No Apology Necessary

“I’m sorry.”  Two words that are expected to heal a multitude of hurts.  Well, that and about 2-6 months of apologizing over and over again, as well as the natural tendency many humans have to beat themselves up after a misstep, even when it’s been forgiven and forgotten by the offended party.  The idea that we must all keep apologizing is unsound.  There are certainly some things you apologize for.  Other things you should never apologize for.  And, some, well, it can be a slippery slope. 

Recently, I visited a friend in the hospital.  She was recovering from invasive surgery the result of which required painkillers which in turn caused “loopiness” and exhaustion.  Less than 24 hours after her surgery, I was sitting in her room with her.  We were doing the normal hospital nothing-and-everything chatting that people do when they are simply passing time together.  Inside of three hours, this lovely lady apologized for:  being in pain, closing her eyes, wincing in pain, not having her phone on, not talking much, and needing to go to the bathroom.  She also apologized to the nurse for her IV getting infiltrated.  Goodness, I think if you have major surgery, you are totally exempt from the need to apologize for anything until you have regained your strength and your senses.  (Note: This may take 4-8 weeks, lots of sympathy and love, as well as several pints of ice cream.)

Years ago, my sister was hospitalized after a car wreck.  It was serious.  ICU-serious.  Everything that we did and talked about was life-and-death serious.  After she died, I remember crying a lot.  Not only at the hospital, but also at home.  At work.  At Walmart.  Everywhere.  I found myself saying, “Sorry.  My sister just died.”  What?  Why was I apologizing?  I didn’t kill her.  I had nothing to be sorry for.  William Carlos Williams has a poem that prescribes crying and wailing as a proper mourning technique.  People who are grieving should cry.  Really, they only should apologize if they don’t cry when a loved one has died.  When did it become required to apologize for loving someone and missing them and shedding tears when they are gone?

Civility yes.  Mindless empty apologies?  No.  I am also tired of hearing people apologize for talking to me on the phone.  In my profession, I deal with a variety of  client bases.  These groups include teenagers, their parents, colleagues in our school, and college representatives.  People from all of these groups will call or email me with legitimate questions or requests, and almost always I hear, “Sorry to bother you but…”   or “Dear Ms. Johnson, I am sorry to email you about this but…”  Huh?  It’s my JOB to provide you with information and support – why on earth are you apologizing for asking me to do my job?  C’mon in and let me know what you need.  Say thank you when I’ve provided it and begone!

There is a linguistic fad that is now passing (thankfully!) that is a “sorry” in disguise.  People make an observation about other human beings and their actions, usually noting something undesirable and then tagging the comment with “just sayin’.”  For example:  “People should totally use their turn signals when driving. Just sayin’.”  Or, “He doesn’t need to text me twenty times a day.  Just sayin’.”  No. People should totally use their turn signals.  It’s a safety issue.  It’s the law.  And, he probably doesn’t need to text you that much.  No need to soften these comments with implicit apologies for noting the assininity of the human race.

Other times the phrase “I’m sorry” is a catch-all.  If a co-worker inquires how I am in the morning, I might tell my colleague I’m not feeling great.  The standard issue phrase that many people pull out is “I’m sorry.”  We all know that this phrase actually means, “I care enough to utter two words but not enough to ask you anything further; in fact, I must now go, so contact me again when you are feeling better.  Ado, plebeian.”  It’s okay.  It’s not truly an apology and I don’t truly need one from that person.  I mean, the colleague in question didn’t make me stay one hour and two margaritas too long at book club last night.  Also, when someone mentions a death in the family, we can see the traditional “I’m sorry” brought out.  Here, of course, what we are saying is that we are sorry for our interlocutor’s loss.  In place of a more intimate inquiry, this seems legitimate use of the phrase.  Now, you might argue that the aforementioned colleague is also sympathizing with our condition.  Not so.  In the latter instance, the situation is out of the respondent’s control, and an “I’m sorry” stands as a legitimate response to a such a loss.   

