**I am attempting to blog a little bit each day. We will see how well I do. This is just a little experiment.**
We could be saying good-bye to our Honda Odyssey mini -van later this week. Earlier this summer, I had been feeling a lot of “green” induced guilt about the mini-van. I kept finding myself driving alone in the van, or with just one child. The empty seats and space seemed to be screaming at me, “This is not necessary!!!” And I agreed. We’ve already made some changes to try and use less gas. Josh car pools to work with a friend of ours. While I drive quite a bit for work, Josh and I always check to see who is driving the most miles on any given day and that person takes the Civic.
I approached Josh about selling the mini-van a few months ago. I figured we could save money on two sides with another car, smaller payment and better gas mileage. Plus, I felt like, someone has to start going back down to smaller cars, maybe we should be one of first families to make the change. While our van definitely has lots of space, it also has a whole set of luxuries we don’t have in the Civic, automatic sliding doors that open with the push of a button, leather interior, seat heaters, and just a really nice comfortable car to ride in.
The hardest part is that Josh bought that van for me a little over a year ago, knowing how much I wanted a mini-van. At the time we were waiting and hoping to receive our referral to adopt from China. I felt sure that if we bought a mini-van, The Field of Dreams theory would fall into place, “If you drive it, they will come.” Certainly, with such a huge car, more children would be destined to join our family. I felt desperate to make that happen. So Josh went out and found the perfect mini-van while I was visiting a college friend in California. It was so exciting. Seeing that van, I just knew we’d have more children soon. Sure enough, we received our information about Kai and the rest is history. Here he is and we’re now a family of four.
Part of me doesn’t want to let go of the mini-van just for that reason, just because it feels like it almost delivered Kai to us. I also wanted the van because I just knew that we could adopt again, that I our family would need one more child. Josh had sort of balked at this idea, but I felt sure he would come around. Secretly I worried it could turn into a point of contention between us. Interestingly enough, I really feel that two is the perfect amount for us. I am totally and completely content with our family exactly how it is right now. I don’t see us adopting another child. That knowledge is incredibly freeing and somewhat disappointing at the same time.
I can’t help but think back to all of the times I loudly declared that I wanted 4 kids. I just knew that I would be the greatest mom ever. I wanted as many children as possible. Plus, telling people about your desire to have four children impresses people. It does and I took a great deal of satisfaction from those looks of approval. I reveled in my ambitious family plan. All of this was set in stone in my mind, until I had my first baby. Then, reality set in with a heavily weighted thump. I quickly whittled the number down to three. You need a mini-van for three children, so that is what I wanted.
In some ways, getting rid of the mini-van makes me feel like a failure as a mother. Shouldn’t I want more children? What happened to the girl who couldn’t wait to watch over a brood of children? But the flip side is that I am so completely and totally happy and grateful and content with the family I have right now. We have a boy and a girl, they get along, (for the most part), are healthy, happy kids. My husband and I are still able to spend time with each other and are both pursuing career goals that we are passionate about.
Regardless, I will be sad to see the van go. It feels like the end of an era and I’ve never been one to handle good-byes well.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
First day
He stood up to shake my hand when I introduced myself and I immediately liked him. With some people it goes that way if they impress you with their first move, and suddenly, the rest doesn’t matter as much, good or bad. I was the first to arrive in the classroom for the short story workshop. I often get lost, so I left myself plenty of time to find this new destination, “The Cultural Complex” building is what they call it. Although I didn’t find it on the first try, I managed to get there after one minor detour.
He seems to be about 60 years old, with white hair. His hair is the color I imagine I would like to have when I am 60 years old, beautiful shiny white hair much like the plump fairy godmothers from Walt Disney’s Cinderella. As people trickled in, he continued to stand and introduce himself. He then made an open handed gesture to me and I too would introduce myself. Suddenly, we were in cahoots with each other, determined to know everyone’s names and put all in the class on friendly terms.
