I need to be touched. I know this. I accept this. Everyday I need to have physical contact; it is essential to my survival. Sometimes it is satisfied while cuddling on the couch with my children as we watch our favorite television show or movie together. I wrap my arms around them and bring them close to my heart. There is a sense of peace and comfort that envelops all of us. Occasionally I will fall asleep while my kids remain awake. And sometimes, they drop off while encased in my arms. Whichever it is, it is good.
We kiss each other hello, goodbye and good night. It is just how we are and how we operate. In the morning, if we are rushing and don't get in that kiss goodbye, a frantic "I love you" is hollered as they run to catch to the school bus and a "I love you too!" hollered in return. I am comforted in knowing that if today were our last day together, the last words spoken were of love. Same at bed time, the last gesture towards each other no matter how stressful the day is one of love.
For the last several years, this contact with my children has sustained me. However, a few years ago, I began to realize that I needed more physical contact than my children are capable of giving. It really came to the surface when I began swing dancing. I found myself energized instead of exhausted after a night of swing dancing. I sought out more opportunities to dance, to experience that exchange of positive energy between me and my dance partner. I added Argentine Tango to my dance repertoire about a year later. I naively believed that I danced it because I loved the music and the dance. But I quickly began to understand that it was the touch, the embrace, the intimacy that I craved and that I loved in the dance. It became very important for me to find ways to satisfy the craving. A blissful week was when I could dance tango three to four times!
I'm not referring to this need to be touched as a sexual desire. Sure, I have those too, but this was more basic, more integral to my well-being than the occasional romp in the sack. It is the fulfillment of connecting with another human being without words - through movement and music. I am happy when wrapped in my lead's arms with my head resting on his; my soul fills with peace and calm. Energy is exchanged and I feel refreshed. But I also know that dancing tango is just one avenue for me to satisfy my need for touch.
Touch is very important to me in my romantic relationships as well. And this has been the most difficult need for me to reconcile. My experiences have consisted of wanting more touch than my partner either knows I want or is capable of giving. And again, I'm not talking about sex, necessarily, but rather, the small everyday touches: holding hands, light touch on the cheek, a caress of the arm, a hug that lasts 60 seconds or more, gently stroking the hair. These touches say to me that everything is okay. It is a subtle yet extremely powerful reassurance to me that I am loved and desired. And I find that I want to give those touches to my partner. I want to give him the assurance that he is loved and all is okay and there is a sense of peace between us.
Just like I cannot dance swing nor tango by myself, I know that I cannot be satisfied with being the only one to give the physical touches or assurances. I need it back. And I can't compromise on this - it is as vital to my well-being as oxygen. And until I have the lover who can give this to me, I will keep dancing.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Congratulations! You've been promoted to ...
“No, no go on. I don’t need you.”
“Are you sure? You don’t need me to walk you to your classroom” I asked my youngest as we stood outside the school office. He waved me off and said “No, go. I’m good.” “Okay” I said and turned slowly and in shock towards the front door. I didn’t even watch him walk to his classroom. He had made it clear that he did not need me. With every step towards the door, I felt the air leaking out of my familiar mommy balloon. Should I be happy that he doesn’t need me at the same time that I’m sad he doesn’t need me? What does this say about me as a mother?
I slid into the driver’s seat of the minivan and thought how my role was changing relative to all my kids. My previous clearly-defined role as mother, provider, protector of my children was warping and changing. I didn’t know how to act. When you are younger and in school, you have to learn and to master certain aptitudes and then you get promoted to the next grade level. You know what is expected of you in the next grade; you hear from those who have gone before what to expect; your path and role as a student is clearly defined.
But it’s not as clear when you are a parent. I remember when my teenage daughter turned 1 year old. I marveled at her as she worked on walking from point A to point B; as she picked up toys and put them in her mouth; and as she giggled when the dog ran by her. I had done a pretty good job keeping her alive, I thought. Then it hit me, oh my god, I am responsible for her brain too! I had spent her first year keeping her fed, dry, happy and that was the easy part. I was comfortable with that role. But on that day I realized that her intellectual and her emotional development as well as her memories sit squarely on my shoulders. I looked around for my Parental Report Card to double check that I had been ‘promoted’ to the next level. I couldn’t find it but I knew it was there.