So, if you wrong someone – and I mean truly wrong someone, not just push your cart around them in the grocery store or put your McDonald’s cup under the ice dispenser before they even step up to the drink machine – by all means apologize.  Do it sincerely.  Be sure to do it in a way that does not negate the apology:  “I’m sorry, but…” does not count.  “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.  What can I do to make this up to you?”  Something like that.  But, if you’ve had surgery, are asking for something you are legitimately entitled to, or commenting on the foolishness of people in general, no apology is necessary.

Center Stage

Whenever a musical came around in high school, I would like to tell you I was the star of the show.   This would be a lie.  The first musical I tried out for was Oklahoma!  I tried out to be a dancer in the chorus.  I was told that I wasn’t cast because I was on the basketball team, and rehearsals and practice would conflict.  The truth?  I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I’m not all that graceful.  Perhaps the two activities did collide – whatever the case, I was relegated to stage crew.  No one headed up make up, so I took over.  I organized, sorted, and matched the needed hues to the whole cast -  I was in charge.  I did the eyeliner on the guys and advised the girls.   I doled out the foundation sticks, highlighted cheek bones, and kept everyone stage ready at all times.  No melting under my watchful care.

I remember one particular incident when I was trying to line Lee’s eyes.  In fact, it was for the drama/comedy You Can’t Take It With You.  I was in the play, but somehow was still doing make-up, as well.  Lee was having none of it – convinced I was performing some sort of back alley lasik on him, he fidgeted and cursed   At final dress rehearsal, I was kneeling next to his chair, trying to finish his make-up so I could go get mine done. Fidget. Curse. Fidget. Curse.  Finally, in an exasperated huff, I elbowed him in the crotch.  One more curse.  Then he sat still.  And every night thereafter. It wasn't that Lee didn't want his eyes lined – he knew he had recessed sort of piggish eyes that just do not stand out on stage without help.  So, what was it then?  In retrospect, I’d say Lee took pride in being different and difficult.  And, he wanted to do his own make-up.  Fast forward to his junior year and Lee could apply his own eyeliner.  He still cursed and probably fidgeted; I didn't have to deal with it, but we weren't really on good terms either.

Just last week, my 11 year-old son, Nate, got his ear pierced.  With my blessing and my thirty-six dollars.  He had wanted to do so for about six months, and I put him off.  He did the pre-pubescent equivalent of fidgeting and cursing:  hounding me.  Every time he thought of it:  in the middle of the night, while driving to Kroger, pumping gas. By putting Nate’s request off, I was in control.  I was kneeling by his chair, trying to make him look the way that his dad insisted him to for the world.   I knew his father (my ex-husband) would not approve of a piercing, but when push came to shove, my son had good reasons for wanting it, and I saw no valid reason to deny him a show of self-expression.  And, any thinking parent of an adolescent will tell you that if an earring and an occasional weird haircut are as bad as it gets, you’re batting 1.000 in the teen parent league.  However, upon informing his father of this fact, dear old dad kindly banned my son from his home and his mother (son’s grandmother) quickly followed suit. 

My son offered to cover the offending 3mm stud with a small, skin tone bandage while visiting his dad and grandmother.  This offer was firmly declined.  He was then subjected to a litany of reasons why earrings were not for boys:  not socially acceptable, not Biblical, buying into Hollywood propaganda, earrings are only for girls, your mother made you do this, you are embracing the homosexual lifestyle.  The list actually does go on – in a similarly ridiculous way.

The fact of the matter is that he wanted to get his ear pierced for legitimate reasons:  it makes him feel cool; his brothers both have one; he likes it.  Simple.  But, what he really wanted, was some control.  He wanted me to quit kneeling by the chair; he wanted control over one square inch of ear lobe realty.  A boy, starting middle school in the fall, wanting to have some control of his own body?  Seems reasonable.  Seems plausible.  And, if you've been a pre-pubescent boy, it’s nice to control something about your ever-changing body.  Not really that big of a deal despite father’s and grandmother’s alarm that the yawning mouth of hell was opening, ready to swallow him whole. 