Once we had all arrived, the teacher asked us to go around the table, introduce ourselves and share a bit about ourselves if we’d like. Another man, Charles, went first. I learned that all five of them have taken classes at the Writing Center before. Two of the students are farmers. One woman works the farm with her husband right now. They have over 2,000 acres of soy and corn. She drives the tractor for him during harverst time, but paints and writes and works odd jobs during the slower parts of the year.
The other woman was also a farmer, but is now retired and enjoys writing now that she can dedicate more time to it. David, the man I met first, worked for Indiana University in Bloomington in the medical school there. He shared advice for Charles, a doctorate student, on how to complete his dissertation.
After so much anxiety about taking a writing class, and sharing what I write, as I sat in the old curved bamboo chair around the single oblong table, I felt completely at ease. My curiosity about other people and just who takes writing classes surpassed my own self absorption.
We spent two hours working on character development. Our teacher led us through several writing prompts and gave us the opportunity to share our writing. Since sharing my writing with other writers is one of my goals, I did it. I read my writing; my scribbles that I refused to analyze to keep myself from chickening out. Despite the fact that my ears did ring as I began to speak, and I could feel the blood rushing to my face right on cue, I did it.
I drove home elated. All I had to do was show up. The hardest part was finding the place. I kept the radio off and drove home enjoying the dark evening as it seeped into my car. The stars glittered in the sky and I rolled down the windows, allowing the wind to accompany me on the ride home.
He seems to be about 60 years old, with white hair. His hair is the color I imagine I would like to have when I am 60 years old, beautiful shiny white hair much like the plump fairy godmothers from Walt Disney’s Cinderella. As people trickled in, he continued to stand and introduce himself. He then made an open handed gesture to me and I too would introduce myself. Suddenly, we were in cahoots with each other, determined to know everyone’s names and put all in the class on friendly terms.
Once we had all arrived, the teacher asked us to go around the table, introduce ourselves and share a bit about ourselves if we’d like. Another man, Charles, went first. I learned that all five of them have taken classes at the Writing Center before. Two of the students are farmers. One woman works the farm with her husband right now. They have over 2,000 acres of soy and corn. She drives the tractor for him during harverst time, but paints and writes and works odd jobs during the slower parts of the year.
The other woman was also a farmer, but is now retired and enjoys writing now that she can dedicate more time to it. David, the man I met first, worked for Indiana University in Bloomington in the medical school there. He shared advice for Charles, a doctorate student, on how to complete his dissertation.
After so much anxiety about taking a writing class, and sharing what I write, as I sat in the old curved bamboo chair around the single oblong table, I felt completely at ease. My curiosity about other people and just who takes writing classes surpassed my own self absorption.
We spent two hours working on character development. Our teacher led us through several writing prompts and gave us the opportunity to share our writing. Since sharing my writing with other writers is one of my goals, I did it. I read my writing; my scribbles that I refused to analyze to keep myself from chickening out. Despite the fact that my ears did ring as I began to speak, and I could feel the blood rushing to my face right on cue, I did it.
I drove home elated. All I had to do was show up. The hardest part was finding the place. I kept the radio off and drove home enjoying the dark evening as it seeped into my car. The stars glittered in the sky and I rolled down the windows, allowing the wind to accompany me on the ride home.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Writing class
Tonight I am supposed to take my first writing class. If you remember, I planned on taking a class earlier this month. Unfortunately, I missed it because my Target set up for work took such a long time. This class meets for four sessions and we’ll work on the different aspects of writing a short story.
I’ve got a few excuses to skip this class tucked away just in case I don’t muster the courage to go. I haven’t been feeling well lately or Thursdays are my long days for work, I’m not sure my mind can function well at the end of the day. The class costs more than $15.00, my default spending amount. Anything over $15.00 and I wonder, “Do I really need this?” The only exception to this rule is sporting equipment, in that case no spending limit applies. I would gladly spend $2,000 on a new bike for my husband if it meant he would enjoy riding more. Equipment and gear equals fun in my mind, and who wouldn’t spend lots of money for fun?
