A little late in the game and with much resistance, I have jumped on the Twilight bandwagon. I am reading each book in the series and following it immediately with the corresponding movie. While watching New Moon tonight, I became as giddy as a schoolgirl when Jacob Black, sensing Bella was in danger, jumped over the railing of his porch, took a flying leap into the air, and turned into a werewolf before hitting the ground.
It was so hot.
My husband was watching with me. My husband. My love. My soul mate. I sighed, knowing that he will never do what Jacob did. I don't mean I'm upset that he'll never turn into a werewolf. That's ridiculous. I mean that I don't think that Michael could gracefully hop over any railing to come to my rescue. Ever. If a pack of wolves cornered me outside of our house, he would probably hide inside, call 911, and cross his fingers. And in the event that he HAD to come outside, he would still ignore the railing shortcut and walk gingerly down the steps, being cautious enough to not stub his toe, or snag his flip flop.
There was a time when vampires and werewolves were the main characters in horror stories. Now, they are the main characters in love stories. These creatures have become representatives of romance and of true love.
At first, I didn't get the appeal of the Twilight Saga. Now that I have given it a chance, I am obsessed. And I totally get it.
The franchise makes vampires and werewolves become the sexy heroes.
The entire concept is genius. No one cares about romantic comedies anymore, because they are "real" people doing unrealistic things. Men do not ever interrupt weddings to steal the bride away from the groom. A man wouldn't stand in the pouring rain embracing his lover, oblivious to the weather. Men don't travel miles and miles to profess their love to someone they just met. Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, has done the perfect thing. Since men will never live up to our romantic expectations, she has given us something that will: the supernatural. She has made every tween, teen, middle-aged, and elderly woman in the world who have read her books, stop wishing for Prince Charming and start yearning for Dracula. She made unrealistic, romantic dialogue acceptable, because the creatures speaking the words aren't real in the first place.
Vampires aren't real.
That's why it seems totally plausible that a vampire would utter the words, "Bella, you give me everything just by breathing."
If I heard Hugh Grant fumble that line, I'd change the channel while gagging. Robert Pattinson says it, with his pale skin and amber eyes, and I swoon.
There is nothing remotely attractive about Robert Pattinson, in my opinion. But, as Edward Cullen, the love struck 109 year old vampire who jumps between his soul mate and a minivan, smashing the van to smithereens, he's a dream come true.
Werewolves aren't real.
That's why it seems plausible that a sixteen year old boy, dressed in nothing but some frayed denim shorts, would jump twenty feet over his lady love's head and transform into a werewolf in mid-air, to protect her.
My friend Chrissy says that Taylor Lautner, who plays Jacob, "looks like someone hit him in the face with a frying pan." And she's absolutely right. But, his tan, flexed abdominal muscles, glistening with sweat while he pleads with Bella to choose him... *sigh*. Those sixteen year old abs, alone, transform me into a dangerous creature myself - a Cougar.
Some women read romance novels and dream of a pool boy or fireman who will come sweep them off of their feet. These fantasies leave them drowning in disappointment when searching for their perfect mate. However, women know that they will never find a mate like Edward Cullen or Jacob Black, because not only are they fictitious, they are mythical. There can be no comparison to regular men. Stephanie Meyer has created her characters to be romantic, compassionate, thoughtful, protective... and as far from human as possible. And therein, lies the appeal, and the perfect fantasy.
So, it's okay that my husband is not the bravest of the brave. It's fine that he is not very athletic. And it's completely understandable that his belly is shaped more like a small keg than a six pack. Of course, he's not the "perfect" man.
He is only a mortal, after all.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
"Short" Stories...
Four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches.
Since I was fifteen years old, I have been four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches tall. I have found a few ways around this. (My license reads 5' thanks to clever shoe choices, and some overly fluffed hair styles.)
I have learned to accept the fact that I am vertically challenged and I believe, as my mother always taught me, that "Short is beautiful." But it wasn't always easy. I thought it would fun (and therapeutic), if I would share some amusing (or sad) moments in the life of one with little height and how they affected me.
In Kindergarten, I came home from school everyday with wet pants. I had been potty trained since I was two, so my parents were concerned. After some interrogation, I admitted that the bathroom door was too heavy. I was too small and weak and could not open the door. I was also too shy and too embarrassed to tell the teacher. So I peed in my pants. Everyday. It was finally decided, after a meeting with the school, that when the designated teacher would take the children who were in Special Education to the bathroom, she would take me, as well. I still remember that the Special Education van would arrive a half an hour after school started and it would "beep." Upon hearing the beeping through the window, the other children in the class, who were cruel, would giggle, because they knew that Jenny, the little girl with braces on her legs, would be entering the classroom soon. I never giggled. I smiled a smile of relief. With that beeping, I knew I would get to go to the bathroom. Besides I loved Jenny. She was just like me and couldn't open the bathroom door, either. She was also very nice and ended up becoming my friend.