So I embraced that new role of the mother of a toddler and then a pre-schooler. Then along came her little brother. Ah ha, I thought – back to what I’m familiar with and have already proven capable in. I know this. I can do this.
This was normal, commonplace territory for me – a baby, a toddler, a pre-schooler. I even managed to navigate having an elementary school student. They still needed me to help them, guide them. Why did I think it would go on like this forever? When my youngest was born, his brother was a pre-schooler and his sister in elementary school. I knew how they needed me. I knew what to do. But now, I have no baby only school-agers and a teenager. I feel lost. A huge part of my life, what I did with my time for the last 14 years is over. Again, I looked around for my Parental Report Card to see just when, exactly, had I been promoted to the next level, and I couldn’t find it. But I knew that whether I liked it or not, my role, my involvement, my importance to my children was changing. They didn’t need me to hold their hands and walk them to their classrooms any longer. They didn’t consider though that perhaps I still needed it.
“Are you sure? You don’t need me to walk you to your classroom” I asked my youngest as we stood outside the school office. He waved me off and said “No, go. I’m good.” “Okay” I said and turned slowly and in shock towards the front door. I didn’t even watch him walk to his classroom. He had made it clear that he did not need me. With every step towards the door, I felt the air leaking out of my familiar mommy balloon. Should I be happy that he doesn’t need me at the same time that I’m sad he doesn’t need me? What does this say about me as a mother?
I slid into the driver’s seat of the minivan and thought how my role was changing relative to all my kids. My previous clearly-defined role as mother, provider, protector of my children was warping and changing. I didn’t know how to act. When you are younger and in school, you have to learn and to master certain aptitudes and then you get promoted to the next grade level. You know what is expected of you in the next grade; you hear from those who have gone before what to expect; your path and role as a student is clearly defined.
But it’s not as clear when you are a parent. I remember when my teenage daughter turned 1 year old. I marveled at her as she worked on walking from point A to point B; as she picked up toys and put them in her mouth; and as she giggled when the dog ran by her. I had done a pretty good job keeping her alive, I thought. Then it hit me, oh my god, I am responsible for her brain too! I had spent her first year keeping her fed, dry, happy and that was the easy part. I was comfortable with that role. But on that day I realized that her intellectual and her emotional development as well as her memories sit squarely on my shoulders. I looked around for my Parental Report Card to double check that I had been ‘promoted’ to the next level. I couldn’t find it but I knew it was there.
So I embraced that new role of the mother of a toddler and then a pre-schooler. Then along came her little brother. Ah ha, I thought – back to what I’m familiar with and have already proven capable in. I know this. I can do this.
This was normal, commonplace territory for me – a baby, a toddler, a pre-schooler. I even managed to navigate having an elementary school student. They still needed me to help them, guide them. Why did I think it would go on like this forever? When my youngest was born, his brother was a pre-schooler and his sister in elementary school. I knew how they needed me. I knew what to do. But now, I have no baby only school-agers and a teenager. I feel lost. A huge part of my life, what I did with my time for the last 14 years is over. Again, I looked around for my Parental Report Card to see just when, exactly, had I been promoted to the next level, and I couldn’t find it. But I knew that whether I liked it or not, my role, my involvement, my importance to my children was changing. They didn’t need me to hold their hands and walk them to their classrooms any longer. They didn’t consider though that perhaps I still needed it.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen, Hello Love
We were driving on our annual trip South. Grooving to iTunes Tango, boys watching the 2nd of many movies on the minivan DVD player. My Ladybug sitting in the passenger seat talking and talking and talking. She is telling me about what happened yesterday, what she feels about whichever topic floats into her brain. These are special moments that we share. I treasure them just as much as I treasure the times I sit in the passenger's seat and tell my mother what happened yesterday or how I feel about whatever thought floats through my brain. Even as a 40-year old, those are special moments. (However, instead of listening to Tango, it would be Broadway Show Tunes for that is part of my mother’s soul.)
