To Have a Bizarre Fascination

We’re all individuals, right?  We have our quirks.  There’s no reason to be ashamed.  Our differences make us unique.  Some people spend their lives trying to conform to the standards of “normalcy,” and that’s OK, if it’s important to you.  I, however, will never be able to deny that some specific things interest me.  Fascinate me.  Beckon to me.  And very few things draw my absolute attention like garbage trucks. 

That’s right, you heard me:  Garbage trucks.

I’m not ashamed.  Have you ever seen the way those big trucks extend their mechanical arms and grab the can, then robotically lift it up and empty the trash into the giant thing-a-ma-jig?  COOLEST THING EVER!!!

Now, I have no extreme fascination with robotics, engineering, or refuse.  I just think garbage trucks are cool.  When I was two years-old I thought garbage men were cool.  Every week my twin sister and I would go out and greet the garbage man and watch him empty our garbage cans into the truck and watch the truck mash the garbage.  That was cool, too.  I’m pretty sure he even said, “it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.”  By the time I was three or four we moved to the country and we had to haul our garbage to town in the back of the truck.  That was not cool.

I could probably evaluate my life and delve into the deepest corners of my mind in an attempt to figure out just what it is that draws me to garbage trucks, but what’s the use?  I won’t think any more or any less of them.  It’s not like answering the question “why do I have this bizarre fascination” will unlock my deepest personal mysteries and lead to self-discovery, self-mastery, or higher understanding.  I just think garbage trucks are cool.  That’s all there is to it.

If you have any bizarre fascinations, please feel free to share them in the comments!

To Not be a Mother on Mother's Day

My experiences and my perspective are totally my own.  I acknowledge that many others might have different emotions associated with Mother’s Day, but these are mine:

When I was a kid, Mother’s Day was for Mom.  One day I found myself, 19 years old, living alone in North Dakota, 200 miles from Mom.  The day was for her, sure, but I wasn't just thinking about chatting with her on the phone that afternoon.  I sat in church by myself, and an extremely clear notion came to my mind:  I’m a mother—I just don’t have my children with me yet.  And it’s true.  I will have children one day, they will be “mine” and they will probably make me bracelets out of pipe cleaners and plastic beads for Mother’s Day (And I hope I’ll be a big enough person to actually think that the jewelry is beautiful and wear it proudly to church).

So Mother’s Day is for me.

I sometimes get the sense that mothers set themselves apart from women who have not woken up with babies in the middle of the night, or who have never had the magical power to heal owies with kisses.  I might never have babies.  I might adopt older children who sleep through the night (that is, until they sneak out of the house at midnight, and then I’ll have some extra special strong mothering to do).  I might never know what it’s like to give birth or nurse my child.  I might have children who balk at affection, but are in need of a different type of deep and lasting comfort.  Or I might not have any children that I can call “mine.”

I’m 27, single, and “childless,” but I have mothered.  If you tell me that I haven’t been a strong and permanent influence on my nephews, just listen to three year old Caleb call me Super Auntie.  If you tell me that all the teenagers I've worked with called me “mom” for no reason, I’ll find no less than 20 young people who can tell you that I was important to them.

When people say things like, “I have a sense about these things, I’m a mom.”  Or, “if you need someone to talk to, I’m good at it.  I’m a mom,” I struggle to not take offense.  I have so many of the same skills that these proud mothers do, but I can't claim the same title.  My maternal aptitude is here, but my children are not.  In so much of my work with adolescents, I have received feedback that I have a “calming presence, much like a mother,” and that’s because I am a mom.  I just don’t have my children with me yet.

I don’t expect special recognition on Mother’s Day.  I’m not even sure I want flowers, chocolates, or pictures or jewelry made by children.  I wouldn't mind it, though, if women weren't categorized by those who have children, and those who do not.  Because where do I belong?  I don’t have my very own children yet, but I do have children, and I have mothered.  Am I both?  Maybe I am.