Pen Pals, Journals, and Blogs Oh My

"The minute I let myself write, everything else falls into balance.  If I get a dose of writing in my day, then I can actually socialize with a clear conscience." 

  -Julia Cameron, from The Artist's Way Every Day: A Year of Creative Living

I've fancied myself as a writer since I could piece together words and doodle around the edges of my "poetry" as a young child.  While I've never pursued any professional writing career, the ability to connect my critical thinking to writing has always been an asset whether as a student, an employee, or for my own personal reflection.

When we moved last summer, I found myself on an odyssey of purging useless junk from my life that I'd toted around for years.  Among the boxes that took the longest to sort through, where piles and piles of letters and journals.  Mostly dating from late elementary school, through high school, I have thousands of pages, now somewhat more organized than before.  While I don't know if I'll ever revisit those parts of my life by rereading those notes, I cherish them.  At least in as far as it's possible to cherish something you keep in a box in the attic. 

My earliest letter writing started when my friend Kelly moved to Texas with her family.  The loss of a friendship in this way was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, with the possible exception of my parent's divorce.  It was difficult for me to process the idea that I might never see my friend again, or at least not for a very long time.  And so, we wrote letters.  This went on for several years, decreasing in frequency as life moved on.  I've been lucky enough to reconnect with Kelly through Facebook, and once again, am happy to feel that sense of friendship, if even from far away, and in tiny glimpses. 

Later, in elementary school, maybe fourth or fifth grade language arts, we were matched up with pin pals in other parts of the country.  I suspect the initial point of this activity was to teach us about the proper way to form a friendly letter, address an envelope, etc.  What happened instead is a years long friendship with a girl named Krista from Minnesota.  Our lives were fairly different, but our struggles mirrored each other as time went by.  We lost touch as we got busy with high school, and boys, oh the boys, and our lives went down different roads.  I also recently found her on Facebook, and though our connection was not the same as that early friendship with Kelly, I feel a certain comfort in knowing that she's still out there. 

In high school French, I was given the opportunity to participate in a pin pal program.  For a few dollars, you were provided with the name and address of a student living in a foreign country.  I remembered a few of these as I poured through my boxes of letters.  One was a girl in France.  Her handwriting was so strange and pretty.  I was lucky that her English was far better than my French.  Another was a boy in Australia.  He was a wild one.  In some ways he fit what I think of as the stereotypical bad-boy Aussie.  He liked to party, and brag about it.  He liked punk and hardcore music.  He drank and got into fights.  You know, typical teenage stuff...HAR!  A third was a young man from Egypt, who, for obvious reasons, has been on my mind lately.  I'm also lucky that his English was passable, as I"m not sure where I could have found an Egyptian translator in Frankfort, Kentucky.  I remember this weird feeling like he was looking for a wife.  This made me uneasy, and we didn't correspond long.  Given his age though, I've wondered if he was among the throngs of anti-Mubarak protesters.

There were others too.  One in Canada, another in France.  Seriously, do kids still do this?  Write letters to foreign pen pals?  With social media, the idea itself seems foreign.  Why write letters in broken French, when you could skype and practice conversation?  Do kids still pass notes at school?  I also have a box full of notes from my friends dating back to as early as fifth grade, when we all were obsessed with folding our notes to each other in an assortment of shapes, and apparently, ignoring whatever was going on in class. 

In recent years, I've engaged in an on-again, off-again letter writing with my friend Kristen.  I think we both find the process quaint, but also like we're upholding an important tradition.  It's also a form of therapy for both of us.  I bare my soul to her, as I would any close friend face to face.  But sometimes I'm able to think through things and risk things I might not in person.  Other times, I allow myself to be shallow and silly in ways I might not find time for in conversation.  In turn, she graces me with her clarity, and lets me take a glimpse into her very essence. 

Journal writing serves a similar purpose to me, and to many writers.  I used to be quite diligent about the practice.  Dumping my feelings and accounts of my days onto spiral notebooks, or decorative, lined books.  I've tried to get back into the practice this year, and find myself struggling with it.  The problem is some combination of not wanting to open myself up and the constant interruptions that are Motherhood, in all it's glory.

Journal writing was critical to my early experiences as someone who identified as a "writer".  My eighth grade language arts teacher, Mrs. Hoehner (whom I've written about previously on this blog sometime last year), made it a requirement in her class.  She opened me to the possibilities of writing styles, and pushed my creative boundaries.  I think she also kept me in check as I confided in my daily journal in her class. I remember this one requirement that she had for open writing times in her class; You had to keep your pen moving.  No matter what.  So, even if you were scribbling a hole through the paper, you were forcing yourself to push through.  To create.  Something.  Anything.  This is one of the crucial principles of the "Artist's Way" book I quoted at the beginning. 