I let Ladybug talk as my mother let me. I know Ladybug wants to share her soul with me and by listening, I learn even more about her. She is in (from what I remember) an awkward transition time – no longer a kid but not quite a woman yet. She wants to be both but is not entirely comfortable with either role. However this ‘phase’ (which clinicians and doctors and esteemed academicians refer to as puberty, but I, the Minivan Philosopher, refer to as “OMG, OMG, my va-jay-jay kweefed!”) is temporary. Soon, in what feels like a blink of an eye to me, she will shed the trappings of childhood and fill out her womanly curves. It will feel more natural to her.
Have I adequately prepared her for womanhood? Have my theories and philosophies about raising her proven to be true? Will she thank me when she’s older or spend her life savings on therapy complaining about me?
From what I can tell so far (and we’ve not even made it out of Missouri yet on our trip), I think I’m on the right track. She’s a pretty amazing stuck-in-the-middle-of-all-this-physical-and-emotional-change person. I feel in my heart she’s going to be phenomenal!
I let Ladybug talk as my mother let me. I know Ladybug wants to share her soul with me and by listening, I learn even more about her. She is in (from what I remember) an awkward transition time – no longer a kid but not quite a woman yet. She wants to be both but is not entirely comfortable with either role. However this ‘phase’ (which clinicians and doctors and esteemed academicians refer to as puberty, but I, the Minivan Philosopher, refer to as “OMG, OMG, my va-jay-jay kweefed!”) is temporary. Soon, in what feels like a blink of an eye to me, she will shed the trappings of childhood and fill out her womanly curves. It will feel more natural to her.
Have I adequately prepared her for womanhood? Have my theories and philosophies about raising her proven to be true? Will she thank me when she’s older or spend her life savings on therapy complaining about me?
From what I can tell so far (and we’ve not even made it out of Missouri yet on our trip), I think I’m on the right track. She’s a pretty amazing stuck-in-the-middle-of-all-this-physical-and-emotional-change person. I feel in my heart she’s going to be phenomenal!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Structure
When I started writing The Minivan Philosopher, I waffled back and forth. Is it a journal? Is it a diary? Does it have to be chronological? When I realized that for it to be any of those things, I would be assuming that I know where I'm going or where my minivan is taking me. And I really don't know. I'm clueless as to where I'll end up. I have never been good at developing a five-year plan and sticking to it. The only life timetables I ever followed appropriately were completing my BA and MS degrees and when I was pregnant. However even in those instances, I was able to customize my experiences. The only thing that I do know is I will continue to get older and that I have to pay my taxes every year.
So, no, dear readers, this will not be like a diary or a timeline. Instead it will be an accurate (well as accurate as I want it to be - because, you know, some customization will occur here too) representation of the thoughts in my mind and situations that accompany them. It may not be rational, but who said the minivan philosopher has to be rational?
So, no, dear readers, this will not be like a diary or a timeline. Instead it will be an accurate (well as accurate as I want it to be - because, you know, some customization will occur here too) representation of the thoughts in my mind and situations that accompany them. It may not be rational, but who said the minivan philosopher has to be rational?
Monday, June 1, 2009
New Status Update
We live in a fast world. This is not new information. We zip, zap, text, tweet. We don't stop long enough to breathe. Why? Do we even know what we are missing? Do we behave this way because of environmental conditioning? Or, are we afraid of what we might see, or, better yet, feel if we slowed it all down?
The other day after working in my yard, pulling weeds from my modest flower bed, I was sitting on my front porch drinking my ice, cold --yet all the ice had melted -- water when, I saw a small insect hovering over my bright, yellow, potted marigold. Initially, I thought it was a mosquito and went to swat it away. But I looked at it more carefully and saw that it was a very tiny bee. Perhaps it was a baby bee as I've never seen one that small before. I watched it suck the nectar from the flower. I thought about the lifecycle and activities of bees. I marveled at how the bee's wings were moving so fast, they seemed perfectly still (which then reminded me of the pianist who moved his fingers so fast they too seemed to be perfectly still). I watched the baby bee drink and drink. I could have remained there entranced by its activity, but my phone buzzed and I stood up to read the text message. When I did, the baby bee zoomed away so fast, I couldn't tell where it went. It was just gone.