I know that I need to take these writing classes. I need to take several, tons of them. For me to step into this class, I need to shore up a water tower full of confidence and courage in order to wrap my clammy hands around a pen and write. I pray that the teacher doesn’t force us to share what we write. I could vomit if that is that case, which could possibly make a great story.
Speaking of throwing up, the sensation of losing my lunch is actually a really good indicator that I am on the right track. Some people experience chills, others can describe a rush of euphoria sweeping across their bodies, or there are a lucky few that see clear images of themselves in moments of the crystal ball nature. Me? I feel like someone's dad just spun me with reckless abandon on the merry go round and I need to lie down or risk spewing in front of all the neighbors at the park. Ironically, all of this all means that I am probably doing the right thing.
Still, I keep coming back to what this year is all about for me. It is about pushing out and finally doing these things instead of just wondering and pondering about them. That means going to class after work when I would probably rather go home and throw my pajamas on and read a story instead of try to write one.
I’ve got a few excuses to skip this class tucked away just in case I don’t muster the courage to go. I haven’t been feeling well lately or Thursdays are my long days for work, I’m not sure my mind can function well at the end of the day. The class costs more than $15.00, my default spending amount. Anything over $15.00 and I wonder, “Do I really need this?” The only exception to this rule is sporting equipment, in that case no spending limit applies. I would gladly spend $2,000 on a new bike for my husband if it meant he would enjoy riding more. Equipment and gear equals fun in my mind, and who wouldn’t spend lots of money for fun?
I know that I need to take these writing classes. I need to take several, tons of them. For me to step into this class, I need to shore up a water tower full of confidence and courage in order to wrap my clammy hands around a pen and write. I pray that the teacher doesn’t force us to share what we write. I could vomit if that is that case, which could possibly make a great story.
Speaking of throwing up, the sensation of losing my lunch is actually a really good indicator that I am on the right track. Some people experience chills, others can describe a rush of euphoria sweeping across their bodies, or there are a lucky few that see clear images of themselves in moments of the crystal ball nature. Me? I feel like someone's dad just spun me with reckless abandon on the merry go round and I need to lie down or risk spewing in front of all the neighbors at the park. Ironically, all of this all means that I am probably doing the right thing.
Still, I keep coming back to what this year is all about for me. It is about pushing out and finally doing these things instead of just wondering and pondering about them. That means going to class after work when I would probably rather go home and throw my pajamas on and read a story instead of try to write one.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Glitter Bouncy Balls
In my purse I keep a little spiral notebook. It is blue and has the profile of a peacock on it. The peacock is speckled with silver glitter that makes it look like a mystical creature. I dig around for it when something random from the day catches my attention, like the tall elderly gentlemen from last week.
He stood back and watched as I tossed the oversized bouncy ball from the toy display up in the air over and over again. The ball was filled with colored glitter, with each tossed the glittered swirled along the outer edges of the clear ball. I enjoyed flipping it towards the ceiling and letting it land in my palm with a satisfying smack of cool plastic. After about 5 tosses, I noticed him watching and I laughed, “Just taking a little break from work. Aren’t these cool?” I asked, stretching one out for him to see. He nodded and took one long stride forward. “At first I thought it was an apple,” he admitted. I kept waiting for you to take a bite!”
“Oh, no, they’re huge bouncy balls,” I gave the ball a bounce on the carpeted floor to illustrate my point.
He wore a camel colored sweater jacket reminiscent of Mr. Rogers. I almost expected a tooting train to encircle him as he stood there talking to me.
He gave one of the green glitter balls a toss into the air and then returned it to the plastic cube on the table.
“Well,” he said as he shifted his purchases to the opposite hand, “I better pay for these. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
Even without company, I wasn’t ready to give up the ball yet. Maybe I should buy a few of these for the kids to play with during vacation. I imagined the baseball sized balls bouncing all over the art and candle filled vacation house…maybe not. Reluctantly, I set the ball back down and headed back to work.