Over time I've moved away from writing a journal because of a general paranoia about my thoughts being seen by others, or because, perhaps much worse, revisiting my own thoughts and the feelings that come with seeing one's own vulnerability in hindsight.

And so on to blogging.  I've been enjoying this lately.  If I get a little creative inspiration, hurry to my computer, and ignore the world around me for an hour or so, I can blast out something for all the world to see.  And as an added bonus, I get a reprieve from a few of the thoughts spinning in my head.  At least till the next thing comes along.

Two kids and one thousand nine hundred eighty six days

I've been waiting to write this post for a while now.  Let me start off by saying that if you're freaked out or offended by the idea of breastfeeding beyond infancy, then you should leave.  Please don't read this.  Please don't comment.  Please don't even discuss it with me, because I'll bury you in facts, anecdotes, experiences, and a wave of other women, children, and men who agree with me. 

I've been waiting to write this post, because I've been trying to get Raina to stop nursing that one time a day, right at bedtime, for all of 2-10 seconds per side, for a couple of months now.  I've been ready to wean this child since she was about two and a half, if not before. 

Ethan weaned, fairly easily at about 2.5 years.  It was simple really.  I applied my knowledge of behavioral change, and he went along with it.  For the weeks leading up to the last time, I took to only nursing him in one spot, on our old couch.  I knew that we'd be getting a "new" couch handed down to us soon, and I started telling him that when our "nursing couch" left, we weren't going to nurse anymore.  I reminded him each time we cuddled up, and worked towards distracting him with chocolate milk to decrease how often or how long we'd nurse.  Ethan has always been a little snuggler.  His daycare teachers used to tell me, even as an infant, how he'd just wrap himself around anybody that was holding him, and everybody loved to hold Ethan because of this.  He asked off and on to nurse after we stopped, but never really made a big deal out of it.  By the time his sister was born 10 months later (yeah, no rest for the weary momma body here!) he still seemed to remember nursing, but wasn't bold enough to try any funny business with me.

Raina is an entirely different creature than Ethan.  She latched on within minutes of birth, and nursed voraciously day and night.  With Ethan I struggled with latching for the first few days, pain, cracked nipples, positioning that didn't break my arm, neck and back, and the dreaded mastitis.  I even ended up flat on my back for two weeks when he was five months old because of debilitating neck pain caused by supporting him, and sleeping in weird positions to accommodate him next to me in bed.  With Raina, I hardly saw a nurse at the hospital.  They were so impressed with my breastfeeding skills, they left me alone, even encouraged me to side-lie with the baby in the bed so I could get some rest while she nursed.  This was in stark contrast to my first night with Ethan (at the same hospital) where I was scolded for falling asleep sitting up with MY child in MY arms. 

Being more relaxed with my second baby has nurtured a staunchly independent personalty in my little girl.  She never had any problem hanging out in her bouncy seat, watching people go by.  She sang to herself when she was sleepy, and would often fall asleep on her own, no pacifiers or boobies required.  This is why I was surprised when, at two years old, she was still nursing around the clock. And, at two and a half, the time my clingy, lovey-dovey little boy had finally kicked the habit. 

Raina will be three next month.  I've been determined to get her stop nursing for months now.  It started several months ago, maybe before Christmas, when I cut off the night nursing.  This led to about two to three weeks of angry, pissed off, screaming till she passed out again, Raina...in the middle of the night....several times a night.  We were all pretty grumpy for a while.  If losing sleep wasn't bad enough, she also throws some punching and kicking into the mix for added fun. 

Honestly, the time line is a little fuzzy.  Years of sleep deprivation will do that to you.

For about two months now, maybe longer, we've been down to nursing once a day.  I almost immediately tell her that this is painful to me.  It is, her latch has gotten lazy, and I get hurt.  She stops, switches sides, tells me how yummy it is, then nurses for about 2 seconds on the other side, often stopping on her own before I even have to preempt her.  For the last three nights, we've had conversations about how she's a big girl, and not a baby, and doesn't need to nurse anymore.  So, after she's through insisting that she IS a baby, pouts a little, kicks a couple of times, she goes off in search of an apple, or some carrots, and falls asleep gripping her snack.  Oh yeah, she eats when she's sleepy.  Go figure.

So, one thousand nine hundred eighty six days.  Give or take a few.  That's how long I've nursed my two babies.  My two loving, sweet little children.  I wouldn't give up a single day of it, but am also happy to have my body back to myself. 

Transference Part II: Stuff I forgot

Almost as soon as I hit publish on my last post, I realized that I'd not actually talked about a lot the memories that went along with wearing glasses most of my life.  Glasses, and contacts too, are a major pain in the ass for many reasons.  When I get my glasses replaced every couple of years, I've come to buy the most ridiculously expensive lenses available just to get the thinnest possible piece of plastic between me and the world.  It helps with the magnification that those of us with hefty prescriptions experience.  It makes it possible for me to look the grocery store clerk in the eye when I head out in my specs for bread and bananas. 

