I'll be the first to admit it: I did not actually think this day would come.
I suppose that, in the depths of my soul, I knew it would arrive at some point. I believed it as we all "know" that we're going to die one day. Theoretically, it's true. Everyone dies, and since we're part of that all-inclusive "everyone" group, I guess it'll happen to me, too, although it's impossibly difficult to believe.
Anyway. Until my husband's revelation late last week, I fully believed that our baby-making days were just a theoretical someday that would occur sometime between my last post and my death -- probably much closer to the latter.
Yet, here we are: about to go off of birth control and prepared to let God and nature run their course.
Try as I might, I have no idea how I got here. Just a week ago, Ryan was convinced that we couldn't have kids. We couldn't afford it. We couldn't dream of being emotionally ready to have them. Our lives were too unstable. Blah, blah, blah. All rubbish if you ask me. I had given up on attempting to convince him, persuaded by my very clever best friend to just drop the subject and let him warm up to the idea. Hopefully, if I gave no indication that it was important to me, he would turn around- sometime in the next two years, she advised.
Try two days!
Faced with a legal pad and pen, Ryan began outlining his life for the next five years. Where would he be after that short span of time, when he was 33 and, dare I say it, old? It was at this point that he realized that he didn't want to be an old dad (for all of you truly "old" dads out there, I realize that 33 is not actually old) and fully imagined that he would already have two kids by the time 33 rolled around. Which means that we need to get this ball rolling.
So, Ryan came home, tossed the legal pad on the table and said, "I think we should stop taking birth control. Well. You should stop taking birth control. You might as well finish this pack, but you can stop right now if you want."
After checking his vitals to ensure that he had not received a blow to the head, been struck by lightning, or otherwise tampered with, I could come to no other conclusion: the man had made a decision. We were going to go off of birth control. A baby, even in the near future, was a part of his life plan. Finally! The two of us were on the same page, and not due to any cajoling on my part, thankyouverymuch.
Which brings me to this moment. Right now, I am sitting on my couch, typing this lovely blog (which no body will read, a thought that brings me no discomfort), and staring at 7 remaining birth control pills. Holy hell. What in the world are we doing? :-)
It is the single most lovely, exciting thing in the world to be in this place. To know that we're fully united in this quest to invite parenthood into our lives, and to know that he came to this conclusion on his own are so satisfying. It's so exciting to be on the brink of an event that you've dreamt of for your entire life. It's freaking awesome.
And, even though I did not believe we'd be here, I sure am glad that we've arrived.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Time Has Come
I'm impulsive.
Usually, this is not a terrible thing. Sometimes, however, it can result in a second pair of sparkly flip flops even though I only needed (okay--wanted) one pair. Other times, it can be a very expensive problem. After making the impulsive decision to drive to LA to shop for my wedding dress, I entered a store, and tried on a few dresses. One gown caught my eye. I kept glancing at myself in the mirror, attempting to make my way back to the dressing room before turning around and walking right back up to to the pedestal. I took off the dress, hung it up gently, and ran my fingers along the beading. I put my clothes back on, glancing over my shoulder for just one more glance. I walked out of the store, and made it halfway to my car before turning around, marching right back into the store, and handing them a very large wad of cash.
What can I say? I embody the very definition of impulsiveness.
Today, true to form, I have made another impulsive decision:
I'm ready to have kids.
Really?
Yes.
REALLY??
Maybe.
But, yes. I am.
I suppose there's no way to know for sure. And there's no way to really be prepared or even to know what you're in for. But I'm certain that I'm ready. Now.
It occurred to me today when I was at Reema's graduation. I kept thinking about how I've been with her for so long. I was with this girl when she was 8 years old in the third grade, lying about her homework and constantly forgetting to blow her nose. Yet here we are, 5 1/2 years later, as I watched her, wearing an ill-fitting blue gown, walk across a middle-school auditorium stage, as proud as can be. A slide show flashed a photograph of a radiant, smiling, curly-haired Arab girl, with chubby cheeks that matched her light pink shirt. The slide show progressed and images of babies and toddlers hovered on the screen, followed by the cap and gown photos of their older selves. One by one, babies turned into adolescents, and many years were condensed into only a few seconds.
