No Man's Land

(As a brief preface to this post:  I have decided to dismantle my Random Tamra blog.  The reason I set it up in the first place has gone away, and I'm ready to bring these two parts of my life and writing back together in one place.  Hence, this post is on here instead of over there.)

Recently I have been feeling something that I can't quite define.  I attempted to verbally explain it to Rob, and in the process explain it to myself, but I botched it up.  So, while sitting in a parking lot with an hour of time to kill, I wrote this up.

NO MAN'S LAND

I have become something different, but what it is, I do not know.  Before I was something definite and easily defined.  I was a stay-at-home mom.  There is only one real qualification to meet this definition:  don't work.  Even while I was in school and devoting many hours to my studies, I still called myself a stay-at-home mom.  Going to school didn't give me a paycheck, so I could view it as a trifle, a hobby.  It didn't break the rules.

But now I bring in money.  I leave the home, drive to a location, do my thing, and get paid for it.  I enjoy my job.  A lot.  And I happen to be quite good at it.  But I can no longer pretend to be a stay-at-home mom.  I am not, and I know that.  This was the goal all along, of course - to become an interpreter.  Mission accomplished.  Cheers all around.

And yet every time I think about what this makes me, I cringe.  I am "one of those," then.  I am a working mom.  This seemed simpler before when we "needed" the money (a concept which is quickly losing meaning to me).  It gave my working a purpose, a place of some honor.  Now the driving motivator isn't necessity, so it must be something else.  What?  I ask myself and I know my response:  because I like it.

My own stereotypes of my new category betray me, though.  Is this really something you do because you like it?  Or are you just wanting a bigger house and a fancier car and a better vacation package?  You are greedy, my voice says.  Of course that's not true, I answer back.  I had been looking for something new, and why not get paid for it?  So the life you had before wasn't enough for you, then?  You refused to find contentment in your life.  No.  Your children aren't enough for you?  The kids go to school now!  All summer I worked 12 hours a month.  We took vacations.  I was with them!  And where are you now?  ...  Yeah, you're at work.  Waiting for the next appointment to start and your son is at home sick.  ...  He's sitting on the couch wishing you were there with him.  He asked you to cancel today.  ...  I couldn't cancel.  I told him that.  Because work is too important?  Because I COMMITTED to be there.  You committed to him 7 years ago.  When you gave birth to him.  I don't need this.  So your husband is at home while you do all your important money grabbing.  Enough.  I won't stop.  You haven't resolved this.  I haunt you.

And thus it goes.  This feeling, it's not straight guilt, though clearly there is some there, lurking in dark corners and springing out to catch me when I least expect it.  It's more complicated than that.  There is this sense that I now don't belong anywhere.  I am a working mother who identifies more with the stay-at-home moms, a group I can not even possibly claim membership in.  I have identified as a mother ONLY for all of my adult life.  I chose it.  I wanted it.  Have I now just thrown it away to grab a new title that I don't even like?  Do I now get grouped with workaholics?

My entire being screams, "This is not me!"  But I do not have an answer for what I AM, then.  I am not either Group A or Group B, but I have never heard of a Group C to claim membership in.  So I am stuck, on the fringes of two groups.

It strikes me, now, that this is familiar.  I remember the growing pains of entering the Deaf community.  I remember feeling torn in two, with two distinct groups of friends who literally can't even communicate with each other.  I choose, still, to spend a good amount of my social time with Deaf groups, and yet because I can hear, I am obviously and clearly Hearing.

But I am not Hearing ONLY any more.  I have been told so.  While attending a function recently, there were two separate groups.  I sat down before I realized what was happening, but quickly saw that I was sitting with the majority Hearing group.  The problem was that the only people I knew at this event were the Deafies.  I sat there for a while, watching them signing, wondering what to do.  I didn't know any of them well enough to join the group through a Friendship claim, but I felt that I didn't quite belong in the Hearing seats either.  Finally a friend arrived, saw me sitting in the wrong place and encouraged me to come over.  I mentioned, upon walking over, that the room was in two groups:  Hearing and Deaf.  My friend said, "You belong over here."  "Yes, but I am not Deaf."  The whole group signed at once, "Doesn't matter."  I looked at my friend and protested, "But I am, in reality, Hearing."  "You are not Hearing any more."

Still, I am not Deaf, either.  I am on the fringes of both groups, not quite belonging either place.  There is, though, a third group, a Group C:  Interpreters.  This is my job, then, to belong enough to both groups that I can bridge the gap between them.  And Group C has a well-defined existence, with support groups and meetings and publications.

Where is my motherhood Group C?  I have created my own support group of sorts.  I have asked lightly working mothers that I love and respect, and who "have it all together" how they've made it work, balancing both worlds.  I have received their advice and encouragement.  It's my tiny revolt.  My refusal to belong to a Group B that I dislike.  See?  I say to myself.  There are others like me!  I should feel relieved.  