That particular day that I ran home sobbing, I think that my glasses had been taken from me.  Or more precisely, someone had asked, as often happened, to see my glasses, so they could look through them.  Having zero skill at saying "No" to anyone as the shy little girl that I was, I'm sure I conceded to their demands.  I think it was one of those times when those big mean boys just wouldn't give them back.  They got passed around, and my stop was approaching.  I knew I was going to have to get off the bus, but just didn't have the voice to speak up and get my glasses back.  I'm not even sure I would have had the guts to tell the bus driver.  When you wear glasses as a kid, you live in constant terror of your glasses getting broken, or scratched.  Worse yet, you live with the fear that if you were to lose them, you'd be completely unable to see anything.  So that day, I sat helpless on that plastic seat, afraid that I'd never see my glasses, or the walls, or anything else, ever again. 

I mentioned that I skated through must of teen years without using any correction.  There was one exception to this, driving.  I cannot legally (or physically) drive without correction.  So, I'd keep my glasses tucked away till I had to rev up my green 1970 Ford Maverick, or Gumby, as it was known, then I'd slip them on, and avoid eye contact with my passengers.  Luckily, I was most often transporting close friends, who could give a wank if I was looking like a googly eyed bug or not.  But once in a while, a less known acquaintance would be riding in the back seat, and I'd have to reveal my secret.  That or drive off into a ditch. 

When I went to get my license, at 16 years old, they made me take an eye exam.  Now, I see great with correct.  Out of my left eye.  It's not that I don't see out of my right eye, but it's become so weak, that my left eye basically does all the work, with the right working to help with peripheral vision.  It's a common enough problem that it doesn't phase most eye docs, but to a lay examiner at the Frankfort County Clerk's office, it was apparently an anomaly.  In a shocked tone, she told me that she could not issue my license until I got my family eye doctor to sign off saying that I was NOT legally blind.  This was both embarrassing and scary.  What if I couldn't drive because of my stupid eyes?  That would be social suicide as a teenager. 

The litany of complaints I have against my vision is long.  As a little kid, going to the pool is another pain in the butt.  You can't see when you take your glasses off, but you can't really swim with them on, because they just get wet, and you can't see through that either.  You also have the added burden of trying to find a safe place to store them so that your friends don't sit or step on them.  Seriously, what 10 year old carries a hard shelled eye glass case to the pool?  Not me, that's for sure.  This issue with water extends to running through the sprinklers in the neighbor's yards, being out in the rain, getting a snow ball to the face, spending the day at a water park, etc. 

I remember very clearly playing outside one summer, as a little kid.  My glasses got wet thanks to some neighborhood antics, and I wanted to dry them off.  I don't know how old I was, but am certain that, given my actions, I couldn't have been more than 4.  I found the driest surface I could, and proceeded to wipe my lenses on them.  That surface?  Our front porch concrete steps.  I was baffled when, after drying them, my ability to see through them had actually gotten worse!  Imagine!  I suspect my mom also remembers that clearly. 

Contact lenses also pose their own logistical problems, along with being expensive and bad for your eyes.  Ever try camping with contacts?  Yeah, have fun removing your lenses in the dark with dirty hands.  I also have considerable difficulty with glare while driving in my contacts.  It's less of a problem in the day light, when my superior distance vision keeps me well aware of the road for miles around me.  But at night, I might as well be blindfolded. 

Here I am, reminding myself again, that these are my experiences, and not Raina's.  Exhale.  Again.  

Transference

Transference is something I struggle with as a parent.  Wikipedia is nice enough to define it here.  But basically, it's the idea that you take your issue, and imagine that others around you, especially one's own children, are having the same emotional experience.  Because, why would anyone perceive the world differently than I do?  That's just madness!

I have my insecurities, like any normal person.  Most of the time I can reason my way around these hang-ups.  I know that my concerns about my posture, my fingernails, my height, etc are not probably the first things people notice about me.  Nor, for the most part can others tell that I'm insecure about this or that characteristic until they get to know me well enough that I confess my deepest fears about myself. 

I suspect the reason people are prone to transferring their insecurities to their children is because it's difficult to imagine that someone who looks and acts so much like you could possibly think any differently than you.  Even though it's fairly likely, as with my own kids, that their socialization is not the same as mine.  Nor is the time or culture that they live in exactly the same.  So, it's silly of me to assume that they'll have the same problems I had as a child.  My impulse, nonetheless, is to protect them from my scars, my fears, my wounds.  To shelter them. 

