I saw the film Julie and Julia last night. Along with giving me the desire to cook lots of extravagant French cuisine, the movie also reminded me a bit of me, back when I started this blog. It (my blog) was an outlet--a way to reassure myself that I wasn't losing the "me" that I had discovered in Athens, now that I was living in Macon, a very non-Athens type of place.
In a similar vein, I'm realizing more and more every day that, in my new roles as Wife and Mother, I need constant reminders that my life now, although unfathomably different, is still one in which I can be "me." I wish that somehow those reminders would be more easily accessible, found in more obvious places. I sometimes wonder where that spontaneous, wanna-be-edgy girl from those days is, where she's hidden herself in this flabby and frumpily-dressed housewife exterior. I know she's here.
Cal and I go back and forth on this particular issue. I feel badly for him as he struggles to understand this identity crisis that I'm facing. He automatically associates my wistful walks down memory lane as reflections of my feelings for him, or for Parks. Wonders if I regret my decisions from the last few years, decisions that changed who I was then into who I am now. And that is SO far from the truth, and I hope that I have convincingly conveyed that reality to him.
My life, though different now, is no worse, and I am no less happy and, actually, am often happier than I was then. It's just different. And my sometimes-inner-turmoil is not due to a lack of satisfaction in my new roles; it is, rather, a consequence of my trying to reconcile this new identity to my old one. To mold it into an identity that is uniquely mine, in some way. To somehow figure out the paradox by fulfilling that ever-present and always-strong urge of mine to be independent without compromising the wonderful fact that I am not, and don't ever again want to be, alone. I am an integral part of, first, a pair, and, next, a trio. And I love the truth of the fact that I am no longer one.
I merely want the segment of the pair (or trio) that is me to truly be ME. Not some watered-down version, or some vain attempt to squeeze myself into the typecast of a Christian housewife and mother. (Because I think we can all agree that, unfortunately, the "me" of which I speak is not found anywhere remotely close to that perfect, Donna Reed stereotype.)
I am blessed. I have an amazing husband who loves me for who I was before, who I am now, and who I am trying to be in the future. He has to speak the truth in love, occasionally (Miriam, you're 31. You're married. You're a mother. The three of us live on one teacher's salary. At some point, you've got to realize that it's just not practical to flit off to Las Vegas whenever you find a great deal on Travel Zoo), but he constantly reminds me that he did not marry me because I'm an impeccable housekeeper, and that he cooked (quite well) for himself in the 12 years or so that existed for him between living under his mother's care and living under mine.
I, on the other hand, remind him on the occasions when I long for my lonely days and he gets concerned that his presence is the problem, that my independence and utter contentment with my singleness is what drew him --lonely and DIScontent-- to me in the first place. That if I had never had that enthusiasm for the time in my life before I was married, he, perhaps, would have never found me as mystifying (and, therefore, attractive) as he did.*
What does all of this have to do with Julie and Julia? Well, Julie claimed that her blog revived her soul and gave her new life. While I won't go that far with the analogy, I do wonder if I, myself, shouldn't find some project about which to write on a regular basis. A new challenge, a fresh way to bring myself out of the identity crisis rut that I've been in for a while. A way to make my life uniquely my life.
Then again, you all know me well enough to know that if I were truly able to commit to anything of the magnitude of which a project like this would be, I would, once again, have a new identity crisis on my hands. Me? Commit? Finish? Ha!
Or would that type of crisis be similar to the one I'm plodding through now? An identity that's not worse. Not a regression. Rather, one out of which I emerge better, more complete, closer to the woman that God is molding me to eventually be?
I don't know. Maybe I never will. But it makes for an interesting thought, late on a Sunday night.
*Cal will likely wake up tomorrow morning, mortified to be reading such personal ramblings about our private life. But, hey. He's written about my breast pumps on numerous occasions. I think I have some wiggle room here.
9.27.2009
9.04.2009
Lessons on Life
Parks is asleep and Cal's at the school's first home game, and, since I have the time, I feel like I should blog.
My classes at Macon State are turning out to be a lot of fun. I was hesitant at first about whether or not I'd like teaching at night, but, as it turns out, I really love it. The schedule seems to fit my natural tendencies: I hate mornings, so I can stay in my pj's as long as I want to because Parks sure doesn't care; I get an energy spurt at night after dinner, and that's about when my classes start. Our only drawback is that Cal still has to get up and go quite early in the mornings, so he's ready for bed when I walk in the door at 10:15 on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I, on the other hand, usually need some time to unwind once I get home.
Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of my classes is the variety of students that I have. I wondered before I started about what they'd be like, particularly since I have night classes. In a lot of ways, I think that the time of day is what has brought me the wide range of people; I imagine that the day courses are filled with your typical, run-of-the-mill 18-year-olds, fresh out of high school and not real sure they're happy to be in a classroom.
These students of mine, however, seem to want to be there. Most are older than the average student, and many of them have had life experiences that, for one reason or another, prevented them from heading straight to college after receiving their diplomas. Because of that fact, they are fascinating to me.
The school is in Warner Robins, home of Robins Air Force Base, and, therefore, a lot of the folks that I teach have a military background. They've seen places and experienced events that I can only envision in the remotest regions of my imagination. Others have had close family members die tragically, and several have suffered through abusive relationships.
What an educational experience for me, a naive 31-year-old from upper-middle class Georgia! I have, blessedly, never experienced the loss and pain and (literal) warfare that some of these folks count as part of their everyday lives.
Last night, as I was checking over the outlines that I had the classes write for their narrative essays due next week, I began to realize that I might be able to guide them through the how-to's of writing a decent paper, but beyond that ability, I'm the student. I truly believe that, come the end of final exam night in December, I will be thanking them for all that they will have taught me.
My classes at Macon State are turning out to be a lot of fun. I was hesitant at first about whether or not I'd like teaching at night, but, as it turns out, I really love it. The schedule seems to fit my natural tendencies: I hate mornings, so I can stay in my pj's as long as I want to because Parks sure doesn't care; I get an energy spurt at night after dinner, and that's about when my classes start. Our only drawback is that Cal still has to get up and go quite early in the mornings, so he's ready for bed when I walk in the door at 10:15 on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I, on the other hand, usually need some time to unwind once I get home.
Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of my classes is the variety of students that I have. I wondered before I started about what they'd be like, particularly since I have night classes. In a lot of ways, I think that the time of day is what has brought me the wide range of people; I imagine that the day courses are filled with your typical, run-of-the-mill 18-year-olds, fresh out of high school and not real sure they're happy to be in a classroom.
These students of mine, however, seem to want to be there. Most are older than the average student, and many of them have had life experiences that, for one reason or another, prevented them from heading straight to college after receiving their diplomas. Because of that fact, they are fascinating to me.
The school is in Warner Robins, home of Robins Air Force Base, and, therefore, a lot of the folks that I teach have a military background. They've seen places and experienced events that I can only envision in the remotest regions of my imagination. Others have had close family members die tragically, and several have suffered through abusive relationships.
What an educational experience for me, a naive 31-year-old from upper-middle class Georgia! I have, blessedly, never experienced the loss and pain and (literal) warfare that some of these folks count as part of their everyday lives.
Last night, as I was checking over the outlines that I had the classes write for their narrative essays due next week, I began to realize that I might be able to guide them through the how-to's of writing a decent paper, but beyond that ability, I'm the student. I truly believe that, come the end of final exam night in December, I will be thanking them for all that they will have taught me.
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