Tag Archives: childhood

Women Need to Just Stop Judging Other Women

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Adele Is Freaking Feminists Out and I Love Her Even More for It – Chicks on the Right

Since when are the decisions individual women make for their lives up for general debate?  It happens every single day as far as I can tell, particularly if said woman happens to be a mother.  Men are not subjected to downright mean spirited questioning of their personal decisions once their children are born.  Women certainly are.  In fact, there is currently a post on BlogHer in which a mother discusses the judgement she faced from other women in the face of a necessary C-section.  You can read the article here.  I am not a mother yet, and I still see the debates and judgements happening every single day.  Breastfeeding, immunizations, working mothers, school choices, C-section versus natural birth, etc.  The list is endless.  Is it anyone else’s business other than the family and individuals affected?  It shouldn’t be.  People make different decisions for a wide variety of reasons.

That is where Adele comes in.  She recently stated that she didn’t fully recognize her purpose in life until she became a mother.  I am paraphrasing, but that is the gist of the idea.  She simply is suggesting that she views motherhood as more important than her singing career.  She isn’t saying that all women need to feel the same way.  She isn’t saying that her singing career isn’t important.  She is merely expressing her personal views on HER own life.  That’s it.  I admit that I haven’t personally seen the backlash that she has received for this interview, but I can easily imagine it.  That sad part is, there is just as much backlash against anyone who suggests that women can be just as good of mothers when they decide not to stay home with their children.  No, I am not joking.  This isn’t the 1950s, and there are people who truly believe that people (let’s be realistic here, mainly women) need to choose between career and being a good parent during the first few years of a child’s life.  In fact, I came across just such a Facebook post by a stay-at-home mom yesterday.

In this post, the author of this Facebook post commented on an article titled The Loudest Silence I Ever Heard by Travis Norwood.  She goes on to state that the article, which discusses severely neglected children in a Kazakhstan orphanage, proves that CIO (cry it out) is harmful to children.  The article, which is disturbing and deserves its own blogpost relating to adoption, isn’t the issue.  The issue is this woman’s reaction to it.  She questions the ability of children raised by working parents to form healthy relationships and basically function well in society.  She truly believes that it is a necessity for one parent or another to stay at home with their child at least until age three.  Excuse me?  What about parents who must work?  What about single parents on every level?  Whether this woman realizes it or not, she just heaped a ton of guilt on parents who simply do not deserve it.  Does she not see that most of these parents have the best interests of their children at heart as well?  Does she not know any successful women who juggled career with raising children?  If not, I feel sorry for her.  I know so many.  In fact, most mothers I know do just that.  Successfully.

When will it stop?  I am sick of women using up so much time and energy to tear down other women who happen to do things differently or make different choices.  It is one thing to discuss why you made the personal choices you made.  It is quite another to suggest that those choices work for everyone.  Can we just stop pretending that everyone is the same and there is only one way to be successful?  It is particularly bad with regards to parenting.  There is more than one way to be a wonderful parent.

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Adele

The interview that started it all.

The Enemy Within

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The Trouble With Bright Girls – Psychology Today

Undoubtedly, I am my own worst enemy.  I continually underestimate my capability, and no matter what I’ve achieved, it is never enough.  I am a perfectionist, and it rears its ugly head just when I need it the least.  The sad thing is, this article left me wondering what I would have accomplished if I felt I could try new things as a child, particularly when it came to sports and anything physical.  Once I entered kindergarten, students went out of their way to never let me forget that my body was different.  Always the last chosen for teams in gym class, I soon stopped caring or trying.  It saddens me that every day, children are told that they are not enough, that they shouldn’t even try.

Right now, I need more courage than ever.  I know I have it within me to create the life I am meant to live.  The issue becomes how to get out of my own way.  I am my own worst enemy, and it needs to stop.  Now.  Those voices of those classmates, so intent on pointing out every single physical flaw, still play in a constant loop in my head from time to time.  It is the nagging little voice that tells me that I am not pretty enough, that if it involves anything physical, I will fail.  It tells me that I am unworthy of love.  It never ends.  I have to constantly prove my own worth to myself.  Enough is enough.