One might argue that I could have avoided all of this by not allowing the piercing.  By putting him off.  By kneeling next to the chair, demanding to be in control.  We have all seen our share of kids who went down questionable paths when denied the right to self-expression. Nate is verging on being the age where he does, in fact, get to start making his own decisions, and this is a minute one in the grand scheme of things.  I don’t want to have to throw an elbow to the groin, so I’ll let him grow his hair and have an earring.  It is his turn in the limelight.  I’m happy for him.  He is doing his own eyeliner.  After all, I don’t need to take center stage here; my only job to make sure that he doesn't melt under the glare of the lights.  

Independence and Strong Winds

Yesterday my eldest son called me from college to lament the fact that with half the summer now gone, he finally found a summer job.  The deal we had was that he could go to summer semester if he paid his own living expenses, hence the need for a job.  After a month of sweating it, this looks like it will pan out.  However, he noted that he was going to have to go to class most of the day, then work all evening, and then he’d have to get up earlier to study for class.  His whole day would be taken up with – gasp – work!  Either class work or work-work or working out (which he has to do to stay in shape for his ROTC scholarship).  He went on to tell me that real life wasn't like this: you didn't have to work your job and then work after your job, too.  (I chuckled.  Out loud.) He was lamenting not because he is incapable.  Not because he’s a spoiled baby.  He was lamenting simply because he has been hit on the head with the brick of adult life.  

Last week at a conference in Iowa, the coordinator gave strict instructions to the attendees:  if there’s a tornado warning do not follow the people from Iowa.  Why?  Because the people from Iowa would not take shelter, they would go out to see the storm.  When I was little, the sirens could send me, my sisters, and mom to the basement in the late afternoon or even in the middle of the night.  I remember more than one basement sleep out due to the Ozian conditions outside.  Well, I actually don’t know what the conditions were because I was relegated to the basement.  However, I do remember realizing that Dad was rarely in the basement with us.  He was on the porch, watching the storm do its thing.  I suppose he wanted to see the beast that was to sweep us all away or maybe he was simply giving instructions to the wind, “Okay, that’s good.  Now, move on so I can go to bed; I have work in the morning.”  I do clearly remember the first time I was allowed not to be in the basement – I was about in 5^th grade, and the sirens were blaring outside and the weathermen were predicting wind-induced apocalypse.  Mom trundled my sisters downstairs, and I slipped through the living room to join Dad on the porch.  The wind, the rain, the dark clouds were all thrilling.  “This isn't going to amount to much, Laura,” and Dad walked around the garage to make sure the garbage cans hadn't overturned.  From that time on, I didn't have to go to the basement.

Maybe such feelings of being grown up are not really true.  The fact of the matter is:  my dad was right there.  I felt independent, and of course I lorded it over my sisters the next day that I didn't have to cower downstairs.  But, in retrospect, it wasn't the standing on the porch that made Dad a grown up  - it was that he righted the garbage cans before he went back inside.  That’s the stuff grown-up, independent life is made of, as my eldest is finding out this summer.  

Compared to many of my peers, I have been a late bloomer in the traditions of growing up.  I bought my first car at age 42.  I bought my first house at age 43.  Sure, I've been employed ever since I had a shopper newspaper route that I complained vociferously about every week.  And, I've been a mom for 20 years. But still, although I've been watching the tornadoes pass since 5^th grade, I have only recently taken on these major adult signs of independence.  It’s overrated.  I’m ready to get rid of some of them, just as my eldest son is taking stock and adjusting his sails to adult winds. 

Independence is what we celebrate today, and the thing that I am reminded of on this day is that with independence comes responsibility.  Without going down some patriotic path, it behooves me to remember that the bricks of adult life – whatever they may be for each individual – are what we build our lives with.  And, dad isn't always going to be on the porch with us.  We have to tend to our own garbage cans.  The summer jobs, the classes, the relationships, the places to live, the hobbies, the games, the friends, the things we fill our time with – these are the independences that our lives are made of.  And, yes, indeed, if any wind is going to try and sweep things away, I do want to meet it.  In the meantime, though, I will try to help my son choose his bricks wisely while reconsidering my own.

