Nanny Tales: Never Done Learning

In an effort to eliminate choking hazards, I tend to cut a toddler's food into small pieces.  I learned a new lesson this week: carrot sticks sliced to safe two-year-old proportions are also perfectly sized to fit comfortably in said toddler's nose.  Who knew.

On a positive note, the slices were long enough to pull back out and therefore did not get stuck.

Essays and Interviews and Fees, Oh My!

I'm applying to grad school.  Yes, I'm already in grad school.  I'm applying for even more.  As one of my Sunday School kids delicately asked me, "WHY???"  That's a good question.  Sometimes, I ask myself the same one.  But when it comes down to it, I can't do what I want to do in Psychology without more graduate work.  So here I go.

Below is a portion of my "personal statement" that I'm submitting in some of my applications.  It is my story.

I grew up in urban Philadelphia where education, diversity, or change were discouraged.  People sometimes graduated from high school but rarely completed college.  My neighbors were heterosexual, Catholic and blue collar.

My family, however, was Protestant, my brothers and I were home schooled, and my mom had a master’s degree.  We were different, in a neighborhood that demanded uniformity.  As a result, I grew up shunned by my neighbors.  We were regularly called “homos” and “fagots” or “Jesus freaks” and “Goddamn Christians.” 

My first encounter with sexuality questions was when my mom explained to me what those epithets meant and why people would use them. She said when people are uncomfortable they sometimes say mean things to make themselves feel better.  

Unfortunately, my home wasn't any more supportive of diversity than my neighborhood. My family was quietly elitist about education and religion.  Having had very few experiences outside this "bubble" until the end of high school, I naively believed that my neighborhood represented all of society.  I didn’t want to be like my neighbors but thought the only other option was to be like my parents.

In college, I realized there are more than two life paths. I knew some things from childhood would remain a part of my identity.  For example, though I knew elitism wasn't the right way to do it, I never questioned my spirituality.  I became fascinated by experiences that were very different from my upbringing.  I eagerly learned about other cultures and ways of life.  I began to observe, appreciate, and love diversity. 

I continued to encounter sexual diversity issues.  I heard people on my campus use the same names I was called as a girl.  In college, “gay” described anything negative or unknown.  My activism began by simply encouraging people to use their words wisely.

My interest in sexuality didn't stop there.  I wanted to educate the campus about such issues.  I made friends with people from the LGBT alliance.  Many of them had horrible experiences with religion.  I thought since I had faith but didn't discriminate, I could teach a different type of encounter, one where sexuality and faith crossed paths in peace.  I shared mutual respect with members of the LGBT community.   I loved hearing their stories.  It was an honor to be an ally.

When, as a master’s student, I was still drawn to sexuality issues I began to wonder if such a path would be a perfect career path.  Personally, I knew how it felt to be marginalized, and I had great empathy for LGBT people as a result.  Professionally, I became more fascinated by sexual identity studies.  I desire now to educate the public and continue to build alliance.   

I'm not good at manners

Sometimes I forget to be sweet.  When I nannied, I was always telling my kids to be "sweet and pleasant." It was my kind, calm, controlled way of saying "cut the freakin' attitude!"

But I'm not very good at following my own advice.  I have a lot of rough edges.  

Today a good-natured and (thankfully!) not-easily-offended coworker said she was still getting used to working with me.    

She recounted this incident from a couple of weeks ago where I put my hands on her shoulders, said "I need to move you," and proceeded to scoot her over a couple of feet. 

I don't even remember doing this.  To Claire, I'm sorry.  And I'll try to be sweeter.  Or at least I'll try to say please before I move you. 

Expert Advice (a.k.a. "How Not to Cook a Turkey")

I cooked Thanksgiving dinner one time.  You know how little kids play dress up?  Their princess dresses and knight outfits are very obviously pretend. Even they know they are playing "make believe."  Me cooking Thanksgiving dinner falls into this same category of pretending.  I was pretending to be grown-up.  The catch is that I never would have confessed to this being part of a make-believe fantasy. I was 19, dammit.  That is grown-up!

I started my adventure by grocery shopping.  On the same day as our dinner.  I bought a 5 lbs turkey (there weren't very many people) and canned vegetables, boxed potatoes, and jarred gravy.  (I also bought fresh heavy whipping cream and vanilla extract and borrowed a friend's electric beater.  In my book, veggies can last in a can for years but whipped cream's gotta be done right.)

When I got home, I called my mom.  That's an important part of grown-up cooking. She said, "WHAT! you bought a FROZEN turkey and you're eating in 5 hours!"

oops.

Coming to the rescue (what moms do best), she walked me through a several-hour mission which I fondly remember as "Operation Save Thanksgiving" or perhaps, "cook that turkey, dammit!" Except without the dammit because she doesn't ever say bad words.

First she had me defrost it in the microwave.  But she forgot to tell me to take the store wrapping off first.  Thankfully, my roommate's boyfriend walked into the kitchen right as I was sticking the whole thing (plastic, netting, metal ring) into the microwave.  While balancing the phone on my shoulder, holding the turkey in a bowl on one hip and opening the microwave with my free hand, I explained to him that I did not need to unwrap it because my mom was telling me what to do and if it needed to be unwrapped before it defrosted she would have told me.  Overhearing this, she bellowed into the phone, "WHAT????!!! IT'S NOT UNWRAPPED?" Apparently, she thought this was self-explanitory.  Kudos to the boyfriend for assisting in "Operation Save Thanksgiving."