“The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets” By Eva Rice

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Book Review:  “The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets” By Eva Rice – Write Meg!

Lost Art

Even though I read The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice several years ago now, it never really left the back of my mind.  On the surface, it is dishy and a guilty pleasure in the best sense of the term.  As easy as it is to write off as a beach read, there has to be something more there in order for it to stick with me for so long.  That is partly why it stuck with me:  I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what it is about this book that fascinates me.  I finally think I have it figured out.  The book itself is set in post-war, 1950s London.  While there are still vivid memories of World War II and the Blitz, there is a contagious sense of renewal, hope, and general optimism throughout the book.

That atmosphere, used effectively as a backdrop for an interesting group of teenage characters (Penelope and Inigo Wallace, Charlotte Ferris and her cousin Harry), allows them to shine and adds to the excitement of early rock and roll in London.  So much of the novel revolves around the music!  Inigo is obsessed with Elvis, while Penelope and Charlotte adore Johnnie Ray.  In fact, one of the pivotal events in the novel involves a Johnnie Ray concert at the London Palladium.  I can just imagine the excitement and what it meant to be a teenage girl waiting to see your rock and roll idol in concert.

I think that is why I love this novel so much.  It takes place during a period of time that influenced the likes of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, and countless others.  The music I know and love simply wouldn’t exist without the likes of Elvis, Little Richard, or Johnnie Ray.  Knowing the history of rock and roll and what takes place in the late 1950s and early 1960s makes this book that much sweeter.  I definitely need to reread it.

London Palladium, 1950

London Palladium, 1950

Body and Other Four Letter Words

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This is one of the final – and best – blog posts I shared on my old site.  This is still a topic that I think about and struggle with every day.

There are many reasons why I haven’t blogged in well over a year, but today I’m going to address one of the main reasons.  One of the main reasons I decided to blog in the first place was simply to address issues most important to me, and with the issues of body image and infertility, I’ve failed to do just that.  How do you address something that affects every single aspect of your life?  How do you address something so overwhelming that no one, not even those who love you the most, wants to hear it?  The thing is that the longer I let these thoughts fester, let these words go unsaid, the longer I wonder if there is something I could’ve done for girls and women dealing with the same issues.

As a child, I can precisely pinpoint the moment when I was told my body wasn’t good enough; it was the day I entered kindergarten.  Prior to kindergarten, no one called me fat or felt the need to constantly remind me just how short I was.  Sure, I was a “stocky” kid, but I was also active.  I played outside constantly with my little sister, cousins, etc.  I never felt self-conscious in a bathing suit; I was having too much fun swimming.  I never felt the need to compare myself to anyone else.  Did I envy my older cousins?  Of course I did!  I looked up to all four of them (all female), but even as a small child I knew that to compare myself to someone so much older simply didn’t make sense.

Everything changed in kindergarten.  In gym, I was always picked last for teams.  When we had to line up by height (again, in gym), I was inevitably last or next to last.  Sadly, I was compared to a little girl who was much larger than me.  I just remember the anger and outrage of such an unjust comparison, and yet, I felt empathy for the other girl.  Was that really how other kids saw me?  As time wore on, kids started making rhymes about my body.  25 years later, and I still remember it all: “Short, fat, and squatty; got no face, got no body.”

In some ways things got better in junior high.  I went from being bullied to being mostly ignored.  As others paired off and experimented, I just threw myself into my school work and books.  Sports were never much of an option for me, and unfortunately, sports at the junior high/high school I attended were the key to popularity, especially if you were a girl.  I wasted my time on crushes who couldn’t be bothered to even talk to me, much less date me.  Once my little sister joined me at the same school, I was bombarded with comments such as: “I can’t believe you two are sisters! Your sister is so pretty and popular!”  The implication, of course, being that I was the exact opposite: ugly and unpopular.