For a moment, I became overwhelmed by the realization that I was sitting in a room full of parents. All around me were mothers and fathers who had cared for these graduates for 13 years, tirelessly loving them, fighting with them, praising them, and chastising them. Into these children had gone hopes and dreams for the future, self-assurances and self-doubts, but mostly love. Doubtless some of these kids were surprises. Some were planned and prayed for. But all of them, every single one, was loved.
Maybe, just maybe, all you need is love. A little responsibility, a great deal of awe, some trust in your instincts are important. A little money in the bank would be nice. A lot of money in the bank would be even better. But, watching those kids today made me believe that most important of all is a commitment to love.
Watching the girls grow over the years has given me a confidence that I wouldn't have had otherwise. I've seen them fight with each other, with their mother, and with me. I've listened to their stories, as inane as they sometimes were. I've been the recipient of hugs and cantaloupes transformed into birthday cakes, of rants about how unfair life is, and bad attitudes that I didn't know young children could possess. And from the very beginning, I've loved those girls with every fiber of my soul.
It makes me realize that I could do this having kids thing. I'm not so disillusioned to believe that they'll remain babies forever, and I don't just want to have a baby. I want to have a child. I want to have an adolescent, then a teenager, then an adult. I want to have an independent mind, a brilliant thinker, a strong will, a "smiler" and a thinker. Not just a baby. Another human to love and to be loved. I want to have another human to bring this world a bit farther than it is today, who will make it a bit more vibrant than it presently is.
I'm 100% percent ready to have kids, and to raise them alongside my brilliant husband who has so much love to give and who already gives so much love.
I might be impulsive, but this is different. It's less like falling in love with a wedding dress and more like falling in love with my husband.
It appears that the time has come.
Usually, this is not a terrible thing. Sometimes, however, it can result in a second pair of sparkly flip flops even though I only needed (okay--wanted) one pair. Other times, it can be a very expensive problem. After making the impulsive decision to drive to LA to shop for my wedding dress, I entered a store, and tried on a few dresses. One gown caught my eye. I kept glancing at myself in the mirror, attempting to make my way back to the dressing room before turning around and walking right back up to to the pedestal. I took off the dress, hung it up gently, and ran my fingers along the beading. I put my clothes back on, glancing over my shoulder for just one more glance. I walked out of the store, and made it halfway to my car before turning around, marching right back into the store, and handing them a very large wad of cash.
What can I say? I embody the very definition of impulsiveness.
Today, true to form, I have made another impulsive decision:
I'm ready to have kids.
Really?
Yes.
REALLY??
Maybe.
But, yes. I am.
I suppose there's no way to know for sure. And there's no way to really be prepared or even to know what you're in for. But I'm certain that I'm ready. Now.
It occurred to me today when I was at Reema's graduation. I kept thinking about how I've been with her for so long. I was with this girl when she was 8 years old in the third grade, lying about her homework and constantly forgetting to blow her nose. Yet here we are, 5 1/2 years later, as I watched her, wearing an ill-fitting blue gown, walk across a middle-school auditorium stage, as proud as can be. A slide show flashed a photograph of a radiant, smiling, curly-haired Arab girl, with chubby cheeks that matched her light pink shirt. The slide show progressed and images of babies and toddlers hovered on the screen, followed by the cap and gown photos of their older selves. One by one, babies turned into adolescents, and many years were condensed into only a few seconds.
For a moment, I became overwhelmed by the realization that I was sitting in a room full of parents. All around me were mothers and fathers who had cared for these graduates for 13 years, tirelessly loving them, fighting with them, praising them, and chastising them. Into these children had gone hopes and dreams for the future, self-assurances and self-doubts, but mostly love. Doubtless some of these kids were surprises. Some were planned and prayed for. But all of them, every single one, was loved.
Maybe, just maybe, all you need is love. A little responsibility, a great deal of awe, some trust in your instincts are important. A little money in the bank would be nice. A lot of money in the bank would be even better. But, watching those kids today made me believe that most important of all is a commitment to love.
Watching the girls grow over the years has given me a confidence that I wouldn't have had otherwise. I've seen them fight with each other, with their mother, and with me. I've listened to their stories, as inane as they sometimes were. I've been the recipient of hugs and cantaloupes transformed into birthday cakes, of rants about how unfair life is, and bad attitudes that I didn't know young children could possess. And from the very beginning, I've loved those girls with every fiber of my soul.
