cash flow for day-to-day necessities was problematic due to Bob’s trips overseas, his airplane, and the upkeep necessary to keep a stable of mistresses.
When it came time to put her plan into place, guess what little country town judge they got?
Grandma got child support, alimony, her ’69 Camaro AND the judge ordered ol’ Bob to reimburse Grandma for a mink stole that he had at first given to her and then taken back, only to give to yet another lady. Bob was cleaned out, high-powered attorney notwithstanding.
Our stories aren’t apples to apples by any means. But I’m glad to know my forgiving, loving, cheek turning grandma is capable of cutting up some Italian cloth. And I’m proud of her for figuring a way around when the man who thought he was in control blocked the way through.
Grandma was reminding me not to let my pain make me helpless. Yet another reason to love this lady.
Still Looking
I got knocked down pretty hard last night, metaphorically speaking. The husband has been flirting around in deal breaker territory and isn’t showing a whole lot of remorse.
New information this afternoon nearly unhinged me after I had spent the day studiously holding myself together. I stayed late at work because I felt numb and immobilized. It took awhile before I felt like I could fake my way through picking up my daughters at my mom’s place.
I got all the way to her back deck, looked at the beautiful, peaceful water, checked it against my own inner turmoil and finally broke.
My mom caught me and everything spilled out. It was a familiar story to a lot of wives and it was nice to have her hear me without leveling counter-charges as diversion. This is a pretty standard tale of a mom picking up her fallen child unless you know my story. Then you realize this evening was pretty remarkable.
Then again, why should I be surprised? I don’t know too many people who have been knocked down more often than she has. And yet, she looked right at me, smiled and told me she simply couldn’t believe this was all there was. She had faith in God. She knows He sees all and will make a way.
I told her I couldn’t believe she was that sure.
She told me she couldn’t believe I was struggling. I had always been the one with the faith.
“I’m a little streaky,” I admitted as the tears again found surface.
Our conversation touched in many different directions, each one just right, as the pain quietly washed away in the layers of it.
We talked about whether you are who you are when you’re born.
When she shared a story from my early childhood, I absolutely knew the answer was “yes”. I am doubting more things than not right now, but here’s what she told me.
At our little Baptist, country church as a very young child, I asked the teacher where God was. When she told me He was in my heart…
…I lifted my dress up over my head and looked for Him.
I ducked my head into my very own skin looking for God, all the while proclaiming, as I am known to do, “I don’t see Him!” All the while, come to think of it, showing my ass.