As an adolescent, I would’ve given anything to look like my Mom and sister, both of whom I considered relatively thin (though they would both fight me on that one), beautiful, and popular.  At the time, I wanted blonde hair and blue eyes if it meant acceptance.  I remember driving with my Mom in her new red Grand Prix as a young teenager.  GM had completely redesigned the Grand Prix, and my Mom had one of the first redesigned models in the area.  My Mom had lost a lot of weight, and frankly, looked great.  Every time I went somewhere with my Mom, it seemed as though we would get stares, mainly from men.  I couldn’t help but wish I was the one making heads turn, not my Mom.  Despite all of the disparaging remarks my Mom would make about her own weight, I never saw her as anything but beautiful.

Adolescence is hard, but it is even harder if you are short and fat.  At the time, I thought I was huge, and that there was no chance I’d ever lose the weight.  Today, I’d love to weigh what I did in high school.  In college, I proved myself wrong and lost a lot of weight due to walking Michigan State’s campus and walking all over Spain during my semester there.  What I wasn’t prepared for was how I would be treated differently.  People were interested in me, in my life – even a few men.

After college, after moving to Houston, Texas for my first “real” job, things changed.  I took all of the stress of that job, the joy of being in a relationship, and the loneliness I felt before Brian joined me in Houston, and I did what I do best: I used it as a license to eat.  The desk job didn’t help either.  Not only did I gain back all of the weight I lost, I kept gaining more too.  It got to the point that my Dad and Grandma were shocked when I returned to Michigan.  They couldn’t even hide it as I’d gained that much weight.

Today I’m at a point in my life where I’d love to lose the weight again.  I’m single, and frankly, happier than I’ve been in a very long time.  The thing is that I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t admit that I’m scared: I’m scared of all of the attention I’d receive if I did lose the weight.  The experience of having lived through that once left me angry.  Am I really that much more of an interesting person if I am relatively thin?  As I thought through all of that, I realized that losing weight would only be temporary (again) if I didn’t deal with my own body issues.  I’m left wondering how I am supposed to do that when everything in our society states, quite bluntly, that my body, even at its best, will never be good enough on account of my height alone.

If there is anything I want girls and women to take from this, it is this: 

We should not feel we have to be a certain weight to feel loved and accepted for who we are, society be damned.  Never let anyone tell you differently.

We as a society need to come to accept the simple fact that people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors.  Words hurt much more than most people realize.

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Is this what we want for girls?

Through all of this over-thinking of body image as of late, I came to realize that I’ve never truly even liked my body, and much of the reason stems from infertility.  The first thing I ever remember wanting out of life was to be a mom.  At no point in my life did I ever not want a family of my own.  Unfortunately, biologically, it just isn’t going to happen.  Fortunately, I came to terms with the fact adoption is a wonderful alternative a long time ago.  And yet, I’ve never quite forgiven my body for so fundamentally betraying me.

If I resemble anyone on either side of my family, it would be my Great-Grandma Suszko, my Dad’s maternal grandmother. At nineteen, I was working with my Grandma (her daughter) when she opened a package from a niece containing her parents’ wedding photo, newly redone.  My Grandma kept staring at the photo and then back at me.  It was clear she thought I looked like her Mom, although the fact that I was the same age as the girl in the photograph probably helped.  As someone deeply interested in family history, I have a copy of Great-Grandma Suszko’s naturalization papers.  Her physical description could fit me perfectly, with one exception: she was two inches taller than I am.  My Great-Grandma Suszko had ten children, all but one of whom lived well into their 70s.  Add in the fact that my Mom has four sisters, and I came up with one conclusion: My body should be built to bear children.  It just isn’t.

What people who don’t have infertility fail to realize is that dealing with it is an on-going process, not a one-time deal.  Just when you feel you are fine with it, accepted it fully, and have moved on, something happens that forces you to deal with it all over again.  For me, one of the hardest things to deal with was the day I realized that I fully met the medical definition of infertile (I’ll spare you the details).  There just wasn’t anyone I could share that deep sense of loss with at the time, even my boyfriend.  I’ve talked a lot about my experiences with body image, but it just wasn’t complete without discussing infertility as well.  There was a time in my life that dealing with infertility was so painful that I downplayed my desire for a family of my own.  I downplayed it to the point that my own sister never realized that I wanted children.  It saddens me that those I love most can never fully understand due to the simple fact that they are parents.

