the turtle speaks

Rules for talking to a woman about pregnancy

I continue to hear stories about folks who presume a woman is in the family way, making unfortunate and awkward statements as a result. Something must be done. As a public service to humanity, I make available the following list of rules as to when you may comment on a woman’s pregnancy:

1. If the woman has told you. This includes:
   • Her saying “I’m pregnant” or similar
   • Attending a baby shower clearly in her honor
   • Apparel worn by the woman indicating pregnancy (“Bun in oven” or “Baby on Board” t-shirts, etc.)
2. Physically seeing the baby emerge from the womb.
3. There is no rule three.

Even so, rule #1 includes an implicit 1-2 week time limit. I had a friend who, having been told she was pregnant, asked his neighbor when her baby was due. She told him it was born two months ago. Ouch.

Rule #2 is fairly foolproof, though a little awkward.

Otherwise, that’s it. No comments based on appearance, moodiness, swelling, excessive shopping at Babies-R-Us, randomly painting a bedroom baby blue, etc. This is, of course, an important corollary to the questions you don’t ask a woman.

Demonstrated love fail

(At OU game tonight)

Me: George, this is great. I’m watching one of my favorite things with one of my favorite people. Do you know who that is?

George: Me?

Me: Yes. I have three favorite people I love a whole bunch. Know who they are?

George: Isaac, me, and [pause] yourself?

Me: No buddy, I was thinking of someone else.

George: [pause, then, questioningly] Is it mommy?

I may not be the best husband in the world, but I thought I was better than this… :-)

A few reflections on my first year without grandparents

About this time last year, I lost my paternal grandfather, Marshall Hartman. Kate and I had just come back from Ireland, and he passed the next morning. 7 weeks later, to the day, my grandmother passed away.

I was fortunate to be born with four grandparents and three great-grandparents. While I didn’t see them as much as some others, due to growing up in Australia, but their influence on my life was fairly strong. My teenage years involved lots of time with family; 23 cousins and 8 sets of aunts and uncles.

I didn’t lose any grandparents until 2003 and 2006, and had two grand grandparents until junior high.

I realized last summer I had no more grandparents. It hit me a little when Thanksgiving came.

Dynamics change when your grandparents die. The generation and their descendants are gone, and everyone moves up a step. Grandparents are gone. My parents are the grandparents for my kids, and aunts and uncles lose the direct family connection that brought us together. We still get together, but it’s not the same, and won’t ever be. I have become the person in the role my parents had in my mind while growing up. My kids are me. It’s just part of the cycle.

I loved all my grandparents differently and have fond memories of them all. I probably felt more affinity to my Hartman grandparents, due to surname identity and my dad’s frequent stories about them. Marshall Hartman was well-respected, as was Luther, his father (and my namesake); I inherited some of that respect by virtue of his life.

It hasn’t been a drastic change, not a difficult one, but more one of perception. A clear realization of the cycle of life that has moved to another stage. A loss of ties, history, care, and, to an extent, identity.

We got together with much of my mom’s family today for a baby shower. The mood was good, time was enjoyed, and I love them. But it wasn’t the same without the grandparents. Our initial common link is gone.

Granddad yesterday, I drank a chocolate malt from Braum’s [your favorite] in your memory. I would have poured a sip on the concrete, but I know how thrifty you are; didn’t want to waste any :-)

I don’t understand compulsive [over]eating disorders; I feel sick/gross when I eat even just a little too much. That is, until someone puts a bowl of M&Ms out on the table. Then I get a [small] glimpse…

Easy words to say, scary to mean

My brother-in-law’s annual hey-here’s-newish-music-you-probably-haven’t-heard-since-you-have-kids CD contains the excellent (and previously unknown to me) Avett Brothers song I And Love And You. The song prominently repeats the lament/regret/lyric:

Three words that became hard to say
I and Love and You

After hearing it a few times, George interrupted and said “Those aren’t hard words!” While he was right, the disconnect was funny enough that I had to pull over for a few seconds before I could safely resume driving home.