Being small taught me tolerance.
I entered First Grade in a new school, in a new state, with no kind Kindergarten teacher and no Jenny. My parents again became concerned when I began arriving home with cuts and bruises everyday. I explained that the second graders loved to play "House" and because I was so tiny, I had to be their "baby." They carried me around the playground at recess. Only these second graders liked to drop me when their arms got tired. My parents told me that I was nobody's baby but theirs. They told me to go to school and tell the second graders not to touch me and if they did, to tell the nearest teacher. I marched to school and told the only "friends" that I had that I did not want to play with them anymore. It resulted in many lonely days on the playground, but I didn't care. My bruises healed.
Being small taught me to stand up for myself.
After two years of unsatisfactory supervision at public schools, my parents decided to transfer me to Catholic school. My favorite way to participate in the Mass was to lector - to read the readings for the Mass on the altar. Of course I always had to request that a stool be placed at the pulpit for me. My parents told me, "You are further away from the microphone than everyone else. Be sure to read in a loud, clear voice, so that the people in the back can hear." Lectoring developed into a love of public speaking, leading to success and national rankings for me on my high school and college speech teams. As an adult, I am still a lector at St. Vincent de Paul Church and every other Sunday, I loudly and clearly proclaim the Word of God. And now, if I wear high heels, I don't *always* need a stool. I love when my fellow parishioners say, "How does such a little girl, have such a big voice?"
Being small taught me to compensate for my size with my other strengths.
Looking back, I wouldn't want to be any taller. Sure, there were bullies who called me names, but they never hurt my feelings. I had so much positive reinforcement at home that nothing anyone else said mattered. I learned to see myself as "big" when I looked in the mirror. And I didn't care what anyone else saw. And, of course, I am teaching my boys the same principles, that I have learned.
I took Jackson, who's four, to the pediatrician a few months ago. There was an 18 month old boy in the waiting room who was a head taller than Jack. When the diapered bully, gnawing on his binky, took a toy out of Jack's hands, Jack shrugged and picked up another. He looked UP at the child and said, "It's okay, you take it. I know that you're just a little baby, who doesn't know any better."
I smiled behind my magazine. The cycle continues...
Since I was fifteen years old, I have been four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches tall. I have found a few ways around this. (My license reads 5' thanks to clever shoe choices, and some overly fluffed hair styles.)
I have learned to accept the fact that I am vertically challenged and I believe, as my mother always taught me, that "Short is beautiful." But it wasn't always easy. I thought it would fun (and therapeutic), if I would share some amusing (or sad) moments in the life of one with little height and how they affected me.
In Kindergarten, I came home from school everyday with wet pants. I had been potty trained since I was two, so my parents were concerned. After some interrogation, I admitted that the bathroom door was too heavy. I was too small and weak and could not open the door. I was also too shy and too embarrassed to tell the teacher. So I peed in my pants. Everyday. It was finally decided, after a meeting with the school, that when the designated teacher would take the children who were in Special Education to the bathroom, she would take me, as well. I still remember that the Special Education van would arrive a half an hour after school started and it would "beep." Upon hearing the beeping through the window, the other children in the class, who were cruel, would giggle, because they knew that Jenny, the little girl with braces on her legs, would be entering the classroom soon. I never giggled. I smiled a smile of relief. With that beeping, I knew I would get to go to the bathroom. Besides I loved Jenny. She was just like me and couldn't open the bathroom door, either. She was also very nice and ended up becoming my friend.
Being small taught me tolerance.
I entered First Grade in a new school, in a new state, with no kind Kindergarten teacher and no Jenny. My parents again became concerned when I began arriving home with cuts and bruises everyday. I explained that the second graders loved to play "House" and because I was so tiny, I had to be their "baby." They carried me around the playground at recess. Only these second graders liked to drop me when their arms got tired. My parents told me that I was nobody's baby but theirs. They told me to go to school and tell the second graders not to touch me and if they did, to tell the nearest teacher. I marched to school and told the only "friends" that I had that I did not want to play with them anymore. It resulted in many lonely days on the playground, but I didn't care. My bruises healed.