Those little friendly encounters with strangers make my day. I don’t know what it is about them. I just so appreciate a small conversation about bouncy balls in the middle of a book store while I’m working. It makes me feel thrilled to be alive and human, sort of like playing with the glittery bouncy ball. I just might have to buy one after all.
He stood back and watched as I tossed the oversized bouncy ball from the toy display up in the air over and over again. The ball was filled with colored glitter, with each tossed the glittered swirled along the outer edges of the clear ball. I enjoyed flipping it towards the ceiling and letting it land in my palm with a satisfying smack of cool plastic. After about 5 tosses, I noticed him watching and I laughed, “Just taking a little break from work. Aren’t these cool?” I asked, stretching one out for him to see. He nodded and took one long stride forward. “At first I thought it was an apple,” he admitted. I kept waiting for you to take a bite!”
“Oh, no, they’re huge bouncy balls,” I gave the ball a bounce on the carpeted floor to illustrate my point.
He wore a camel colored sweater jacket reminiscent of Mr. Rogers. I almost expected a tooting train to encircle him as he stood there talking to me.
He gave one of the green glitter balls a toss into the air and then returned it to the plastic cube on the table.
“Well,” he said as he shifted his purchases to the opposite hand, “I better pay for these. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
Even without company, I wasn’t ready to give up the ball yet. Maybe I should buy a few of these for the kids to play with during vacation. I imagined the baseball sized balls bouncing all over the art and candle filled vacation house…maybe not. Reluctantly, I set the ball back down and headed back to work.
Those little friendly encounters with strangers make my day. I don’t know what it is about them. I just so appreciate a small conversation about bouncy balls in the middle of a book store while I’m working. It makes me feel thrilled to be alive and human, sort of like playing with the glittery bouncy ball. I just might have to buy one after all.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
More and Less
The more or less exercise works like this, when I feel a little out of whack, I stop and write down three things I feel I need more of in life, and three things I’d like less of. For example, I may write I’d like more time with friends, creative ideas and organized spaces. I may write I would like less power struggles with the kids, less anxiety over how clean my house is, and less time worrying about money. I cannot recall where I read about this strategy, but so far, it works really well for me. Amazingly, after doing this, I find myself able to let go of my “less” column, and embrace or actively seek out the “more” column.
I couldn’t help but apply the more/less idea to our recent trip to Sheboygan. On our yearly vacation in Sheboygan we meet several of our friends at a house on Lake Michigan for a few days. In years past we stayed for a week in July. This year we tried a long weekend in the fall. Each year, as we pack up the car and back out of our driveway, I imagine all of the “mores” vacation will bring to our family.
Anyway, here’ s my more/less list for this year’s trip.
More eating less cooking- I ate a TON on vacation, as I always do. The cool part is that we split up into “teams” each team is responsible for the dinner menu and preparation for that night. This year everyone cooked up amazing food. Paul, not to be outdone, even wowed us with homemade jalepenio cheesecake… I swear it is deliscious!
More cups of coffee, less glasses of water-The coffee pot at the house gets a good workout. The last couple of days there were 6 couples at the house, and we all drink coffee, with the exception of Steve. One of my favorite parts of vacation is taking my fresh mug of coffee out to the screened on back porch and watching the sun rise out over the lake. Usually, I do this alone, as others are still sleeping, but with more babies this year, I had more company.
More laughter, less turning in at a decent hour-I try so hard to stay up late. Josh builds a campfire each night for us to sit around, but as usual, I was the first to turn in each night. To my credit, I managed to stay up later than my normal early bedtime though!
More babies, less time sleeping in- There were two new babies this year. It felt great to not be the only mom dragging her butt out of bed at 5am when the kids started to wake up.
More kids, less whining- Our first trip to Sheboygan consisted of newly married couples and only 2 kiddos. This year we had 6 kids! They entertained each other and had a marvelous time. Next year the kids will out-number the adults!