Down, Set, Hike...

Over the Christmas holidays, we changed our gym membership from the trusty, go-to YMCA to a private club.  Nothing wrong with the Y, but we needed something more.  Part of the more was racquetball.

Racquetball by itself is not going to address my fitness goals, but it is a game I learned from my dad. My dad and mom took us to West Courts which at the time was a smallish structure filled with courts, a small weight room, locker rooms, and a lobby that had orange Fanta in the vending machine.  (I still associate orange soda with racquetball.) Racquetball is one of the two games I have taught to all three of my sons. The first day AJ was back from college, we played.  I won.  It was nice.  There I was again, showing AJ how to play.  A few days later, he had the gall to beat me in one of three games.  A few more days later, he somehow won all three games.  And so it went for about two weeks.

I was proud.  I was demoralized.  What? I taught my baby to play....I'm the master. I should always win. (I never beat Dad! Never mind that he was always a much better sportsman and athlete than I have ever been.) Still,  I realized that I had, like my dad with me, taught the sport, but also never "let" anyone win.   I played down a little, but I always knew the serve that would make sure I won.  (AJ can return that serve now!). Thing is, I didn't mind losing; however, in losing more than just those few times, I came to realize the importance of winning.  When I did win, it felt good.  Really good.  An accomplishment.

Pondering this I came back to the current conversations about how everyone on the soccer team gets a trophy even if they only played because league rules insist.  And how, as happened with one of AJ's U-6 soccer teams, the coaches talk about what a great season it was and how everyone is a winner for just being out there.  1-10 is not a great season.  Catherina who literally sat during a game and picked the flowers on the field did not deserve a trophy.  As Lt. Worf asks in an episode of Star Trek: "if winning is not important then why keep score?"

Winning and the fun that comes with winning is important.  The rush,  the cheering, the real congratulations earned when your side of the scoreboard is heavier than the other team's.  The Ravens and the 49ers will tell you today that winning is important.  And, even if you're not a sports player or fan, you can win.  You can paint the bedroom and win.  You can teach a kid to read and win.  You can master a recipe and win.  You can rake the yard and win. We all have something we can do to win and enjoy the real feeling of real victory.  We all need that.  Real victory.  Yesterday, Nate told me he was awesome because he took his shirt off.   I could hear the cringing of every helicopter parent in the world, but my response was, "No.  You are not awesome for removing clothing.  You are 11 years old.  If you want to be awesome, you'll have to save someone's life with that shirt."  Nate said okay and went about his way.

Not everything we do is winning or awesome, but everyone has something to accomplish.  A real something that will be a real victory in the end.  I don't care who wins Super Bowl today. I'm more concerned about the fact that Charley just might beat me at our weekly racquetball game.  I'm also hoping that we all can find something real to win and get that real thrill of victory. AJ had it this week when he maxed sit-ups on the APFT.  Whoever wins the big game today will have it.  And, all those years ago at West Courts, when my dad was playing racquetball with an awkward, unathletic daughter, he was winning. For real.

The Year of Dating Dangerously

On online dating, meeting people, and how it all ends up: or, what I've come to call "the year of dating dangerously."

First things first: for my mother's peace of mind and clarification.  There was never any real danger - physically or otherwise.  And, secondly, it wasn't really a year, more like seven months, on and off.  Finally, as a point of reference for all readers:  I was not looking for an oath-swearing-jewelry-and-flowers-giving man.  Someone to go to the movies with, have a meal and a good conversation with once in a while, and make out with, if I had actually stated a goal, which I didn't.

Many of you know that my divorce was finally final this past year, in February to be precise.  There's something about the finality of those papers that can make one think, "Well, shit, let's party."  I didn't think that.  I thought, well, ok.  And left it alone until the end of the school year.  As summer approached, I decided to look around on several online dating sites.  Friends tell me that online meeting thing is no longer taboo, but just,again to clarify: I work in a high school, so I meet married fathers of my students, colleagues who are married or involved, and teenagers.  I don't go to bars, and the whole grocery store cliche is just that. So, what's a single woman in Augusta, Georgia to do?