Being small taught me to stand up for myself.
After two years of unsatisfactory supervision at public schools, my parents decided to transfer me to Catholic school. My favorite way to participate in the Mass was to lector - to read the readings for the Mass on the altar. Of course I always had to request that a stool be placed at the pulpit for me. My parents told me, "You are further away from the microphone than everyone else. Be sure to read in a loud, clear voice, so that the people in the back can hear." Lectoring developed into a love of public speaking, leading to success and national rankings for me on my high school and college speech teams. As an adult, I am still a lector at St. Vincent de Paul Church and every other Sunday, I loudly and clearly proclaim the Word of God. And now, if I wear high heels, I don't *always* need a stool. I love when my fellow parishioners say, "How does such a little girl, have such a big voice?"
Being small taught me to compensate for my size with my other strengths.
Looking back, I wouldn't want to be any taller. Sure, there were bullies who called me names, but they never hurt my feelings. I had so much positive reinforcement at home that nothing anyone else said mattered. I learned to see myself as "big" when I looked in the mirror. And I didn't care what anyone else saw. And, of course, I am teaching my boys the same principles, that I have learned.
I took Jackson, who's four, to the pediatrician a few months ago. There was an 18 month old boy in the waiting room who was a head taller than Jack. When the diapered bully, gnawing on his binky, took a toy out of Jack's hands, Jack shrugged and picked up another. He looked UP at the child and said, "It's okay, you take it. I know that you're just a little baby, who doesn't know any better."
I smiled behind my magazine. The cycle continues...
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A place for everything...
Not long ago, I was chatting with my mom on the phone, having my morning cup of Coca-Cola. I was looking pretty stunning that particular morning, wearing a pair of Betty Boop pajama pants that were purchased at a yard sale, one of Michael's old, grey fraternity t-shirts from his Penn State days, and my dirty hair was pulled up on top of my head in a loose, floppy bun. My mom said to me,
"I'm so happy for you, for getting just what you wanted out of life. You are right where you've always wanted to be."
I stepped over the boys, who were laying on the floor, fighting over an action figure (one of twelve thousand that were scattered all over the living room) to peek at a mirror.
I giggled.
"Mom, please tell me you are being sarcastic."
She began to explain. I was a bit socially awkward, growing up. Any school dance I ever attended, I attended because my parents forced me to go. I was a bookworm and a home body. I was also a late bloomer, who was still playing with Barbies when my friends were getting their first boyfriends. Because of my late development, late puberty, and small size, my parents always wondered if I would be able to have children. Although, they'll never admit it, I am sure that they also wondered if I'd ever get a boyfriend, much less a husband.
Lo and behold, I came out of my shell and met Michael. First came love, then came marriage, then came... well, you know the rest. I am an ambitious, competitive person. I have many years left to get the most of life and to settle myself into a successful career. And I know that good things are in store for me, because I have a desire to achieve. But, first things first. I have done what everyone doubted I would ever do. I have a loving husband. I have two beautiful boys. I have a home and a family, and that is my primary focus right now. My mom was right. I am a very lucky girl.
This past week, for the first time since the boys were born, Michael had to go away on business. At first, the boys and I celebrated having a break from the family neat freak by leaving dishes on the table, letting crumbs fall to the floor, and not putting DVDs directly back into their cases. But by the third day, I began to miss having someone to share a smile with when Henry told a new knock-knock joke or when Jack said something only a forty year old woman would say. Thursday night I had trouble sleeping. Why was it so quiet? Why could I hear every creak that the house made? Then I realized that for six years, Michael has been in bed next to me, sleeping, breathing, snoring. I've gotten used to him being... there. That's not to say that half of the time I want to whack him with a frying pan when he's not looking. But the other half of the time, our life, as a family, is awesome and it makes me thrilled to know that it's "forever."
Yesterday afternoon, excited to see my husband, I took a shower, shaved my legs, applied some makeup, and even flat ironed my hair. I put on a cute sundress and the boys and I headed to the airport to pick up Michael. We had a joyful reunion at the airport, and then the four of us came home. It was nice to all be together, again. Through the baby monitor, I listened to Michael read to our giggling boys, putting them to bed, while I went upstairs to change. I washed the makeup off of my face and took off the cute sundress. I put on my Betty Boop pajama pants and Michael's old, grey ATO shirt. I twisted my hair up to its comfortable position on top of my head and went downstairs to join Michael on the couch. We shared some milk and cookies and started watching some DVR'd "Attack of the Show." As Michael drifted off to sleep halfway through the episode and began to snore, I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.