How did getting things done replace connecting with people and the world around us? Many times I'll be heading out the door, hurrying to get someplace important, and I'll see my neighbor out and even though there's a million things I'd like to tell her about, I usually only have "time" for a quick wave, a smile and a hello. And she returns the greetings. It's like we are both on automatic pilot. She probably feels just as busy and rushed as I do.
Why do we live in this bullet-point world? Why do we narrow our lives down to 'five key messages' or the '30-second elevator speech'? We send countless status updates via Facebook or Twitter. We text seemingly meaningless and erroneous information to those who want to know 'wassup'. But what do these 'facts' actually reveal about our lives?
These bullet points reveal my actions but not my soul. The actions allow my friends/followers to develop an image of me. And likewise, I can draw conclusions about them and their lives which keeps me from having to actually ask "How are you?" because I'm so busy, you see.
But I'm a writer and a philosopher and although I don't intrinsically like operating in this bullet point world, I play along. I do it too. I know I should stop and ask more questions. I know I should interact more on a human, face-to-face, landline to landline or voice-to-voice and not a keyboard-to-keyboard level with the people in my life. I know I shouldn't rely on those status updates and tweets to tell me how my dear college friend really feels about not having children or being a stay-at-home mom, or getting married or divorced or anything. But I do. It's funny even though, I've never experienced that wonderfully happy, satisfied feeling after spending a few hours with my laptop reading status updates, I still read them instead of calling. Nor have I ever received a text from someone that said "Last night's tweet was great. Let's do it again real soon." I know I need to do better.
I think I'll update my status to say so...
The other day after working in my yard, pulling weeds from my modest flower bed, I was sitting on my front porch drinking my ice, cold --yet all the ice had melted -- water when, I saw a small insect hovering over my bright, yellow, potted marigold. Initially, I thought it was a mosquito and went to swat it away. But I looked at it more carefully and saw that it was a very tiny bee. Perhaps it was a baby bee as I've never seen one that small before. I watched it suck the nectar from the flower. I thought about the lifecycle and activities of bees. I marveled at how the bee's wings were moving so fast, they seemed perfectly still (which then reminded me of the pianist who moved his fingers so fast they too seemed to be perfectly still). I watched the baby bee drink and drink. I could have remained there entranced by its activity, but my phone buzzed and I stood up to read the text message. When I did, the baby bee zoomed away so fast, I couldn't tell where it went. It was just gone.
How did getting things done replace connecting with people and the world around us? Many times I'll be heading out the door, hurrying to get someplace important, and I'll see my neighbor out and even though there's a million things I'd like to tell her about, I usually only have "time" for a quick wave, a smile and a hello. And she returns the greetings. It's like we are both on automatic pilot. She probably feels just as busy and rushed as I do.
Why do we live in this bullet-point world? Why do we narrow our lives down to 'five key messages' or the '30-second elevator speech'? We send countless status updates via Facebook or Twitter. We text seemingly meaningless and erroneous information to those who want to know 'wassup'. But what do these 'facts' actually reveal about our lives?
- "I'm excited to go on vacation."
- "I ate at the best Italian restaurant last night."
- "I ran 3 miles in the rain, am I crazy?" "
- "I walked my yappy dog."
- "I saw a movie. I danced tango. I'm going to bed."
These bullet points reveal my actions but not my soul. The actions allow my friends/followers to develop an image of me. And likewise, I can draw conclusions about them and their lives which keeps me from having to actually ask "How are you?" because I'm so busy, you see.
But I'm a writer and a philosopher and although I don't intrinsically like operating in this bullet point world, I play along. I do it too. I know I should stop and ask more questions. I know I should interact more on a human, face-to-face, landline to landline or voice-to-voice and not a keyboard-to-keyboard level with the people in my life. I know I shouldn't rely on those status updates and tweets to tell me how my dear college friend really feels about not having children or being a stay-at-home mom, or getting married or divorced or anything. But I do. It's funny even though, I've never experienced that wonderfully happy, satisfied feeling after spending a few hours with my laptop reading status updates, I still read them instead of calling. Nor have I ever received a text from someone that said "Last night's tweet was great. Let's do it again real soon." I know I need to do better.
I think I'll update my status to say so...
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