At different times this year, I used two of the more highly advertised paid sites (an ad at every SINGLE commercial break, if one is watching a "Sex and the City" marathon).  The sites themselves were fine, and the people were just that: human beings.  Vulnerable, heart-broken, happy, frustrated, desperate, proud human beings.  There was nothing "wrong" with any of the men I went out with.  Certainly, there were those with more pronounced quirks, and it is from observing and being on the receiving end of said quirks, that I offer the following for any man engaging in online dating: 

1.  Be honest, but don't give a list of your bodily imperfections (undescended testicle), your ex's problems (threatens you physically on a regular basis), or your sexual preferences before we even meet.

2.  It does not entice me to go home with you if you offer to smoke weed with me (I am one of three people in my generation who has never done that) or take Viagra.

3.  If we proceed out of the site's blind email system to texting, talking, and private email, do not send me pictures of anything below the waist.  It is not pretty, and no, I will never, under any circumstances - even if I were dying of some dread disease that could only be diagnosed through a photo of "down there" and you were the world's leading expert on this disease and could cure me by seeing such a picture - reciprocate. I'd rather die.

Now, I have friends who have or are engaged in online dating who are far more humorous than I on this topic.  Other friends are invested and really believe they will meet their soul mates and that Dr. WithThreeNames can help them do just that.  I wish you all the best, but I'll be signing off in 2013.  

Still, it hasn't been for naught.  I have met some pretty interesting people, and they may show up as characters in short stories or spoken word poems in the near future.  And, there are exactly two men whom I met that I like, and ta-da, although we are not dating, we remain friends.  And, my sister would say that being friends is better any way.  

So, in 2013, I'll not be on any dating websites.  I'll be training for a triathlon, writing short stories, visiting with my friends of 20+ years, trying to survive hot yoga without passing out, going to Atlanta to try my hand at spoken word, figuring out how to fund getting my MFA, and going to Tybee and the mountains with the kids.

Still, two thoughts about "dating" or meeting men keep recurring as I reflect on this past year, as people are wont to do at the end of December.  The first is the concept of the false buffet.  So many people to try!  They are all here for my sampling!  Well, no.  One may start communicating with someone...perhaps someone with whom one has common ground and attraction...and then, it is easy to get distracted by a new dish that is put out on the buffet.  One may not be as interested in the newer one, but simply because it's newer, one is intrigued.  This leads to a viscous cycle of never striking out beyond the superficial "sampling" with anyone.  Ultimately, if one stays at the buffet, one meets a lot of people in a shallow way, but still goes home alone, and with a cloying aftertaste on the palate.  And, second is what I told my friend when she asked how the dating was going.  I responded, "It is like  being in rural Japan.  I neither speak the language nor can I read the signs."   So, for the upcoming year, I will be staying a little closer to home.  

Married, single, or somewhere in between, I wish you love, light, and happiness.

Peace.

Leave the Kids Out of This

'Tis the season...to hang out with your kids. They are out of or home from school, and many of us get two or more weeks of uninterrupted kid-time. When my boys were younger, I loved the days of not getting up to rush to school. Sure, they still woke up abnormally early to watch cartoons and demand breakfast, but we didn't have to rush out the door. We could do nothing or everything and we had all day to do it. Lovely. While I fully realize that parents need breaks from kids, even during winter holidays, I have been pondering a recent phenomenon: parents, with no preference to either sex, who are habitually trying to get rid of their kids.

I'm not talking murder here. I'm also not talking about date nights, book clubs, anniversary trips, or other naturally and necessarily kid-free outings. I'm talking about those parents that rarely seem to take their children anywhere (or at least frequently strive to avoid it) unless it is a kid-centered outing. The kids stay at home with one or the other parent or even a sitter when any errand must be run, restaurant is to be visited, or car needs to be serviced. Kids stay at home, attended by Mr. Wii, Auntie Hershey, and the Red Baron.