It makes me realize that I could do this having kids thing. I'm not so disillusioned to believe that they'll remain babies forever, and I don't just want to have a baby. I want to have a child. I want to have an adolescent, then a teenager, then an adult. I want to have an independent mind, a brilliant thinker, a strong will, a "smiler" and a thinker. Not just a baby. Another human to love and to be loved. I want to have another human to bring this world a bit farther than it is today, who will make it a bit more vibrant than it presently is.
I'm 100% percent ready to have kids, and to raise them alongside my brilliant husband who has so much love to give and who already gives so much love.
I might be impulsive, but this is different. It's less like falling in love with a wedding dress and more like falling in love with my husband.
It appears that the time has come.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Being curly for these last 3 weeks has changed my life. No, really.
There are at least 100 different reasons that I made the decision and at least as many reasons that this was the right decision for me.
We only get one chance to go through this life. Only one. Yet, miraculously, there are infinitesimal options for how we do so. Every moment presents hundreds of questions -- are you happy? Are you proud? Are you honest? Are you authentic? Are you living your truth? I believe I've long heard the questions, in silent moments and even when the world around me is loud. What's changed is that as I get older, I am starting to understand how serious the questions are. They should not be answered flippantly or mechanically. We must sit. Listen. Ponder. Come to an answer, and then start the process over again.
One adage says that the qualities you abhor in others are often the very qualities that you yourself possess. As time goes on, I have become more and more annoyed at fake hair. It's not about the person wearing the hair, for I understand that a person's perception of themselves and their opinions of beauty are intensely personal. But, still... There's something so... fake about it. Wearing fake hair is like trying to lie to the whole world. You're lying to your friends, your family, and to strangers because you're afraid that they will negatively judge your true self.
Ouch.
I know I'm betraying a sisterhood thing here, but I think it's worse for black women. So many women, descended from Africa have decided that the way for them to be beautiful and desirable, the way for them to achieve status is to wear hair that did not come from them! How crazy is that? They walk around with some other human's hair on their head, and act as if it's their own! For the last two years, it's started to really bother me. I often want to walk up to these women and say, "Who do you think you're fooling? We all know that's not your hair!" Their hair is curly -- amazingly curly -- far curlier than most non-black people can imagine, and they hide it. They are so ashamed that they are willing to pay a good deal of money to trick people into thinking that the stick straight, down-to-their-rear hair is theirs.
But, we all know the truth. Even they know the truth. Hell, they know that we know the truth.
I digress.
As time passes, I realized that I was becoming more and more judgmental of these women who choose to go fake. And then, in a moment of truth, I realized that I was choosing to go fake.
The flat irons, the keratin treatments, the blow dryers, the small fortune, and the hours and hours and hours (literally, three or more hours to wash, blow dry, and flat iron my hair!) spent on trying to make everyone believe that I had straight hair. Please. Who was I fooling?!?! People may not have known how curly my hair was, but surely nobody was foolish enough to believe it was straight.
But, the questions caught up with me. Are you happy? Are you proud? Are you honest? Are you authentic? Are you living your truth? No. No. No. No. And, no. Wow. It's scary how someone so judgmental could be so guilty of what she was judging others for.
Anyway, when I realized that I was taking part in the great American Fake Out, I realized that the time had come to stop. Gently, slowly, keep your hands where I can see them, and put down the flat iron.
So I did.
And it's been a whole new life. I look in the mirror a lot more, but not because I think I look so darn good -- it's mostly because I don't recognize myself. Literally. I wash my hair a lot more -- trust me, you should be thankful for this! I feel free. I don't worry about rainstorms or wind, or fly aways. Being curly is liberating. I feel like I'm being a good role model -- walking around and announcing the world that I'm proud of who I am, and that I'm not sorry for being authentic. It makes me feel like I'm someone to look up to -- a feeling that I certainly never had when I was pretending to be stick straight.
Overall, I feel happy. Finally, after all of these years, I have realized that I am good enough. Who I am, without a flat iron, is beautiful and worthy of praise. One day, when I have kids that will inevitably be curly, I can tell them that they're beautiful and they'll know that I'm not just saying that! They'll feel proud that they have curls like their mommy does, and just like mommy, they'll wear them proudly. Their first ideas of their hair will be that it's perfect and beautiful. Just as it is.
