Urg, But Not Eep

I've been mulling over modesty, lately.  Elena's reached That Age (already?!?) so she and I got to have a few... Conversations (I know!!!) this last week.  Along with a changing body comes a change in how people perceive you, though, and while she's never had any problem showing modesty in dress, she has a long way to go for behavior, especially when it comes to how she moves in skirts.  How do I really explain modesty without getting into the one Conversation I haven't had with her and she doesn't (well, shouldn't) need to have for another couple years?

Modesty has been a pretty hot topic on Facebook lately.  There have been lots of links to articles and blog posts.  There was one that noted that the word "modest"  is only used twice in the bible, both times in an "of modest means" sort of way, advising the saints to not flaunt whatever prosperity they may rise to.  It reminded me of The Book of Mormon's mentions of fine-twined linens in the pride cycles.


On the more usual interpretation, she knows--because we've said it many times--that we keep ourselves, especially the areas covered by our undies and said undies themselves, covered up because they're not other people's business.  I was looking for something more solid than that, good as it is.  I had an epiphany, a week ago, and was able to relate the topic to something analogous but not as fraught with subtext and blame-throwing.  It takes the form of a quick Socratic question session:

Is it impolite for your brother to read your personal thoughts that you put in your private journal?  Of course it is.  That being said, is it then impolite for you to hang poster-sized prints of the contents of that journal around the house?  Your answer to that will say much. 

Then I saw this.  It's a hypothetical conversation between a man and his son.  It made me want to formulate my own for my daughter.

~
Sweetheart, there are many kinds of men out there.  And they've all looked at you.  It's because you're becoming a woman.  It's in the nature of things.  ...

It's the way they look that matters, though.  There are some men that will look at you and only see a piece of meat.  You've done nothing to deserve that, and there's nothing you can do to prevent it.  Those men will always see every woman that way.  Ignore them, they're not worth your time.  Trying to beat them in that game is a losing proposition.  It's like wrestling a muddy pig--you get dirty and the pig has fun.

There are, however, good men who will look at you as a whole person, one with thoughts and dreams, skills and talents, and a sense of wonder and adventure that will leave him breathless.  They are the men who don't want to only see you for your legs or curves, as much as those things are attractive to them, who want to respect you and treat you right.  Those are the men that are worth encouraging, those are the ones you want to attract.  For their sakes, not the others', it is most polite and most fair to not make them work so hard at maintaining the self-discipline they've been working on.

Remember, your responsibility is to see yourself dressed before you leave your room, and not undo that work once you leave it.  The man's responsibility is to see you for who you are, not what your clothing may or may not hint at.  Both sides work together.  They share equal responsibility with equal reward. 

"...But What Does it Have to do With Flying an Airplane?”

I will not write the post that apologizes for not posting.  You've all read it on a hundred other blogs.  No I haven't blogged.  And I haven't read yours, either.  And that's OK.

With my mood swings getting more jagged, the last couple months, I've retreated more and more.  I made the horrific mistake of trying to read the Hunger Games series during one of these retreats.  Good books, but not for when your mental state is already tippy.  In an effort to keep myself stable, I've pulled back my friendships, too.  Real, tangible friends; on real, tangible outings; with real, "tangible" sunlight; on real, tangible pool water or playgrounds.  Even those aren't that often, but they give me solid ground, both literal and metaphorical, to stand on.  I suppose I've followed President Uchtdorf's advice about throttling back without really even thinking about it.

Strangely enough, my new footing is echoed in the ideas presented here, too.



As part of finding my center, I changed my social behavior.  To give me the foundation of warmth and friendship I need to build myself back up, I rely on live conversations with live people.  The need to edit, to present myself, to find the perfect whatever in the endless PR campaign of blogging and even Facebook, was just too much.  I dropped everything that took more than 30 seconds of planning.

So no, you're not likely to see an uptick in posting.  I am, however, much healthier for it.  And that's what matters.

Backfill

It's been a weird Winter, no weirder for the fact that it's May and it's finally starting to feel like Spring.  It started last October when I got shingles. 

As shingles go, it was an incredibly mild case, just a quarter-sized patch next to my right knee, but my skin felt like I had a particularly obnoxious sunburn for a week or two.  The one time James kicked my rash I curled up and cried for ~5 minutes.  Figuring that this is something that might actually need a doctor's attention I went and looked one up.  It's been a while, so I was a New Patient and I had to wait two weeks.  By then, everything had pretty much cleared up but they did a full check-up.  Including mental health.  By the end of the day I'd already seen a psychologist and had appointments with both a therapist and a psychiatrist. 

I'm usually just fine with being mildly bipolar, but with then-current events compounding things they wanted to let me talk to someone.  I went to therapy every week for months.  I met with the psychiatrist.  I got a prescription that I found out 2 days later I'm not supposed to take.   Well, I can, but Lucy can't, so I can't either.  I talked about what was going on in my life and we discussed somethings that might make things better.  And when my therapist left in March I just never went back.  It felt like all the talking did was either frustrate me because it was only talking and not actually doing anything, or make me feel sad and helpless, which is counter-productive.  It also made me fold up in on myself.  I didn't really talk to anyone else.  I certainly didn't blog.

So why now?  It's Spring.  New starts.  Also, my cat.  And that just cannot be properly covered on Facebook.

Simon, Cat

My kids love watching Simon's Cat.  I'm pretty sure half the humor, for them, is that Simon is the name of their cat.  I know that half the time they can't remember if the Simon in the movies is the cat or the person.

We got him on a camping trip only a week or two after we got married.  Someone had left a litter of kittens and he came up and introduced himself to us.  He was such a little puff of a kitten, too.  For the longest time, he said "Mac" instead of "Mau."

He used to stalk my feet in the early mornings.  Only mine.  Jonathan would throw him out of the room.  I'd throw him out of the house.  He wanted to be sneaking through the bushes, anyway.  There were whole flocks of birds that would flutter around our patio, teasing him.

He was never much of a hunter, though.  He caught a little garter snake, once, and it got away and slithered into the hall closet.  I stayed outside until Jonathan found it and relocated it.  Simon caught a toad, too.  He was so proud of himself, trotting up with the bumpy little thing in his mouth.  Until the toad did what all toads do when you catch them.  Simon's face suddenly got this distressed/disappointed look and he spat the toad out.  I don't think he ever really tried, after that.

As a bobtail, he got pretty stocky.  Any time someone visited they'd tell us we have a big cat.  I'm always amazed at how small their cats are.

 He was my kids' first friend and, for all but Joseph, their first word, too.  He let Elena chew his ears and use his head as leverage when she was learning to stand.

He let Joseph pull fur and chase him around the house.

He was fascinated by James' smells and just happy to hang out with the quiet one.

He took naps with Lucy and they would meow to each other.

This morning, the kids found him on our front lawn.  He'd been in a fight, or something.  It wasn't horrific, but it wasn't exactly pretty, either.  Jonathan got him washed and wrapped up.  Elena kept asking to see him, over and over, even though she knew he was gone.  My mom offered a place where we could bury him.  We tried to explain it to James as best we could and even let him say bye, but I really don't know how much he understood.  Joseph immediately asked if we could get a puppy.

This is going to be a really big adjustment for us.  The kids have always had him there.  The only time I've not had a pet was those two weeks between the wedding and the camping trip.  I feel a little lost, right now.  It gives me a bit of comfort, though, to imagine him chasing bugs and maybe wandering around Dad's place for a while.  Adieu, mon chat.  We'll see you later.