More yard games, less beach time- Because we went in the fall this year, we spent more times playing out in the yard and less time swimming. Jove taught us all a new Frisbee game that I am now obsessed with!
More dishes, less time cleaning them up- Everyone pitches in, so clean up is quick and easy.
More candlelight, less lamps- When nighttime falls, someone manages to get candles lit throughout the house and the lamps don’t seem to get turned out. They light the porch, the kitchen table and the family room, where we all gather until heading out to the campfire.
More hats, less time getting ready-Well, this is just me really. I didn’t want to mess with my hair, so I brought two hats instead!
More couples this year, less space at the long dinner table-We barely fit around the narrow farm table, but managed to get us all in!
More stories to tell about Steve, a cooler and a pair of underwear and less time to tell them- Oh Steve, we love you. I know, Paul made you do it. I won’t give out your secrets on the blog, no worries.
More to come next year, less patience for it to get here- We left the house sad it was already over. Josh is already planning for next year. I feel so blessed that we’ve been able to do this trip with these friends for the past 3 years.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Road Trip
Today we will climb into our freshly washed and vacuumed minivan and drive 5 or so hours up to Sheboygan Wisconsin where we will meet 5 sets of our friends for a long weekend on the beach. Hopefully the kids possess enough coloring books, crayons, pens, blank notebooks, and stamina to make the trip with the least amount of angst.
At some point in the trip, we will all throw out our given lines. Elizabeth will ask, “Are we there yet?” and cry when she is tired but, “I can’t sleep in this chair Mommy!” I’ll tell her to do her best, and we’ll be there before she knows it. Josh will reach his limit for Hannah Montana and past vacation bible school CD’s and claim control of the radio after the first 60 minutes.
Kai will fight falling asleep in the car, as he could miss something really cool if he does, and will whine for about 45 minutes before he acquiesces and brings his thumb up to his mouth for a nap.
I will gather up all of my magazines and books that I saved for the ride and will realize that I need to go to the bathroom…again, and calculate how long I can hold it before mentioning it to Josh.
One of my favorite ways to pass the time in the car is to peek into the compact worlds of the other cars zipping by us. I imagine a young girl of 20 something with perfect skin checking her deep auburn hair in the rearview mirror. She is stunningly beautiful, but you can tell by the way she squints her eyes at her reflection that she is disappointed in her cosmetic efforts today. Thick white clouds hang in the sky as if suspended from swaying braided. The maroon Buick she drives has matching velour interior. I imagine it smelling of flat soda, fruit inspired shampoo and stale bread. Bouncing back in her chair she adjusts the volume knob up on the radio, and pushes her freshly manicured foot down on the accelerator to pass us, trading a fresh lip gloss application for the surge of speed beneath her.
I would like to press pause on all of the cars out on the road with us today and find out where they are going and how they feel about it. I especially notice this desire when I am out traveling at odd hours, early in the morning, before people make their way into halogen lit offices, or in the middle of the night.
Who is running away from home? Who is on their way to catch a flight to a place they have always dreamed of, taking a chance, packing a bag and just doing it. Who is so filled with sorrow and dread that they sit in their car and drive just to move. He drives throughout the town avoiding sleep and her unpredictable dreams. He keeps all thoughts at bay with a turn signal here, and a radio station change there. Bob Dylan squawks poetry with his guitar and he keeps his speed five miles above the limit, a police officer the last person he wants to talk to at this point. Instead the highway turns into a massive game board, each exit an opportunity to make a decision to stay or go. Yet, in truth, he knows not to venture too far away in case sleep will no longer wait patiently in the smooth leather backseat.
In our beloved cars we sit right next to each other, if only for a moment’s passing, so close I could toss a ball into that man’s open truck window. I imagine taping a note to a smooth racquet ball. “How are you doing today? We are off to our vacation house to meet up with friends and I am so excited about it. How about you? Where are you off to?” He reads my note and smiles with pleasure. He likes that I’ve taken the time to inquire about him. Taking one hand off the wheel, he reaches under his seat and grabs a marker. “I’m off to my mother’s in Nebraska. She is auctioning off her farm today and my brother and I both want it. Hopefully I’ll come out on top.” I tell Josh to slow down and roll the large passenger window down. He takes aim and it sails back into our car. I nod knowingly after reading it and the man pushes ahead. I’m happy to know that people still long for land and siblings will argue no matter what their age.