What Losing 100 Lbs. Taught Me About How We Treat Overweight People

14 Things Every Fat Girl Absolutely Needs to Hear

Daughter of Body Image Advocate Slams Brand for Her ‘Drastically Altered’ Modeling Photos

Middle Grades Versus Young Adult Fiction

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The topic of young adult literature fascinates me.   As part of her MOOCs discussing the life and work of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Pamela Smith Hill, an author herself, explores the development of the YA genre, as well as the ever-shifting boundary between middle grade and young adult literature.  As a writer who intends to eventually write in both genres and as a future middle school/high school teacher, her explanations of both genres left me wanting to learn more.  It also left me feeling as though there are no hard and fast rules.  Pamela Smith Hill credits authors such as Mark Twain, Louisa May Alcott, and Laura Ingalls Wilder with creating the young adult genre, even though the modern classification didn’t formally come into use until the 1950s.

Until I watched this series of videos, I never thought of the Little House series as divided into middle grades and young adult fiction.  I classified it all as middle grades, even though I reread the entire series, including The First Four Years, as an adult.  However, throughout her series of videos, Pamela Smith Hill makes a compelling case for considering On the Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie, and These Happy Golden Years among the first young adult novels.  While I always knew that The First Four Years could not rightly be considered a part of the Little House series, I now have a much better understanding as to why.

According to Pamela Smith Hill, the book was Wilder’s attempt to write for an adult audience.  Indeed, it does deal with adult themes such as marriage, choosing a vocation, and economic hardship.  Interestingly, the book only came to the attention of Rose Wilder Lane, Wilder’s only child and literary heir, upon her mother’s death.  There are several theories as to why, but what I find interesting as a reader is that The First Four Years just feels different.  There is a different tone, and in many ways, it is sparse where other novels in the series are not.  As a writer, I understand why it was not published in Wilder’s lifetime, even though it is a good book.  It simply did not fit her literary legacy.

All of this leads me to a few conclusions.  First, it is possible to allow a series of books to grow with the reader.  As a child, this is what left me disappointed with mystery series.  The main characters never seemed to grow.  This is also why the Anne of Green Gables series and the Little House books remain among my childhood favorites.  Second, rules in publishing can be broken.  What it is important is to tell the truth, even if it isn’t the whole truth.  Dealing with difficult issues honestly is particularly important in YA literature.  Laura Ingalls Wilder did this well, even if she did fictionalize some aspects of her story to conceal identities or to simply make a better story.  Finally, it is important to control one’s literary legacy, even if only during one’s lifetime.  As a child of the ‘80s, I am completely conflicted when it comes to the Little House on the Prairie TV series.  I loved it as a child.  As an adult, I question the liberties taken with the source material, among many other things.  That leads to an overarching question:  How much control can a writer exert over his or writing from the grave?  If nothing else, it is an interesting topic.

The Most Important Thing I Learned from My Dad

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My Dad and my brother - Red Wing's Game, Joe Louis Arena - December 2015

My Dad and my brother, two of the most important men in my life – Red Wing’s Game, Joe Louis Arena – December 2015

Today is my Dad’s 63rd birthday.  As he and my Mom celebrate at their cabin in Canada with friends, I can’t help but think of all he has taught me over the years.  So, as tribute to my Dad, I am going to answer the one question he asked me several times as a child (and maybe once or twice as an adult).  I will also share the one thing he taught me that will always stay with me and is clearly now a part of who I am.

First, the question.  As child, he asked me all too often “Lindsey, why do you always have to do things the hard way?”  Well Dad, I would certainly like to know too.  The thing is, I always have to discover things for myself, and unfortunately, I am incredibly stubborn, just like my Dad and his Mom, my Grandma Reid.  I can’t help it.  When it comes to my Dad dispensing advice that goes against what I feel is best, I am going to do what I feel is best at the time.  He and my Mom gave me plenty of opportunities to make my own choices even as a teenager.  Over the years, of course, I’ve grown up and made better decisions, but every now and then, I still go rogue and disregard my Dad’s advice, usually at my peril.  So, Dad, if you are reading, the reason why I have to “do things the hard way” is because I am too much like you.