Everything is as it should be and just the way I want it.
"I'm so happy for you, for getting just what you wanted out of life. You are right where you've always wanted to be."
I stepped over the boys, who were laying on the floor, fighting over an action figure (one of twelve thousand that were scattered all over the living room) to peek at a mirror.
I giggled.
"Mom, please tell me you are being sarcastic."
She began to explain. I was a bit socially awkward, growing up. Any school dance I ever attended, I attended because my parents forced me to go. I was a bookworm and a home body. I was also a late bloomer, who was still playing with Barbies when my friends were getting their first boyfriends. Because of my late development, late puberty, and small size, my parents always wondered if I would be able to have children. Although, they'll never admit it, I am sure that they also wondered if I'd ever get a boyfriend, much less a husband.
Lo and behold, I came out of my shell and met Michael. First came love, then came marriage, then came... well, you know the rest. I am an ambitious, competitive person. I have many years left to get the most of life and to settle myself into a successful career. And I know that good things are in store for me, because I have a desire to achieve. But, first things first. I have done what everyone doubted I would ever do. I have a loving husband. I have two beautiful boys. I have a home and a family, and that is my primary focus right now. My mom was right. I am a very lucky girl.
This past week, for the first time since the boys were born, Michael had to go away on business. At first, the boys and I celebrated having a break from the family neat freak by leaving dishes on the table, letting crumbs fall to the floor, and not putting DVDs directly back into their cases. But by the third day, I began to miss having someone to share a smile with when Henry told a new knock-knock joke or when Jack said something only a forty year old woman would say. Thursday night I had trouble sleeping. Why was it so quiet? Why could I hear every creak that the house made? Then I realized that for six years, Michael has been in bed next to me, sleeping, breathing, snoring. I've gotten used to him being... there. That's not to say that half of the time I want to whack him with a frying pan when he's not looking. But the other half of the time, our life, as a family, is awesome and it makes me thrilled to know that it's "forever."
Yesterday afternoon, excited to see my husband, I took a shower, shaved my legs, applied some makeup, and even flat ironed my hair. I put on a cute sundress and the boys and I headed to the airport to pick up Michael. We had a joyful reunion at the airport, and then the four of us came home. It was nice to all be together, again. Through the baby monitor, I listened to Michael read to our giggling boys, putting them to bed, while I went upstairs to change. I washed the makeup off of my face and took off the cute sundress. I put on my Betty Boop pajama pants and Michael's old, grey ATO shirt. I twisted my hair up to its comfortable position on top of my head and went downstairs to join Michael on the couch. We shared some milk and cookies and started watching some DVR'd "Attack of the Show." As Michael drifted off to sleep halfway through the episode and began to snore, I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.
Everything is as it should be and just the way I want it.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Spinning Out of Control...
Based on my own parents, I always viewed parenthood as primarily a position of authority. I always knew that I wanted children. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a bossy control freak. Naturally, motherhood would be a perfect fit. I imagined having a tribe of miniature Annas, who would share my balance of liberalism and Catholicism, love Motown, and have "Gone With the Wind" memorized by the age of five.
Boy, was I wrong.
There has never been a greater feeling, of loss of control, than in parenthood. It starts from the beginning. There is no planning in parenthood. My husband and I wanted to wait two years after getting married to have a baby. I saw a plus sign on a stick, five months after the wedding. During my first trimester, I wanted to eat a strict diet of fruits and vegetables, only to find out that everything except Taco Bell made me vomit. And then there's "The Birth Plan." To this day, Michael and I giggle every time we hear a first timer talk about her Birth Plan. Let me share with you my idea of a realistic Birth Plan:
1. Get drugs
2. Sleep and/or cry
3. Get more drugs
4. Get the baby out as quickly as possible
There was nothing to prepare me for how much labor hurts. If my husband would have even mentioned an Enya CD or a focal point, I would have kicked him in the face. I was thrilled when I found out that my second child would be a scheduled c-section. "Finally," I thought, "I can be in charge of my delivery." Then my water broke five weeks early. And the plans we had for pre-conception college funds for our kids??
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!
As children grow, the lack of control exhibited is more of an annoyance than anything. I loved "The Muppet Movie," as a child. Before my children were born, I planned on showing it to them one day, because I knew they would love it and we'd have a "moment." A few months ago, I sat the boys down and began the first official viewing of "The Muppet Movie." Fifteen minutes in, they lost interest, stopped watching, and went to their playroom, leaving me alone with Kermit and the gang. I resisted the urge to duct tape them to the couch and shout, "You WILL watch this with me! It's FUNNY! We're having FUN!"
