Weathering the Storm

As you know, this past Sunday tornadic weather hit Illinois and other parts of the Midwest.  The Bears game had an almost two-hour delay.  Some people lost everything they owned.  Some people lost their lives.  While we did not hear the sirens in our neighborhood, we were under tornado warnings for an hour or two.  My prayers go out to those who were hit by this storm. 

I do not write this to sound at all trite about the magnitude of the storm or downplay what anyone has experienced.  Rather, I write this from my perspective - trying to protect my son from both weather and fear.  I made his lunch and sent him downstairs, where Lino was working and listening to music.  I made my lunch and followed them.  (We rarely, if ever, eat in our basement.)  We tried to have fun and keep the mood light, particularly for Jackson's sake.  But I also had flashes back to when Lino and I were early dating.  We would sit at the table, just listening to music and playlists on the computer, talking, singing, and sharing our favorite songs.  On a few rare occasions, we would dance in the kitchen.  After the storms passed, I realized what a precious and rare experience we had that afternoon in our basement.  It also made me think of how much storms can reflect life, in general.  Out came a poem.  I share it hesitantly, as writing blogs doesn't intimidate me, but sharing poetry and the likes (paintings, etc.) makes me nervous and shy and scared.  (Putting myself out there artistically is very intimidating for me!)  But here it is, none the less...

Tornado Dance

 

Windows wide for the warm fresh air

A November day without a care

Supper was made as the skies grew dark

Wind roared over the song of the lark

 

Music blaring and laughter abound

Drowning the outside wicked sound

Offer up a strange new chance

And we chose to do our tornado dance.

 

Down to the basement for safe keeping

Too much danger for upstairs sleeping

Smiles on our faces as we’re all together

Safe and sound, whatever the weather

 

Music blaring and laughter abound

Drowning out the wicked sound

Offer up a strange new chance

And we chose to do our tornado dance.

 

Who knows what comes

Today or tomorrow?

We can live in fear and sorrow

Or take refuge in a tiny room

And even though the threats may loom

We chose to do our tornado dance.

 

Pains unknown, left alone too soon

Or angered, hurt, battered and bruised

Both were broken, but both took a chance

And we chose to do our tornado dance

 

Music blaring and laughter abound

Drowning out the wicked sound

Offer up a strange new chance

And we chose to do our tornado dance.

 

God, a family, music and a chance

And every day we choose to tornado dance.

Misogynists are not "real" men

I write a lot when I'm inspired.  I go through droughts, then my brain starts percolating.  So beware, I may post a bunch over the next few days.  I'm inspired by the people I love, by pain I see in others, by weather and tragedy and beauty in nature, and the sad, misguided foolishness I see in others.

I recently discovered a blog dedicated to "reclaiming masculinity."  My first thought was, "Cool!  I love my manly man and hope to raise a boy to be masculine in the most Godly sense of the word."  Boy, was I disappointed!  These men were not claiming Christian views of manhood, but even without the religious aspect, they are so far off-base, it's borderline silly...

Where do I begin?  Well, I will limit my rants to their issues with me...  For starters, women should be ashamed if they have shortly cropped hair.  To sum them up, "why would anyone remove their primary symbol of feminine fertility..."  Uh, well, because PERSONALLY my femininity is not reduced to the length of my hair and my fertility is completely unrelated to my scalp.  I had long hair for a very long time.  Some of my Chicago friends hardly recognized in pictures with longer hair.  I enjoyed having long hair, for a while.  I felt pretty with it, sometimes.  But when I cut my hair off, I felt more feminine, beautiful, alive, confident, and well, ME than I ever did with long hair.  I don't pull it back in a ponytail.  I cannot hide behind it in uncomfortable circumstances.  So I've almost been forced to have more confidence. 

Speaking of which, they don't think a woman should be confident.  Rather, she should be "fragile and vulnerable."  Do these men want a china doll they can shatter if she doesn't bend to their every whim?  My man LIKES having a confident woman who knows her own mind, has opinions, doesn't need to be told what to do, when to do it, what to wear, or how to think.  He likes that he is not responsible for entertaining me or bossing me around.  He likes that I have friends and interests I developed independently.  He doesn't want someone overly clingy or needy and that requires confidence.  That confidence attracted him to me initially.  He knows I absolutely adore him and love being with him.  But he also loves that I don't twiddle my thumbs waiting for him to come home and my life to resume.

These so-called "men" also declared that a woman's value is primarily determined by her fertility and beauty.  Oh. My. Stars.  I don't know if any of these males have found lifelong spouses or consider children trophies or what ideas they're rooting into a new generation.  But who determines beauty?  Oh yeah, it's in the eye of the beholder.  Obviously, with my short hair (and I'm sure other equally undesirable physical qualities I must possess) I would not be beautiful in their eyes.  But I am to my husband.  And I've been told by others who have no obligation to me whatsoever that I'm not unpleasant to behold.  I've seen some women who the world holds up and says, "This is beauty."  Sometimes I agree.  Sometimes, I think to myself, "Eh...not so much."  That doesn't mean these misogynists would agree with my perspective. 

As for fertility...  I cannot even begin to express how much this sentiment angers me!  I don't owe anyone an explanation, much less an apology, for how many children I do or do not have.  I don't owe anyone information as to how many I want, why I have one, or why the Duggars have 19, (God bless them!)  A woman's fertility, ability, or choice of birthing children is not what makes one a "real" or "feminine" woman.  A woman's loveliness is not in the length of her hair.  A woman's beauty is in her heart.  I pity any man who cannot see that, for they are missing deep and remarkable treasures.  Their lives are empty for lack of the warmth and wealth of a woman's tenderness and kindness and spunk and love.  (I do not say that to imply life with marriage is hollow; but life without relationships (platonic or otherwise) is less rich.)

Their last little issue with me that I will address in this particular post was that "being a stay at home mother should be shamed, not celebrated.  Why should she go shopping every day, spending his money while he slaves away in a cubicle?"  Uh, sure.  Obviously, these people have never met or held a conversation with a SAHM.  My husband is the first to tell you that my job is much harder than his; that he would rather go to work than be with the boy, do the dishes, the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking, the errands all day every day.  And, oh yeah, shopping with a toddler?  Not all it's cracked up to be!  If I go "fun" shopping, I don't take the kid.  That's either "me" time or girlfriend time and that means hubby is home and wanting time with the boy.  And I don't go "fun" shopping all that often.  (But even when I do, I rarely buy stuff...)  Have you ever tried to go grocery shopping with a three-year-old who refuses to sit in the cart, wants to "help" and grabs the wrong things, wants to hug and high-five EVERY PERSON HE ENCOUNTERS, then tries to "help" bag the groceries?  Yep, that's my idea of a good time!  Really? 

Needless to say, these cavemen are not about recapturing masculinity.  They are not promoting "real" manhood as opposed to brow-beaten, whipped, or feminized versions of manhood.  I am all for "real" manhood.  I am all for my husband being strong, but that does not mean I must be weak.  I love that my husband takes care of the yard, but that doesn't mean I am incapable.  I love that he's the head of our family, but that doesn't make me a doormat under his feet.  I am his partner.  He is mine.  We complement one another.  We go together.  We fit.  His willingness to let me be his partner, to want me for his mate, to treat me as the equally intelligent and contributing member of our marriage that I am exemplify his masculinity in a million ways these foolish men will never experience.