The biggest lesson I learned from my Dad is undoubtedly to go after whatever it is you want out of life.  My Dad may not fully understand why I love the things I do or why I want certain things out of life, but he has always supported me in chasing my dreams.  I watched my entire childhood as he went after his dreams.  There was never any doubt that I was expected to do the same.  There were times when I wished my Dad more fully understood why I love the things I love and why I chase the things I do, but I know deep down he understands more than most.

Happy birthday, Dad!  I love you.  Lonzo.

 

Finding Your Faith

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Religion, Family and Letting Your Kids Find Their Faith – BlogHer

The idea behind this article intrigues me.  I love the idea of allowing children to choose their own faith (or lack thereof).  One of the biggest issues I’ve had with organized religion throughout my life is the idea that there is only one true religion.  This idea is passed down from generation to generation without children really having the opportunity to explore other religions.  They simply grow up with the same faith as their parents without really exploring their own beliefs.  As a Protestant Christian, with all of its varieties and peculiarities, this never made sense to me.

On the other hand, there is something to be said for religious education during childhood and early adolescence.  How else can one truly learn about religion?  Throughout that process, how do you help your child be open to learning about other religions and exploring their faith while learning yours?  It is a tough question, and one that parents should discuss with their kids.  Even if parents don’t explicitly talk about religion with their children often, children will still pick up on their parents’ attitudes toward different religions.

In all of this, I was incredibly lucky as a child.  Even though my parents’ weren’t overly religious, my Mom insisted that my siblings and I had what she called a “religious education.”  We were baptized and confirmed.  We attended Sunday school and church camp.  I even spent some time as part of MYF.  My Mom had had all of these experiences growing up and wanted the same for her children.

At the same time, we were raised to respect different religions.  In fact, as a small child, I attended Mass with my Catholic neighbors almost as often as I attended church with my parents.  My neighbor and babysitter taught Catechism for decades, and thanks to my parents’ openness, I even attended her class a time or two.  Growing up in a predominately Catholic community, I am grateful that I had those experiences.  When you have a better understanding of other religions, conditions such as those that existed in Ireland during the 1970s and 1980s – Catholics versus Protestants, neighbor against neighbor – become incomprehensible.  To this day, I cannot imagine judging anyone based on religion alone.

The funny thing is that until fairly recently, I was highly skeptical of organized religion.  While I did believe in God, I did not necessarily see the need for organized religion.  Discussing all of this with my Mom, she blames herself for passing that skepticism on to me.  Personally, I’m glad I questioned my faith and organized religion.  Now that I see its intrinsic value, I knew what to look for in a church, and ultimately, I am that much stronger in my beliefs.

Christmas Traditions

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Christmas Eve at Grandma and Grandpa's House

Christmas Eve at Grandma and Grandpa’s House – 1985

I love tradition.  As a child, it meant everything.  As important as tradition is, why is it so much more important this time of year?  Why are Christmas traditions so sacred?  Growing up, most years of my childhood, if you gave me a time from say 4 PM on December 23rd to 5 PM on December 25th, I could easily give you an idea of what I would be doing with my family.  Last year, Christmas 2014, was the first Christmas Eve of my life not spent at my Grandma and Grandpa Buttrick’s house (that includes my first Christmas Eve at six days old).  Grandma B. passed away in 2014, and as much as we all dreaded Christmas without her, we started a few new traditions, including a Christmas Eve get together at my parents’ house with aunts and cousins and attending Christmas Eve service at the church where my parents were married.  I love the fact that my nephews and niece are young enough that they will grow up with these new traditions.