After we got it defrosted, she walked me through cooking it in under 3 hours.  A friend asked me later if I thought it turned out dry.  I'm sure it was a little bit (or a lot).  But none of us noticed.  In between the microwaved green beans and instant mashed potatoes, a fresh-cooked turkey seemed extravagant.

By the way, the whipped cream turned out great.  I ran out of space in the kitchen so I made it in the bathroom.  That's what grown-ups do, right?

I Am the Worst of Judgers

During my undergrad, I took a couple of public speaking classes.  I learned that people are uncomfortable with silence.  To fill this silence, people have an "ism" word that they use to fill a pause.  I say "like." Kind of like a lot.  Some of my um classmates um said "um" kinda um frequently.  My professor told us this was a subconscious habit but we had to consciously train ourselves not to use our ism word.  Instead, learn to pause and be quiet. We worked on this skill for the duration of the semester.  We would count in one another's speeches how often we used our ism.  It was amazing how drastically the quality of our speech improved as the frequent use of our ism word decreased.  Our message was clearer, our presentation more professional and our grades were higher.  

I've since realized that I have "ism thoughts."  Just how "like" cramped the delivery of my speeches, needless and unhelpful thought habits are prohibitively distracting  

A few months ago, I decided I was going to stop saying "I'm so tired."  This phrase pops into my head and comes out of my mouth as frequently and effortlessly as flicking on my blinker before I turn.  I was actually making myself more tired.  I was not stating a fact but rather filling a time gap.  It would be more productive of me to be silent in my thoughts.  There's nothing wrong with silence.  

What got me thinking today about this is a significantly more serious thought ism.

While studying in Barnes and Noble, a young walked by me in skinny jeans.  Without even thinking what popped into my head was "He's way to skinny.  Boys shouldn't look like that. Was he really a boy?"  

Wow!  There is my heart exposed.  So much for all of my talk about gender equality.  

I didn't know how often I said "like" until my professor told me after my first speech.  I can beat myself up for thinking automatic judgment, or I can be thankful for an opportunity to examine an ism.  I realized this automatic thought revealed habit of thinking that dates back to my Jr. High years if not before.  I do not want to think judgmentally about another person.  And I really don’t believe that men should look one way and girls should look another.  

In the Bible, Paul, the most prominent New Testament writer, says that he is the worst of sinners (1 Timothy 1:15).  I can echo Paul in saying that I am the most judgmental of people.  My desire to work within gender identity circles is not a result of being perfectly nonjudgmental but rather is knowledge that I need to learn equality just as much as (if not more than) anyone else. 

Nanny Tales: [Surprise!] "Krissa's Growin' a Man"

Fact: working with kids equals a complete lack of personal space and privacy (kids aren't old enough to stand OUTSIDE the stall of a public bathroom until well after they learn to stare at you peeing).

Unlike (most) nosy strangers, kids don't just look.  They also touch.  And ask.  All the time.

Here is a prime example:

I was taking Annabella swimming one summer afternoon.  We had to drive to the pool.  I got in my seat, and she sat directly behind me.  She needed a little help with her seatbelt.  I awkwardly turned around squishing my hips between the back of my seat and the steering wheel while trying to also not pop my shoulder out of joint in order to reach her buckle.  She pointed to my (now) exposed armpit and said, "Hey! What's that black stuff? Krissa's growin a man!"

I do shave.  Really.  I had only not shaved for about two days.  But if you remember from my last post, I have a lot of hair.

We got into a lengthy conversation about how men and women grow hair there.  Often though, women shave it.  This is why you've only seen it on men.  "Oh."

At the pool, she ran into one of her friends.  "Hey guess what, Marshall? Krissa's growin' a man!" This time, I just rolled my eyes.  Thankfully, the smart little fellow was not easily fooled, "No she's not! Krissa's a girl!"

A couple of days later, though, we were sitting on a bench outside our favorite ice cream place.  I was wearing a sleeveless dress and had my arm around her.  Suddenly, she turned and poked her finger IN my (sweaty) armpit.  "So you shaved?"

Thanks for noticing, my sweet friend.

I take risks, dammit!

People ask the most obnoxious questions.  One time my waxing technician asked me how often I have sex.  This was an out-of-the-blue question.  And it's not like she was working down there either.  The conversation went something like this: I complained, "I have so much hair.  I hate it!" And the waxing technician responded, "How often do you have sex?"  To which I asked (sort of as politely as possible) "WTF????????"

Apparently, her theory is that having sex means you grow less hair.  I would have appreciated if she just informed me of this information and left me to do the calculating.  Geez.  Some people.

Last week,  I was at the eye doctor.  I've known him for most of my life.  (That's how long I've been wearing glasses.  I think I came out near sighted...and hairy.)  I explained to him that since I hardly ever wear my glasses outside the house, I decided to go out of my comfort zone a little bit and get a pair of frames with a little bling.  He responded, "Wow.  Here I thought you were caged in your comfort zone."

Hmph.