Yes, George, the words themselves aren’t difficult. But as you’ll learn, words have meaning only in context and in relationship with each other. For this reason, ‘I Love You’ — usually a defining a nervous landmark in a romantic relationship — can be much harder to say than ‘I love Rhododendrons.’

There will probably be many words that you find difficult to say as life goes on. Here’s a few that have tripped me up from time to time (with varying degrees of difficulty and seriousness):

• I’m sorry
• I was wrong
• Are you busy Friday night?
• Sooners lost
• Will you marry me?
• He/she died
• No

Words like these are hard to say because they reveal a truth or a desire. Saying them makes it real. Don’t be afraid of the real; those afraid of the real never really live.*

As long as words are tactful (an important caveat), then they probably should be said, even if difficult. And the more you say such things, the easier they become.

* We’ll stop here before this sounds much more like Kierkegaardian existentialism (speaking of difficult words!)

What is a good friend anyway?

If your definition of “a good friend of mine” includes a bullfrog named after a Biblical prophet whose words you don’t understand but you enjoy his mighty fine wine, you should probably either 1) redefine your notion of friendship or 2) drink less.

Weeds and questions you don’t ask a woman

(upon walking past newly-mowed field that was filled with dandelions yesterday)

-Daddy, the dandelions are gone.

-Yeah, buddy, I think they mowed it.

-So now they can grow back!

-Well, dandelions are weeds and most people don’t want them to grow.

-Yes, and you don’t ask womans their age

I’m not sure what the segue is for him. Maybe he just knew good info when he heard it and wanted to share a truth with me.

I took this opportunity to tell the three questions you never ask a woman. You don’t inquire about her age, her weight, or whether her jewelry is real.

I hope he remembers those. He can go far with that info.

While watching Bourne Identity last night, I realized that if a spy came to our house, I’d be a gonner. I mean, I’d put up a valiant fight for a few seconds, but I couldn’t hold my own in time for my family or dog to escape.

So consider this a pre-emptive apology to my family in case I get caught up in international espionage.

Their last goodbye

I didn’t know them long. Quiet-spoken, kind people. A nice, older couple that graced our church in their later years. They loved their granddaughter and America. Part of the Greatest Generation that has been talked about for so long. When a minister at that church, we honored those who had been married for more than 50 years one Sunday and asked if they could submit photos of themselves when younger. He had just one picture of her from before 30 or so (a reminder that we are blessed in an age of prolific digital memories) that he was reluctant to share, just in case something happened. The picture, like the relationship, was precious.

She got quite sick. I went to visit the family in the hospital, and after a few days it appeared it was just a waiting game. Those are the hard visits, but they are always glad to have you there. One day, when her breathing became laborious, it was nearly time. As the doctor broke the news to the family, the husband was overcome for a moment reached for his wife, and loudly exclaimed “I forgive you for anything you’ve done to me and ask your forgiveness for anything I’ve done to you!” Then he wept.

I was struck then — and now, years later — by their last moment together. He sought reconciliation, unity, restoration, forgiveness. I don’t know if there were long-standing matters he had in mind or just a general cover-all; nor does it matter. What the beauty of the moment brought to mind for me was the power of forgiveness, acceptance, and deep, life-long love.

Relationships are things of complex beauty, or at least they should be. The daily interactions, sharing of life, and investment in something other than oneself is a noble, difficult, and worthy task. We all desire wholeness and intimacy wither others, whether in a marriage setting or with familial ties and deep friendships.

I left the hospital that day with a new resolve: to love others deeper and ask for forgiveness more readily. These are ongoing tasks. I try to never turn down the opportunity to share time with others in small-group settings (< 8 especially. I find I do better in smaller groups). I am getting better at asking for forgiveness; but pride gets in the way sometimes.

I aim to live long enough to watch beautiful relationships be temporarily severed by death. I cherish the times I have seen that played out in person.