*Sigh*
It was time for this. It was time to be honest. Time to really, truly accept myself -- not just in words, but in action and in a way that is evident to the world.
This newly-found self-pride is such a relief. It feels more liberating than I can explain, and I'm really just basking in the light that radiates from this honesty that is daily pouring through my life. It's amazing how much changes when you put down the flat iron.
There are at least 100 different reasons that I made the decision and at least as many reasons that this was the right decision for me.
We only get one chance to go through this life. Only one. Yet, miraculously, there are infinitesimal options for how we do so. Every moment presents hundreds of questions -- are you happy? Are you proud? Are you honest? Are you authentic? Are you living your truth? I believe I've long heard the questions, in silent moments and even when the world around me is loud. What's changed is that as I get older, I am starting to understand how serious the questions are. They should not be answered flippantly or mechanically. We must sit. Listen. Ponder. Come to an answer, and then start the process over again.
One adage says that the qualities you abhor in others are often the very qualities that you yourself possess. As time goes on, I have become more and more annoyed at fake hair. It's not about the person wearing the hair, for I understand that a person's perception of themselves and their opinions of beauty are intensely personal. But, still... There's something so... fake about it. Wearing fake hair is like trying to lie to the whole world. You're lying to your friends, your family, and to strangers because you're afraid that they will negatively judge your true self.
Ouch.
I know I'm betraying a sisterhood thing here, but I think it's worse for black women. So many women, descended from Africa have decided that the way for them to be beautiful and desirable, the way for them to achieve status is to wear hair that did not come from them! How crazy is that? They walk around with some other human's hair on their head, and act as if it's their own! For the last two years, it's started to really bother me. I often want to walk up to these women and say, "Who do you think you're fooling? We all know that's not your hair!" Their hair is curly -- amazingly curly -- far curlier than most non-black people can imagine, and they hide it. They are so ashamed that they are willing to pay a good deal of money to trick people into thinking that the stick straight, down-to-their-rear hair is theirs.
But, we all know the truth. Even they know the truth. Hell, they know that we know the truth.
I digress.
As time passes, I realized that I was becoming more and more judgmental of these women who choose to go fake. And then, in a moment of truth, I realized that I was choosing to go fake.
The flat irons, the keratin treatments, the blow dryers, the small fortune, and the hours and hours and hours (literally, three or more hours to wash, blow dry, and flat iron my hair!) spent on trying to make everyone believe that I had straight hair. Please. Who was I fooling?!?! People may not have known how curly my hair was, but surely nobody was foolish enough to believe it was straight.
But, the questions caught up with me. Are you happy? Are you proud? Are you honest? Are you authentic? Are you living your truth? No. No. No. No. And, no. Wow. It's scary how someone so judgmental could be so guilty of what she was judging others for.
Anyway, when I realized that I was taking part in the great American Fake Out, I realized that the time had come to stop. Gently, slowly, keep your hands where I can see them, and put down the flat iron.
So I did.
And it's been a whole new life. I look in the mirror a lot more, but not because I think I look so darn good -- it's mostly because I don't recognize myself. Literally. I wash my hair a lot more -- trust me, you should be thankful for this! I feel free. I don't worry about rainstorms or wind, or fly aways. Being curly is liberating. I feel like I'm being a good role model -- walking around and announcing the world that I'm proud of who I am, and that I'm not sorry for being authentic. It makes me feel like I'm someone to look up to -- a feeling that I certainly never had when I was pretending to be stick straight.
Overall, I feel happy. Finally, after all of these years, I have realized that I am good enough. Who I am, without a flat iron, is beautiful and worthy of praise. One day, when I have kids that will inevitably be curly, I can tell them that they're beautiful and they'll know that I'm not just saying that! They'll feel proud that they have curls like their mommy does, and just like mommy, they'll wear them proudly. Their first ideas of their hair will be that it's perfect and beautiful. Just as it is.
*Sigh*
It was time for this. It was time to be honest. Time to really, truly accept myself -- not just in words, but in action and in a way that is evident to the world.
This newly-found self-pride is such a relief. It feels more liberating than I can explain, and I'm really just basking in the light that radiates from this honesty that is daily pouring through my life. It's amazing how much changes when you put down the flat iron.
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