When I learned a few days ago that my daughter needed glasses a flood of memories and emotions slammed into me.  Not only is she about the same age as I was when I got glasses, but her prescription is almost the same as mine, in the same eyes.  There's not even a hint that her genetics vary from mine. 

My brother and I, in a rare moment of cooperation, rocking our 1980's glasses.  At my grandmother's house, about 1984.

I've known that this was coming since she was a baby.  She was born with a blocked tear duct, and her right eye, even after this cleared up, has never behaved quite like it should.  I could see in photographs that her eye would be slightly turned out.  And when she'd get sleepy, this became more apparent.  It wasn't bad enough that the doctors could call it a lazy eye, but I could see it.  Lately when I looked at her, it was like looking at a photograph of myself without contact lenses in.  I don't know how to describe it exactly, but I tell when I don't have any vision correction.  My eyes just aren't opened as wide.  It's like I squint a bit to focus better. 

We're both very far-sighted.  As it turns out, far-sighted people can compensate for their short eyeballs without correction, for a while at least, it just takes a lot of muscle power, and will eventually cause one's vision to get worse.  It's a good thing too, because I recall spending most of high school, during the school day, without glasses or contacts.  It's stupid, I know.  But that's how self conscious I was.  Can't afford contacts for a couple of years?  Well, I'll just go without ANYTHING!  Yes, I'm stubborn like that. 

Me, at about 16, holding my glasses while the photo was being snapped.  I'm trying hard here to make sure both eyes are straight, and hiding slightly behind my hair in case my right eye betrays me.

Four eyes.  Coke bottles.  Nerd.  X-ray vision.  "Hey, can I try on your glasses?  OMG, how do you see through those things!?"  Dork.  Ugly.  Smart.  Librarian.  Book worm.  "You wouldn't hit a guy with glasses would you?"  Big eyes.  "Why are your eyes so big?"

One of the deepest traumas came in elementary school, maybe second or third grade.  Because I'm from a small town, the bus routes included a mix of kids from the elementary, middle, and high schools for many years.  Little kids, in with big kids.  Kids from a wide variety of backgrounds rode my bus, and I can remember this one boy who was just bent on picking at me.  I don't know who he was was.  I don't think I even knew his name then.  He was older, probably a middle schooler.  He was big and boisterous and I was small and skinny.  I can't even remember what he said to me, but it was relentless.  He laughed at me, and said terrible things to me because of my glasses.  Things I couldn't control.  It went on and on, day after day.   And I remember one day finally just breaking down into sobs the second I stepped off the bus.  I ran down my street, and cried so long and so hard that I think I must have scared my mom.  I couldn't tell her what had happened for a long time.  It was that the kind of cry that shakes your whole body and takes your breath from you.  You try to talk, and more wails just come out.  The kind of cry that you fall asleep after because it's taken everything you have.  The kind of cry that leaves you silent at dinner even after the tears have stopped.

The result of this wound is years of wearing my contact lenses for far too many hours, to the point that I'm nearing the end of my ability to use contact lenses at all.  Going to extreme lengths to keep only the nearest and dearest from seeing me in my glasses.  It took me until adulthood to realize that my eyes are actually large.  Larger than average.  And that this is actually a desirable feature.  And my gorgeous children have them too.

I shot this photo specifically because I was marveling at how large her eyes are.

Long lashes to go with his huge hazel eyes.

 

 

So, I'm starting to get over it.  I'm gradually coming to convince myself that it doesn't matter.  Glasses or contacts.  It doesn't matter.  I've been trying to get Raina excited about the glasses she'll be getting in the next few weeks.  I've let her spray my glasses with lens cleaner.  I've been talking to her about using a case to store them in.  I've been having her wear her sunglasses outside.  I've found a cute doll that I'm hoping to get her for her birthday.  I'm trying to get over my issue, so I don't tranfer my self-consciousness on to her.  As a kid, I think I believed it was possible for a kid wearing glasses to be cute, or pretty.  I remember dreaming of the day that I wouldn't need to wear them.  Longing for contact lenses to free me from my magnified eyes under thick lenses.  I want her know that she's pretty, and that people aren't "just saying that", from the time she's a little girl, and not have to wait till she's older to figure out how lovely and striking she is.  I'm hopeful that perceptions about kids wearing glasses really have evolved, thanks to Harry Potter, but I'm guarded, to say the least. 

Thing is, I'm actually excited for her to get glasses.  The frames she's tried on are super cute.  I'm looking forward to matching her dress for her birthday pictures to her little pink frames, complete with pigtails of course.  And I know that she'll gradually come to appreciate being able to see better.  And maybe, just maybe, it'll make her stand out even more as the bubbly, unique, little squirrel that she is. 

A rare photo of my in my glasses as an adult.  I'm never self-conscious with my bro!  (Despite our seething dorkiness.)