Of course, we included many of the old traditions as well.  We still celebrate the Night-Before, the Night-Before (the evening of December 23rd) at my aunt and uncle’s house in Standish.  My brother, sister, and I, along with families, still spend Christmas Eve at our parents’ house.  We still have cinnamon French toast and sausage for Christmas breakfast and a wonderful turkey dinner later in the day.  It still takes us half the day to open presents, partly due to the fact that there are quite a few of us and partly due to the fact that we like to lounge around (yes, even my young nephews!).  It is still always a toss-up as to whether or not we’ll get to watch old home movies Christmas night.

So, as I get ready for the next few days of love and laughter, Merry Christmas!  I hope yours is as full of faith, family, and fun as mine will be.

Waiting for Santa - 1984

Waiting for Santa – 1984

Christmas Memories: Santa is Real

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Several years ago now I decided to write about one of my favorite Christmas memories that also happens to be a favorite birthday memory.  I thought it would share it again this evening.

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The real Santa once came to my birthday party.  About 7 PM he rang the doorbell.  I couldn’t imagine who it could be.  Lee and Elizabeth, Emily and Abby, Danielle and Jennifer, Lois, Lori, Mark, and even my little sister were all there.  In fact, we’d been running around fueled up on pop, pizza, and German chocolate cake, not to mention candy, for the last half hour at least.  As the birthday girl, I wanted to answer the door personally.  I slowly opened the front door only to see Santa in all of red and white glory, big black belt and all.  I couldn’t believe it!  Somehow I must have been a very good girl to receive a personal visit from Santa on my birthday, his busiest time of year, the week before Christmas.

As he settled down to hold court in our formal living room, I looked out the window into our back yard.  Dozens of beautiful whitetail deer!  Deer in my big back yard were not an uncommon sight.  My Dad left the deer a big pile of sugar beets just outside the kitchen window.  We often found little impressions of their nose prints on the French doors in the living room.  But something was different that night.  I had never seen so many deer in my back yard!  They were beautiful playing in the mid-December starlight, their breath hanging in the air.  Magic.

Where were the reindeer?  And Rudolph?  They had to be there.  Why else would all the whitetails come out to play?  It didn’t matter.  I didn’t need any more convincing.  The real Santa somehow knew exactly where Lindsey Jenelle Russell, newly age 7, lived.  At the moment he had her little sister Erica, almost 4, seated on his lap in their very living room.  It was time to get down to business.

It was finally my turn to sit on Santa’s lap.  As Mom and Dad looked on, I whispered in Santa’s ear what I wanted most that Christmas.  I couldn’t help myself.  That year I wanted another Cabbage Patch Kid doll.  I couldn’t get enough of them.  They were cute, they were the perfect size for a dolly, and they even came with their own adoption papers, not to mention great names like Marlena, Isabella, and Crispin.  How could I resist?

After whispering my Christmas wish to Santa I gave him a big hug, a simple way to thank him for coming to my birthday party.  I’m not sure if I remembered my manners and actually said “thank you.”  I hope Santa considered a hug good manners.  How do you say thank you when someone makes your birthday party so special you remember it decades later?  No, “thank you” wasn’t enough.

That Christmas I did get a Cabbage Patch doll.  Maybe Santa is real after all.  Before Santa held court at my birthday party, I’d had my doubts.  Of course, I couldn’t let Erica know.  She was still a Little Kid.  The same Little Kid, of course, who spotted the Tooth Fairy right outside our bedroom window.  My Mom, Dad, and I, much to our amusement, spent a leisurely weekend breakfast listening to Erica describe in detail her beautiful dress, crown, and wand.  I was happy to know that my little sister could dream too.  Big Kids knew that you could never ever catch a glimpse of the Tooth Fairy.  Ever.

Years later I learned Santa’s true identity.  He goes by the name Edwards, and believe it or not, his actual birthday is Christmas day.  He still “plays” Santa from time to time.  As an adult I’ve come to suspect that Mr. Edwards is one of those rare people who truly get the real meaning of Christmas.  He knows it isn’t about toys, gadgets, and money.  It can’t be purchased at the mall.  It is simply creating wonderful memories for children of all ages and spending time with family and friends.  Knowing the truth makes my memories that much sweeter.

Lindsey and Erica

Lindsey and Erica

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