I doubt the above will occur while we’re on the road today. Still, I am looking forward to the trip. I may not be able to stop time to chat with my automotive neighbors, but I can look for a truck that might be heading to Nebraska.
At some point in the trip, we will all throw out our given lines. Elizabeth will ask, “Are we there yet?” and cry when she is tired but, “I can’t sleep in this chair Mommy!” I’ll tell her to do her best, and we’ll be there before she knows it. Josh will reach his limit for Hannah Montana and past vacation bible school CD’s and claim control of the radio after the first 60 minutes.
Kai will fight falling asleep in the car, as he could miss something really cool if he does, and will whine for about 45 minutes before he acquiesces and brings his thumb up to his mouth for a nap.
I will gather up all of my magazines and books that I saved for the ride and will realize that I need to go to the bathroom…again, and calculate how long I can hold it before mentioning it to Josh.
One of my favorite ways to pass the time in the car is to peek into the compact worlds of the other cars zipping by us. I imagine a young girl of 20 something with perfect skin checking her deep auburn hair in the rearview mirror. She is stunningly beautiful, but you can tell by the way she squints her eyes at her reflection that she is disappointed in her cosmetic efforts today. Thick white clouds hang in the sky as if suspended from swaying braided. The maroon Buick she drives has matching velour interior. I imagine it smelling of flat soda, fruit inspired shampoo and stale bread. Bouncing back in her chair she adjusts the volume knob up on the radio, and pushes her freshly manicured foot down on the accelerator to pass us, trading a fresh lip gloss application for the surge of speed beneath her.
I would like to press pause on all of the cars out on the road with us today and find out where they are going and how they feel about it. I especially notice this desire when I am out traveling at odd hours, early in the morning, before people make their way into halogen lit offices, or in the middle of the night.
Who is running away from home? Who is on their way to catch a flight to a place they have always dreamed of, taking a chance, packing a bag and just doing it. Who is so filled with sorrow and dread that they sit in their car and drive just to move. He drives throughout the town avoiding sleep and her unpredictable dreams. He keeps all thoughts at bay with a turn signal here, and a radio station change there. Bob Dylan squawks poetry with his guitar and he keeps his speed five miles above the limit, a police officer the last person he wants to talk to at this point. Instead the highway turns into a massive game board, each exit an opportunity to make a decision to stay or go. Yet, in truth, he knows not to venture too far away in case sleep will no longer wait patiently in the smooth leather backseat.
In our beloved cars we sit right next to each other, if only for a moment’s passing, so close I could toss a ball into that man’s open truck window. I imagine taping a note to a smooth racquet ball. “How are you doing today? We are off to our vacation house to meet up with friends and I am so excited about it. How about you? Where are you off to?” He reads my note and smiles with pleasure. He likes that I’ve taken the time to inquire about him. Taking one hand off the wheel, he reaches under his seat and grabs a marker. “I’m off to my mother’s in Nebraska. She is auctioning off her farm today and my brother and I both want it. Hopefully I’ll come out on top.” I tell Josh to slow down and roll the large passenger window down. He takes aim and it sails back into our car. I nod knowingly after reading it and the man pushes ahead. I’m happy to know that people still long for land and siblings will argue no matter what their age.