What happened to the days of being "forced" to run errands (and rake yards and clean bathrooms)with parents? I seem to remember in & out of the car even in Iowa winters: my sisters and I, sweaty little bundles in the backseat, then frozen faces in the parking lots of the grocery store and Ben Franklin and Dot Discount Drug. Nowadays, even here in temperate Georgia, children are too often spared the inconvenience of running around town with mom or dad...or rather, parents are spared their kids' whining around town. So, everyone's happy if the tots stay at home.

But, what is the price of this convenience? Children are not learning manners of public behavior or, really any basic adult-life skills, such as maneuvering a grocery store or pumping gas. And, yes, I'm serious. There are 18 year-olds who can't even begin to find a bottle of syrup or box of tissue at Kroger. I had a student once whose dad took her car and pumped gas into it whenever the tank got low. Then girl went off to college not knowing this most basic thing. As a twenty year veteran educator, I have the utmost hope for the future. Kids these days are, by and large, smart and interesting and talented. Still, parents today do their children a terrible disservice when they don't take their kids of all ages out and about on mundane tasks.

I know from conversations with and Facebook posts from younger friends, former students, and older first time parents, that many parents don't want to be troubled by their kids when it comes to errands. Friends post about their sadness at not being able to go to Walmart because their spouse is working, hunting, or at a baby shower. What?! Bundle up the kids - all of them - and take them. Teach them to sit calmly in the shopping cart, asking for only one thing while at the store. (asking, not necessarily getting.) The consequence of asking for more than one thing? Getting nothing. Guaranteed. Take the kids out to eat in a sit-down restaurant. Life is not Chuck E. Cheese's. Teach them to sit politely and amuse themselves with the kids'menu, hand and word games or even -- wait for it -- conversation with those with whom they are dining. Kids like experiential learning, and it's not happening nearly enough.

When I see harried kids and weeping parents at Applebee's or Target, it occurs to me that these parents have not taught their kids how to behave in these mundane settings. The kids can be fine at home, a playground, or school...but, they don't know proper comportment for society. Everything is either relaxation, fun and games, or serious business. Nope, a lot of life is picking up milk and getting tires rotated. And, more often than not such outings do not require a Chik-Fil-A milkshake or a Sonic wacky pack.

So, this winter break, take the kids to Disney on Ice and the laser tag arena with a built in pizza place, but also take them to pick up dog kibble and a prescription refill at Walgreen's. The future cashiers and waiters of America will thank you, but most importantly, your kids will, too.

Graduation Poem: Or, AJ's elegy.

This is graduation weekend at our school.  Like any parent, I'm a bit misty.  Part of our school's tradition is a senior breakfast whereat parents can rise and give a 1-2 minute speech (if you follow the guidelines) to honor their son or daughter.  The following was my contribution to this event.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Plump blueberries sift through moist fingers

as I search for stems.

All your life I’ve done this

a small discard pile on the side to

present you with a glistening bowl of fruit.

Now, being yours and your being mine means

picking through the stems.

I am content.

But I know it will not always be so.  You

will go and I imagine be glad.  I will

smile to send your ship to sea for it was

christened so long ago and has waited

in harbor.

The years you have been moored

have been lemony sweet,

sticky with the juices of baby

kisses.

The seed-pits we discarded well

you and I.

Amid playful antics you tested your rudder,

I sitting behind you dutiful,

sewing sails.

A tarnished clock speeds time as the

instinctual weavers hang

dew-laden cloth on the branch beyond our kitchen glass.

We have always homed together. There

was no question of place: hands touch just

after the shade of the day.

I know the sound of your breath in the night

velvet and when the owl screeches

in hunt, I have held you and peace returns.

You have been mine one season and many

are left to you.  You will

pick through your own berries sweet

hot mornings.

I will sew new threads, carve

paths and breathe. 

Each morning fresh blossoms --

I will remember and be content –

and  you are to go forward  --