I should.  I know it.  I really, really should.

This Last Week Was Awesome! (an update)

I miss my kids.  Not much else to say about that.

This last week was awesome!  A report.

It's a Sign

Last Sunday, right as I was walking out the door for church, Rob called.  He said, "There's a man here who just moved into our ward.  He's deaf.  Could you ..." and before he could say anything else, I said, "... interpret for him?  Today?  No."  Rob said, "No, not interpret.  Just talk to him."  Oh.  Sure.  I can talk to him.

I've interpreted before.  After taking only 1 year of ASL in college, I had a crash course summer in interpreting.  A man showed up to the CA Singles' Ward I attended, and guess who was the only person who knew any sign at all?  Me.  So I "interpreted."  That's sort of a joke.  For the first few weeks, we just chatted, because I couldn't interpret anything.  But, by the end of the summer, I was markedly better.  It was a great experience.  But that was 11 years ago.

Fortunately, there's another guy in our ward now who actually interprets for church events.  Unfortunately, he's not usually at church these days cause he's really busy.  So guess who interpreted this Sunday?  Me.  (My new line is, "You know what they say:  In the world of the blind, the one-eyed man is interpreter.")  The talks were impossible, though, and I said, "I don't know how to sign that" a lot.  The last talk was about the Constitution and freedom of religion.  They (the man and his wife, both deaf) taught me the signs for "Constitution" (they weren't sure, either), and "religion", but when the speaker said, "establishment clause," I knew we were toast.  I think I was able to convey the idea that it's good to teach your children the Constitution so that then they can distinguish between good laws and bad laws.

God is good.  Church is great.  Rah rah.

Devin and Jamay are really great, though.  Super patient.  I think they just appreciate the effort.  And I'll get better.  I LOVE ASL.  I've loved it from the first minute of my first class.  ...  Did you know you can go to school and take ONLY ASL-centered classes?  Woah, man.  Sign me up!  Cincinnati State, you are now on my radar.

If you now hear me talk about ASL a lot, or if I start signing while speaking, or randomly start reciting colors or numbers or days of the week, you'll know why.

Teeth and Drugs

The dentist I go to is a dentist who caters to scared people.  They offer you laughing gas for cleanings, for heaven's sake!  I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm terrified of the dentist.  I don't need laughing gas for cleanings, but when there's a high-pitched drill involved, hook me up.

On Wednesday I went in for 3 hours and $600 of dental work.  I was ... super happy about it.  I didn't eat breakfast, because I knew there was a high likelihood that the food wouldn't stay down anyway.  On the way there, I was hoping the building had been blown up overnight.  I took deep breaths and was trying to find my happy place.  When they sat me in the chair, they asked how I was doing.  I think this is a joke that dental assistants like.  I wanted to reply to this "funny" joke that I wished all dentists would go to Hell where they belong, but instead I laughed and said, "I'm doing great."  I looked out the window at the trees and tried, successfully, to not cry.

And then they gave me laughing gas and told me to relax.  Relaxing didn't seem possible.  At the dentist you don't RELAX.  Ever.  ...  And then the laughing gas hit me.  ...  Laughing gas is magic.

It gave me bad dreams, if dreams are what they're called.  I was in and out of it, and had a hard time distinguishing between my sensory inputs and my thoughts.  When I closed my eyes, they all melded together in a weird way that I didn't like.  BUT, I didn't curl my toes or clinch my fists even once at the sound of the drill, and that, my friends, is a miracle.

Thursday

July 8th happens to be my dad's birthday.  Happy b-day dad.  This year it also happened to be the day my house got up to 93 degrees.  I've become used to 88 degrees.  90 degrees isn't even so bad.  But 93 is hot.  Period.  Thankfully, just as I was thinking that Hell is Ohio in July without the AC (dentists, prep yourselves), a storm rolled in and my house dropped 5 degrees in half an hour.  Thank you, thank you, rain storm.

Also significant about Thursday:  Tank went away.  Rob and I spent this last weekend at Mammoth Cave by ourselves, so Tank needed a babysitter.  Rob's sister, Chiara, came down and picked him up.  We ate lunch here (before it got to 93 degrees inside the house) and then Tank was hauled away.  ...  And I was all alone wondering what in the heck I should do with my time.  ...  You know, when the kids are around, I can think of a TON of things to do if they weren't crawling all over me.  But then, when they're gone, I just want them to come back.

I did do a few significant things without my kids around:
1 - I read a book, uninterrupted.
2 - I only got out my own plate for dinner.
3 - I didn't once, all day, listen to someone whine at me.

Weird, right?

And then our Mammoth Cave adventure started, and that's a different post.