I doubt the above will occur while we’re on the road today. Still, I am looking forward to the trip. I may not be able to stop time to chat with my automotive neighbors, but I can look for a truck that might be heading to Nebraska.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
My fantasy doctor
Forgive me, but I need to rant. With that said, you have been forewarned…
Do you know what this world really needs? We need more female sports medicine doctors. Do you know why I say this? I say this because I am so sick of older male doctors, who are active in exactly zero sports looking at me with their semi-amused faces and asking me questions like, “Well now, why are you doing all of these sports?” Like I should be home cleaning the floor, getting dinner ready for my family or balancing the family budget instead, like being a 30 something female athlete is totally ludicrous, like my interest in sports and doing events is laughable, cute but so unnecessary, like I should be home painting my nails or out shopping for a cute outfit, not training 5 or 6 days a week for an event I won’t place in, for events that I am just thrilled to finish, not to mention an award of any sort.
The silver lining around these experiences is their reactions and flippant comments fuel my feminist fire like you would not believe. For every man that thinks what I am doing is “so cute”. I vow to do more than that dude ever imagined I could do. Uh, how do you plan to run, or bike or swim or anything with that massive chip on my shoulder you say? What am I out to prove? I don’t know. Honestly, I just want to be taken seriously when I go to the doctor for issues that interfere with my activities.
I actually fantasize about finding a doctor that actually listens to what I have to say. I imagine them paying attention and then saying, “Ok, so I hear how important being active is to you. It sounds like your problem could have a few sources. Let’s see if we can break it can’t make a plan of action and see if some modifications could make a difference. It could take a little trial and error, but we’ll do our best to get you back out there as soon as we can.” I am not asking anyone to promise me that they will be able to fix it. But I am so sick of these doctors just patting me on the head and sending me away with a flimsy explanation like, “well, you have really loose ankles and there is nothing we can do about that.” Loose ankles? Well, that is a new one at least.
The very first time I went to an orthopedist I met my fantasy doctor. She happened to be a women, in her late 30’s and SURPRISE she was also a runner. She listened and helped me so much. We talked about different shoes, distances ran, my orthotics, and various strength exercises. She assured me we’d get it all straightened out. We did. The other person who was fantastic was my physical therapist I saw after I cracked my tail bone. His wife was in her 40’s and competed in triathlons. Unlike me, this woman placed in the top 3 of her age division time and time again. He understood the female athlete, he was married to one. In addition to being wonderfully respectful of women athletes, he also provided on-site daycare for his patients receiving physical therapy! How is that for a forward thinking man! Fortunately, I haven't needed physical therapy since then. And that fabulous female doctor? She moved to Michigan.
In a time where the Beijing Olympic commentators joked back and forth about how they have the best job in the world because they get to watch bikini clad women jump around the beach, I long for more men who understand and revere female athletes, regardless of their level of achievement. Surely, an Olympic champion should not be reduced to the type of bikini she is wearing, or be forced to wear such a bikini for extra ratings.
Listen, all I am saying is, if I were a 30 year old male walking into any of these sports medicine clinics, it would be assumed that my participation in sports is good for my physical and mental health and would not be considered cute or sweet or extravagant. The doctor would seriously address the problem. Can you imagine a male doctor smiling, folding his hands across his rounded belly and saying to his male patient, “ Now, why are you doing all these sports anyway.”
I don’t think so.
Here is what I am the most disappointed about though, you ready? I sat there on the paper covered table, wrapped from the waist down in the little sheet they give you, and just took it all in. The condescending smiles, the limited questions that seemed completely irrelevant, the dismissive comment made when I tried to explain what I had read about female athletes and how their injury patterns differ from those in men as a result of varying muscle strengths, the new study that promoted a different kind of strength training to prevent those injuries.
I wanted to say, "Listen buddy, this is important to me, and I am here so that you can help me, not make me feel like I am an 8 year old kid complaining about a skinned knee. Pay attention or just forget it if you could care less, and we won't waste each others time." But I didn't I sat there and waited for his line of questioning to finish, even though it was clear to me it would not lead either of us anywhere.
Lesson learned my friends. This has happened to me one too many times. Next time I will speak up. I will speak up, or walk out. It sounds harsh, but I've had enough. And if it happens, I'll be sure to blog about the experience and let you know how it goes.