One of the biggest surprises of parenthood is the ability to love someone so much. It's different than any other kind of love. Sure, I love my husband, but I'd have to think about it before I'd jump in front of a truck for him. (I mean, who would take care of the kids??) For my sons, I'd jump in front of a truck to prevent them from getting a paper cut. That kind of love is a scary, scary thing.
As hard as it is, I can handle the boys not sharing my love of all things Muppet and I can cope with the fact that I gave birth to boys, who will probably never play Barbies with me. Those are little things. But the feeling of helplessness that sometimes occurs as a result of no control is downright painful. As a bossy, control freak, I was not ready at all for the true trenches of parenthood. Labor was nothing compared to watching doctors repeatedly stick your toddler, searching for a vein, while he tearfully begs you to make them stop. Waking up to your water breaking before your planned delivery date is much better than your baby waking from a nap with a diaper filled with blood. College funds are the least of your worries when you are scrambling to put together enough money to prepay your copay, so your child can have a surgery that he needs. Watching children refuse to play with your son, because he's "too little" makes you want to duct tape the little brats to the floor and MAKE them be his friends.
Everything in parenthood is out of your control. You will never be prepared. You will always be surprised. Honestly, that's what makes being a parent so wonderful. There is no way to ever maintain control, so you just do the best that that you can. And sometimes, that means that as everything around you spins in a million different directions, you just hang on... and try to not get dizzy.
Boy, was I wrong.
There has never been a greater feeling, of loss of control, than in parenthood. It starts from the beginning. There is no planning in parenthood. My husband and I wanted to wait two years after getting married to have a baby. I saw a plus sign on a stick, five months after the wedding. During my first trimester, I wanted to eat a strict diet of fruits and vegetables, only to find out that everything except Taco Bell made me vomit. And then there's "The Birth Plan." To this day, Michael and I giggle every time we hear a first timer talk about her Birth Plan. Let me share with you my idea of a realistic Birth Plan:
1. Get drugs
2. Sleep and/or cry
3. Get more drugs
4. Get the baby out as quickly as possible
There was nothing to prepare me for how much labor hurts. If my husband would have even mentioned an Enya CD or a focal point, I would have kicked him in the face. I was thrilled when I found out that my second child would be a scheduled c-section. "Finally," I thought, "I can be in charge of my delivery." Then my water broke five weeks early. And the plans we had for pre-conception college funds for our kids??
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!
As children grow, the lack of control exhibited is more of an annoyance than anything. I loved "The Muppet Movie," as a child. Before my children were born, I planned on showing it to them one day, because I knew they would love it and we'd have a "moment." A few months ago, I sat the boys down and began the first official viewing of "The Muppet Movie." Fifteen minutes in, they lost interest, stopped watching, and went to their playroom, leaving me alone with Kermit and the gang. I resisted the urge to duct tape them to the couch and shout, "You WILL watch this with me! It's FUNNY! We're having FUN!"
One of the biggest surprises of parenthood is the ability to love someone so much. It's different than any other kind of love. Sure, I love my husband, but I'd have to think about it before I'd jump in front of a truck for him. (I mean, who would take care of the kids??) For my sons, I'd jump in front of a truck to prevent them from getting a paper cut. That kind of love is a scary, scary thing.
As hard as it is, I can handle the boys not sharing my love of all things Muppet and I can cope with the fact that I gave birth to boys, who will probably never play Barbies with me. Those are little things. But the feeling of helplessness that sometimes occurs as a result of no control is downright painful. As a bossy, control freak, I was not ready at all for the true trenches of parenthood. Labor was nothing compared to watching doctors repeatedly stick your toddler, searching for a vein, while he tearfully begs you to make them stop. Waking up to your water breaking before your planned delivery date is much better than your baby waking from a nap with a diaper filled with blood. College funds are the least of your worries when you are scrambling to put together enough money to prepay your copay, so your child can have a surgery that he needs. Watching children refuse to play with your son, because he's "too little" makes you want to duct tape the little brats to the floor and MAKE them be his friends.
Everything in parenthood is out of your control. You will never be prepared. You will always be surprised. Honestly, that's what makes being a parent so wonderful. There is no way to ever maintain control, so you just do the best that that you can. And sometimes, that means that as everything around you spins in a million different directions, you just hang on... and try to not get dizzy.
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