Do you know what this world really needs? We need more female sports medicine doctors. Do you know why I say this? I say this because I am so sick of older male doctors, who are active in exactly zero sports looking at me with their semi-amused faces and asking me questions like, “Well now, why are you doing all of these sports?” Like I should be home cleaning the floor, getting dinner ready for my family or balancing the family budget instead, like being a 30 something female athlete is totally ludicrous, like my interest in sports and doing events is laughable, cute but so unnecessary, like I should be home painting my nails or out shopping for a cute outfit, not training 5 or 6 days a week for an event I won’t place in, for events that I am just thrilled to finish, not to mention an award of any sort.
The silver lining around these experiences is their reactions and flippant comments fuel my feminist fire like you would not believe. For every man that thinks what I am doing is “so cute”. I vow to do more than that dude ever imagined I could do. Uh, how do you plan to run, or bike or swim or anything with that massive chip on my shoulder you say? What am I out to prove? I don’t know. Honestly, I just want to be taken seriously when I go to the doctor for issues that interfere with my activities.
I actually fantasize about finding a doctor that actually listens to what I have to say. I imagine them paying attention and then saying, “Ok, so I hear how important being active is to you. It sounds like your problem could have a few sources. Let’s see if we can break it can’t make a plan of action and see if some modifications could make a difference. It could take a little trial and error, but we’ll do our best to get you back out there as soon as we can.” I am not asking anyone to promise me that they will be able to fix it. But I am so sick of these doctors just patting me on the head and sending me away with a flimsy explanation like, “well, you have really loose ankles and there is nothing we can do about that.” Loose ankles? Well, that is a new one at least.
The very first time I went to an orthopedist I met my fantasy doctor. She happened to be a women, in her late 30’s and SURPRISE she was also a runner. She listened and helped me so much. We talked about different shoes, distances ran, my orthotics, and various strength exercises. She assured me we’d get it all straightened out. We did. The other person who was fantastic was my physical therapist I saw after I cracked my tail bone. His wife was in her 40’s and competed in triathlons. Unlike me, this woman placed in the top 3 of her age division time and time again. He understood the female athlete, he was married to one. In addition to being wonderfully respectful of women athletes, he also provided on-site daycare for his patients receiving physical therapy! How is that for a forward thinking man! Fortunately, I haven't needed physical therapy since then. And that fabulous female doctor? She moved to Michigan.
In a time where the Beijing Olympic commentators joked back and forth about how they have the best job in the world because they get to watch bikini clad women jump around the beach, I long for more men who understand and revere female athletes, regardless of their level of achievement. Surely, an Olympic champion should not be reduced to the type of bikini she is wearing, or be forced to wear such a bikini for extra ratings.
Listen, all I am saying is, if I were a 30 year old male walking into any of these sports medicine clinics, it would be assumed that my participation in sports is good for my physical and mental health and would not be considered cute or sweet or extravagant. The doctor would seriously address the problem. Can you imagine a male doctor smiling, folding his hands across his rounded belly and saying to his male patient, “ Now, why are you doing all these sports anyway.”
I don’t think so.
Here is what I am the most disappointed about though, you ready? I sat there on the paper covered table, wrapped from the waist down in the little sheet they give you, and just took it all in. The condescending smiles, the limited questions that seemed completely irrelevant, the dismissive comment made when I tried to explain what I had read about female athletes and how their injury patterns differ from those in men as a result of varying muscle strengths, the new study that promoted a different kind of strength training to prevent those injuries.
I wanted to say, "Listen buddy, this is important to me, and I am here so that you can help me, not make me feel like I am an 8 year old kid complaining about a skinned knee. Pay attention or just forget it if you could care less, and we won't waste each others time." But I didn't I sat there and waited for his line of questioning to finish, even though it was clear to me it would not lead either of us anywhere.
Lesson learned my friends. This has happened to me one too many times. Next time I will speak up. I will speak up, or walk out. It sounds harsh, but I've had enough. And if it happens, I'll be sure to blog about the experience and let you know how it goes.
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